" Well, 'Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up go'...Who Me? "

“  Well, ‘Giddy-up, giddy-up, giddy-up go’…Who Me ?   “

06/13/12

To my dearest friends, and ever-constant, loyal readers,

Now…please don’t get me wrong.  In general, I really do like animals, especially dogs and cats, and pandas, and lemurs, and turtles…in fact, many animals, all of which look SO cute as babies, that sometimes—while yet so young—they evidence something that I can only describe as the  “A-w-w-w-w-w-w” factor.

That’s why baby tigers look so cute, as well—I suppose—as do baby bears, who, in becoming adults still retain their beauty, but that you wouldn’t necessarily want to hold one in your lap, and pet it.

However, there are many other so-called ‘God’s’ creatures, that I would not get near, even with a twenty foot pole; snakes and spiders come most readily to mind, yet some people swear by them as dubious pets.  I find no allure in spiders that might bite me, or pythons, who in an oily manner, move constantly about their owner’s shoulders, seeking to coil-around their throats I bet, looking for a convenient snack.

And…I do like horses; I think the baby foals are cute, as they flop-about, all tangled in legs that are yet too long, or, huddled with their mothers just adorable.  I think that horses are rather regal, with flowing manes and tails, and shiny coats, as they gambol-around the pasture.  One thinks of endless Springtime, flowers, and the intense greenness of paddocks.

My dear, agency nurse—herself—owns horses. And if you will most kindly recall, I very, nearly owned a pony of my own, a dark-chocolate-colored, gelding I had already named ‘Charlie Brown’.  That deal—alas—was not to be, and for a while, I was crushed.

One more than one occasion, my nurse has invited me out to see her horses; and for me, it might prove to be a most pleasant afternoon; carrying a pocketful of ‘horse treats’, and looking at each one.  Please do remember the word ‘looking’ as I will return to that again.

She even gave me a giant calendar for Christmas, with lots of room to write appointments on.  And every day is represented by a different horse, or set of horses.  I don’t know…are they then called ‘gangs’, or ‘groups’, or maybe, ‘herds’?  I usually just say a ‘bunch’ of horses.

And…they are, to a one, beautiful, and full of life, and yes, I might like to ( with greatest supervision and protection !), pet one of hers, or even proffer it some treats.  She currently has an absolutely gorgeous baby (?) stallion called, “Toby”, and from the pictures that I’ve seen on her cell telephone, it truly is a charmer, with, so far, a gentle disposition.

Sometimes, though, while looking at, or writing upon the calendar, my errant memories flow back through prior decades, just to remind me of my past relationship with horses.

I have been on horseback exactly twice in my life, in 1964, and 1968.  The first was with my late dad; we lived in Texas at the time, and on one weekend went to a fairly local ‘dude ranch’, that offered horseback rides.  I was ten years old, and the prospect thrilled me, though the reality was something different.  Isn’t it always?

My father, I, and a group of us were placed on older, bored, and tired horses; they had done this thing a million times, and so, we traced a well-worn path that ended back at the barn…the horse’s only desire was to just get it over with and call it a day.

The ranch DID have an authentic stagecoach there, and I must have climbed all over it from stem to stern.

So after the pre-arranged four-hour ‘walk’, the ‘pony ride’ was over, and dad and I went happily home, both smelling like horse; my mother stood guard at the backdoor, refusing to let us in and on her clean floor, until we had divested ourselves of shoes, socks, jeans, which my dear mom carried, held at arm’s distance, and two fingers on the other hand pinching her nose shut, as she dumped them in the washing machine.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with riding horses, that smell of ‘horsey’ clings, and will not go away.

And while the Jury still may be out, regarding whether fools—in fact—are born, or are they ‘made’, in 1968, when I was fourteen, while living, now in Alabama, I had a chance to go horseback rising again.  I had remembered it as being tolerably fun, if such a thing exists, and so, throwing caution to the wind, I told my friend at the time, “ Sure !, Yippy-Ki-Yay!”, while quite forgetting that that was the phrase American cowboys used to yell at cattle.

Now kindly remember please, that this was forty-four years ago, and I was young and strong, and completely ‘bone-headed’ (the latter charge may still apply, depending upon whom you ask).  But, even then, I did have some sense of self-preservation,

For upon our arrival, I purposely asked for their oldest, fattest, most highly-sedated mare, the kind whose name would be something like ‘Lulu Belle’, wearing a straw hat, with holes cut out for its ears, as it munched-away on a bag of oats.

