I can't remember reading anything more funny/entertaining but true.
--- On Wed, 7/16/08, victoria thompson <vascthompson@xxxxxxx> wrote:
From: victoria thompson <vascthompson@xxxxxxx> Subject: [RC] The Joy of Horses To: "Ridecamp Correspondence Correspondence" <ridecamp@xxxxxxxxxxxxx> Date: Wednesday, July 16, 2008, 8:38 AM
I wrote this years ago for Taffy. It sounds better when I perform it,
but I think this is pretty appropriate for the subject.
The Joys Of Being Owned By A Horse
by: Tori Thompson
The routine is the same, I’ll admit, pretty lame.
But as long as she’s happy I’ll continue to be sappy.
Ah, the joys of being owned by a horse.
To the barn I do drive, sighs of contentment when I arrive,
As the stress reduction factors start kicking in.
It sure beats the heck out of Beefeaters Gin.
All eyes turn to see, is that someone for me?
Though there’s a chorus of hellos, my ears strain for only one nicker,
There’s no better medicine for my old ticker.
I stop to chat with barnmates, a habit that makes my mare irate.
As time gabbing passes, the nicker becomes a plea, that turns into a
demand.
Before I know it a full blown tantrum is at hand.
My normally laid back, regal queen, turns ugly, nasty, mean.
Eyes roll, ears pin, pawing hooves make dirt fly.
Head flings, teeth snap, bucking bronc imitations have barnmates tsking
my my.
Shaking my head in disgust, she insists capitulation is a must.
Bidding adieu to my friends, I walk through the inner gate to the pens.
She stands by her gate, foreleg poised in midair,
Calmly awaiting to be loosed from her lair.
Big eyes softly gaze into mine, her nose gently nuzzles for carrots to
find.
Standing in front of the door thrown wide, the big head to my chest,
her love not to hide.
With one smooth thrust I’m brushed away, my mare trots off in search of
spilled hay.
I’m always lured in by those eyes, like a trout to a fisherman’s flies.
But the final insult, the one that truly makes me fry,
Is the parting squeal and feigned kick as she goes by.
Down to the feed room she trots to look for oats, God's precious little
ingots.
In, out and around the bins she does glean every morsel, the floor ends
up really clean.
The arena gate is swung wide and I step inside,
“Come on,” I call, “Let’s go for a roll.”
“Then we can saddle up and through Norco we’ll stroll.”
Thundering hooves pound up from behind,
Squeals of joy, bucks, farts and another feigned kick from the hind.
Near the corner, on a mound of shavings, she drops like a stone,
Rolling this way and that all to the tune of contented grunt and groan.
A mighty heave she stands up, a giant shake sends dust flying.
The only thing better than the roll is the sup’.
I wave her on over and she responds like a dog, Rover.
Ears pricked, hair and dirt mixed, she heads to me, eyes fixed.
She walks passed and then swings, her body near to me she brings.
Ah, the joys of being owned by a horse.
The routine is the same, I told you it’s lame.
Now comes the search, the hunt for the prize.
In my horses mind this plan did hatch, how to get me to find the
elusive itch I must scratch.
My hands go to work from stem to stern.
The nose, the forehead, behind the jowls, up behind the ears.
The head drops, tilts ever so slightly,
Ooooo ... Ahhh ... Oh yeah, but that’s not the spot.
She raises her head and takes a step forward.
My fingers explore under her mane, around to the front up and down the
long wind pipe.
The eyes widen, the head lifts and she leans her giant neck into my
fingers,
Oooo ... Ahhh ... Oh yeah, but that’s not the spot.
Another step forward brings her withers to bare.
The shoulder gets scratched and behind the elbow is not spared.
Under where the girth lies the head swings around, her nose touches my
back,
Ooooo ... Ahhh ... Oh yeah, but that’s not the spot.
Once more she steps forward.
The loins I now scritch, her nose caressing my back.
Mutual grooming is fun, but why’d I wear white?
Ooooo ... Ahhh ... Oh yeah, but that’s not the spot.
Good Lord, wide load backing up!! Beep, beep, beep.
She always knows just when to stop.
Now my search leads to her tail, first the dock, then the sides.
The tail raises high then moves to the side
Ooooo ... Ahhh, but when the gas starts passing
Oh no, I’m sorry, that’s not the spot
And I move around to her other side.
Her hip, she’s not interested, her flank holds no joy.
My hand slips under her belly in search of the prize.
Her udder gets a quick cleaning, was that a quiver I felt?
Wring some dirt off a teat and her body turns into a U.
Her head reaches around and nuzzles my back.
My hand leaves her udder and turns to the inner thigh.
Her nose begins running the length of my spine low and high.
My fingers keep searching until they’re in that thin flap of skin
between hind leg and belly
Oooooo ... Ahhhhhh .... Oh Yeah
That’s the spot.
Her hind leg raises, on three legs she stands.
Her head and neck have me pinned to her body in a massive embrace.
Her lips dig in to my rump.
I can barely breath and she can hardly stand.
We’re locked in this awkward stance until my fingers go numb and she
can’t keep her leg up anymore.
Anti stress techniques have done their job ... for both of us,
And we walk to the tack room, her head at my shoulder.
Ah, the joys of being owned by a horse.
