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The Horse Hollerer  

It was raining cats and dogs, but the wonderful feeling of wet grass and manure under my shoes brought a smile. Gucci loafers and horse manure... hey, I’ve arrived! My first chore that rainy evening was to fetch Adam from the field. “Here Adam, heeeeere boy.” Poor guy, he’d been out all day.

Seconds later an elevenhundred pound muddy torpedo rushed by me at full gallop, nearly knocking me to the ground. “Whoa boy, whoooa...” I bellowed. Thunderous footsteps filled the night air again as he roared by me, this time feigning a sidekick that speckled my blazer with splotches of turf and mud (my wife swore I put the dry cleaner’s kids through college). This pas de deux continued for some minutes before Adam finally stood still, facing me, twenty yards off. “Good, I’m wearing him down.” He stared at me, steam blowing hard from his nostrils, a real Mexican stand-off. Marshall Gucci versus Pancho Glue Factory (named for his future, like Tiger Woods or Storm Field). Old Glue was telling me that he would go willingly and quietly to his stall... over my dead body.

I know this because I spent several hours in bed one night reading “The Horse Whisperer.” I learned how to interpret the subtle communication of horses that is invisible to the untrained eye. Combine this instant specialized knowledge with the intimate understanding of all other animal species and natural habitats learned while growing up in an apartment in New York City and it’s easy to see how I earned the name “Dr. Do Little” on the farm.

For instance, one day Adam was acting all goofy around Sasha (the other reason I needed a good day job) when she was in season (for you city slickers, that means she was ready to rock-n-roll). He raised his head, curled his upper lip way back and showed off his large front teeth; a clear signal to me that he wanted his toothbrush. I’ve labeled this courtship behavior “Pre­lude to a Kiss.” And then there was the time I was riding Sasha at the local riding ring. I asked her to canter from a walk (for you city slickers that means giddyup) but changed my mind just as she was responding and asked her to trot instead. At that very moment we both heard the footsteps of a large gelding coming up from behind, so I repeated the canter request.  At that point she started bucking, shaking and jumping all over the place, nearly throwing me right off her back! This was an obvious signal that she was having as much fun as I was. I’ve labeled that display of pleasure “Monkey on my Back”. There’s more, but I’m saving it for my next book “Do Little, Too Late.”

Anyway, you’re probably wondering what happened that rainy night in the field. Well, my deep knowledge of equine behavior told me to continue to stare Adam down, never blinking, then quickly rush him, swing around his neck, land on his back and then bareback the submissive mount straight into his stall. I took my stance and locked eyes with him. “Wait a minute,” I thought aloud “I can’t wrangle a horse in loafers!” I broke the stare and ran toward the house to get my Reeboks. On the way I caught sight of my wife leaning into the rainy night, halfway between the house and the barn, in her slicker and boots with a small plastic bag full of something. “Wonder what she’s up to?” I thought.  

“AAAAAdam… come to papa...” I cooed upon return, crouching low with search­ing eyes. From a distance could see my wife moving about in the faint glow of the barn lights, and then the shadowed figure of Adam came into focus - in his stall! He poked his head out the dutch-door, briefly searched for me in the dark, and then went back to doing something in the stall. My intimate knowledge of equine psychology had paid off! Surely he skeedaddled after thinking through the ramifications of dealing head-on with an educated horseman in Reeboks. Darned if he didn’t put himself in!

Then I heard my wife call to me as she worked her way back through the waves of rain to the house, “Come inside honey, dinner’s on!” 

“What’s cooking?” I yelled excitedly as I ran from the field to meet her at the kitchen door. “Your favorite!” she beamed. “But before you come in would you put this in the trash?”

As I walked to the garage to toss an empty carrot bag I remember thinking “maybe someday I’ll teach my wife how to use psychology to get a knuckle-head to come in out of the rain.”      

 © Jefferson Rowland, 2006

Essays:  Our Thelma and Louise   |   Can I Die Now?   |   Sharing Onions  

   Metaphysics Over Easy (Hold the Toast) |    Another Day at the Office of Life    |    Can't We All Just Get Along?