As I waited, there arose a huge commotion from the stable, and out was brought (by two men holding on to ropes) was a giant, young, and evil stallion, whose Indian name would probably have translated to,” Devil Killer From Beyond Mars! “, but who—for convenience’s sake--was just referred to as, “ Hell-Fire “.

Years, and years later, I would read ( from my all-time, favorite humorist, S.J. Perleman ):

1)           Never eat at any place called ‘Mom’s’.

2)           Never play poker with anyone named ‘Doc’.

To which, I would gladly add a third:

3)           Never try to ride a horse called ‘Hell-Fire’.

This horse hated me, and hated everyone else.

As yet a third ‘ranch hand’ struggled to get under my ass to lever me up into a saddle that suddenly seemed twenty feet off the ground, I was surprised that they did not have those little, rolling stairs by which one boards an airplane.

Were  there any sense of Justice, ‘ Hell-Fire ‘ should, by rights, have come equipped like a car, with power steering, power brakes, and…seat belts.  For, although we had yet not gotten anywhere, even while still tethered to ropes strong-enough to hold an ocean liner, ‘Hell-Fire’ tensed, and jumped around, and chaffed against the bit, and I would gladly have paid extra for it to be given liberal shots of horse tranquilizers, with some, of course, for me.

At that point, my dearest friends, really all I wanted to do is just get off, while the various, idle cowpokes roared at me, and brush myself off, and go the hell home.  It would have been a secret known only to my friend, and I would have threatened death had he ratted on me for being such a ‘scaredy-cat’. No, no, dear friends, those sounds you hear are called ’survival instincts’.

For, in a trice, all the ropes were removed, as everybody scattered for cover, and ‘Hell-Fire’ rocketed-off, truly, as if it had had an Atlas missile up its kazoo.

As Einstein said, ‘speed is relative’, which is true, because with me at horse-level flying-though the pastures, the scenery blurred, and we must have been galloping along at better than eighty miles-per-hour.

Up and down, and all around we went; ‘Hell-Fire’s’ energy knew no bounds, and its only goal in life was to get me off its back.

Having lost my hat and sunglasses, I had long-before given up any notion of holding the reins, and opted—instead—to try to hold on to the saddle, and the pommel with all my might.

This was no ‘horsey ride’, nor petting zoo, and I wanted off.  I stopped yelling ‘whoa’, and ‘stop’, to ‘stop, Godammit !!!!!!!, stop!!!!!!!!!!’. Until I was finally just yelling hoarsely, ‘HELP!, somebody get me off of this thing!’.

And on this point, ‘Hell-Fire’ and I were in agreement; it ran me under tree limbs.  It ran me against fences, and right into the biggest pile of wasps I’ve ever seen.  And if you know your wasps, once you agitate them, they WILL chase you forever.

I think it was when, after a titanic leap, my feet slipped out of the stirrups, that I really knew the fear of imminent death.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, that on too many an occasion, the horse threw back its head, and tried to bite me.  Friends, now those are a lot of teeth!

By now, my horse had truly become insane, and began bucking high into the air.  On the second ‘buck’, the cinch holding the saddle to the horse broke, and off I flew in an inelegant ‘glissade’, high above the horse’s head, and arcing out; all I could see was sky, and tree tops, and landed, maybe eight feet from the horse, right on my keister.

It was a gargantuan landing that—should it have happened even twenty years ago—surely would have killed me.  For a l-o-n-g, l-o-n-g time I just sat there, accessing damages. ‘Hell-Fire’, mission complete just stood there, eyeing me in hatred and disgust.

As soon as I had more or less regained consciousness, I got up, hurting in a bazillion places, gave the horse the finger, and very slowly limped my way back to the office.

“Where’s your horse, son?” the manager said, with a smirk on his face.  To him, I in pain replied, “I don’t know…and, I don’t care.  How about the nearest glue factory?  You boys find him.  I’m going home!”

And with that I grabbed my friend, who had long since ended his kiddy ride, and called my dad to come and pick us up. I ached for days.  And that was in 1968, my friends.

Since then, I’ve had occasion to do more than my fair share of screwing up, and of doing stupid things.

However, one of them was not horseback riding, and I will NEVER, EVER try to ride one again.  Can you see it now? With my oxygen, and cane?  Plus, they’d need a derrick with which to lower my not-inconsiderable caboose gingerly down upon the saddle.

Besides….the horses look just fine on the calendar.

Oh, my dearest, dearest friends, I wish you wonderful days free of pain or despair.  I wish you comfort, and all the love your kind hearts can hold! I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles