#horsey is lame and stupid

[swaps55]

@joufancyhuh​ tagged me to share my 5 most bizarre/interesting animal encounters. 

Given I’ve spent so many years around horses, I could write books just about those experiences. But I curated a few, even some that don’t involve horses! This was fun and I wrote way too much. 

Tagging @citadelsushi​, @shadesofmauve​, @dearophelia​ and boy I wish @w0rdinista​ was still around because I know she’s got good ones. Have good stories to share? Please join in and tag me! 

1. The Klutzy Friesian

When I was in college, I had the coolest summer job. I worked in the Breeds Barn at the Kentucky Horse Park, dressing up in costumes to ride and show off how diverse and amazing horses can be (historical accuracy very doubtful, but we made it look REALLY cool). This included a desert princess costume for the Arabian. A Spanish Conquistador for the Andalusian. I wore Peruvian attire and held a glass of water while scooting around on a Peruvian Paso. I don’t know what the costume for the Missouri Fox trotter really was, but it looked cool and that horse was a blast. But the most awesome thing I got to do was dress up as Joan of Arc and ride a Friesian. His name was Tom. In addition to being drop dead gorgeous, Tom was also a Good Boy. Eager to please, perfect manners and an all-around doll.

Each of the horses used in the “Parade of Breeds” show we put on twice a day has a script. You come in as the announcer plays your music and starts your narration, and you perform for the crowd. Now, Tom’s script was a little different from the others, in that instead of trotting or puttering into the ring, you dashed up the chute at a dead gallop and charged into the ring. While wearing a cape and a chain mail hat. The goal was to be epic. Which isn’t hard with Tom. I mean, look at him.

Except, Tom was a laid back dude who had done the same routine for years, and wasn’t always super into charging into the ring. He needed some extra time to warm up and get PSYCHED for his big entrance, which usually involved galumphing around over a grassy area outside the chute, behind the bleachers where the audience sat. 

Well, one day in particular, the skies were clearing up after a good rain. Ground was wet but serviceable, show would go on! I was tasked to be Joan that day, so I donned my chain mail (not pictured) and flowy cape, saddled up my trusted steed and off we went to warm up. We were the last horse on the show list that day, so we were alone as I was getting him riled up, waiting for the horse ahead of me to finish. 

But it had been raining, right? And the grass is wet. Poor ol’ Tom hit a wet patch, lost his footing and went nose-first to the ground. 

Tom is a big dude. So when he hit the deck, that meant about 1300lbs of horse tumbling in a glorious black somersault, with a flash of red in there somewhere that was me in my cape and chain mail. 

Keep in mind there is no one back there to notice. Except the people in the bleachers watching the show. Who stop watching the show and start taking pictures of us in a heap. 

Tom gets to his feet, stands with his head hanging like, “Sorry boss. I done goofed.” 

I frantically grab him, run hands over his knees and legs to make sure he hasn’t hurt himself, straighten up my chain mail, then swing up – somehow, even then I didn’t do well climbing up on a horse from the ground unassisted – and ask him to move to see if he’s lame. With tourists still taking pictures. 

My script is starting, by the way, and they’re expecting me in the ring RIGHT NOW. At a dead run. 

We take a few steps. Nothing ouchy. Ok. Let’s GO. Tom and I hit a dead run and fly into the ring, no one the wiser except for the people who had their cameras ready. Nothing hurt but our egos. 

Tom was the best.

2. Revenge of the Breeds

The same summer I had my adventure with Tom, we also got a lot of rain. A lot of rain in that part of the world meant lots of white clover grew in the fields. All of the Breeds Barn residents got turned out around 4 in the afternoon and didn’t come back in until 7am, so they grazed on that stuff all night. What’s the big deal with white clover? Well, it makes horses very…slobbery. Ok, no big deal though, right? So you had a bunch of slobber faces to saddle up half the summer. Gross, but not that interesting.

Well, would be, except that these horses knew their routine really well, and all of them shared a mutual “doneness” when it came to constantly being gawked at, poked at, petted, etc. But because they were all Good Ponies (except the Gypsy Vanner, who was a dick, and the Arabian, who was shit-for-brains), they had to find petty ways to occasionally vent their frustrations.

Enter the white clover.

Every show we did that summer while the clover was in season, each horse we took into the ring would very patiently collect an entire jaw full of slobber. We’re talking green, slimy, gross buckets of slobber here. After each show, we would walk our charges over to the rail so visitors could come up and pet them, ask questions, and otherwise just get close to a horse. It was the best part of the show for me, because many of these people had never touched a horse before, and I got to share with them something I dearly loved.

Each one of these fuckers would choose that magical moment to open their mouths and let it rain green goo.

I did SO much explaining that summer about how it was because of the clover. They don’t mean it. They really like you! They’re showing you they like you. 

It was on purpose. Each and every time. 

I loved those horses so much. Even the shit-for-brains Arabian, which is a whole other story. I miss that job.

3. The Free Bird.

My old house in Kentucky had a fireplace that I never used, because it involved a chimney stove insert that was not up to code and too heavy to bother moving. At some point the chimney flue must have come loose or whatever it is chimney flues do, because birds would occasionally find their way into my chimney, and if they were REALLY determined, into my house. On the most memorable occasion, my 2 worthless cats were the only ones home. My dog was also home, however she was young and crated at the time and does not factor into this story (though she definitely does in the OTHER memorable bird occasion.) 

This house also had a spiral staircase, which is super cool to look at, but really not very functional save for one thing: it was the perfect place to feed my cats and ensure the dog didn’t get into their food. Each cat had her own step. Every day when I got home from work, the two cats would already be sitting on their step, in front of their bowls, demanding dinner. 

On the day of the bird incident, I come home as usual. Find everyone in their usual spots. Except this time there is an interloper. 

The goddamned bird that snuck into my house through the chimney is standing on the step ABOVE Cat #2. Both cats look at me. Yowl. Look at their bowls. The bird – who is essentially offering itself up as dinner mere inches away from Cat #2’s head – continues to do bird things and poop on my spiral staircase. The worthless cats did not so much as acknowledge the bird exists.   

I had to corral and chase the damn bird out of the house myself, which involved a feather duster and accidentally getting it stuck in a closet, without any help from nature’s bird killers still mad that they haven’t gotten dinner yet. 

One of these cats is still around and being a worthless grouchy cuddle slut to this VERY DAY. 

4. The Shithead Squirrel.

Same house. Same cats. Only add another cat. And the dog now has free house privileges during the day.

I had a cedar house. I loved that house. You know what else loves cedar houses? Squirrels. This one fucking squirrel in particular. Do not talk to me about squirrels. I hate squirrels. I loathe squirrels. All because of this motherfucker.

I had a basement garage, which means one side of the one story house was as tall as a 2 story. Naturally, this was the side of the house this asshole squirrel decided looked homey. I had noticed small holes chewed into the siding before, but it was in an unreachable spot that was kinda dangerous even with a ladder, and I didn’t have the money to hire someone to really fix it.

Until THIS ASSHOLE. This squirrel chewed its way into the siding of my house. Yanked out the insulation and tossed it on the ground to make it nice and homey. Peering around the corner from my deck I could WATCH him sunning his stupid face though the hole, enjoying the world from MY HOUSE without paying any fucking rent.

Well, the wall was also the wall of my living room. All the animals in the house could hear the squirrel in the wall. Imagine three cats and a dog all huddled next to the TV, staring at the wall.

That little fucker better not chew through the drywall, I thought.

The little fucker chewed through the drywall.

I came home from work to find all four animals huddled around an ACTUAL HOLE IN THE WALL, where this squirrel undoubtedly stuck his head through, saw four sets of teeth and made the first and only good choice in his miserable life. I had chicken wire and a block of wood screwed to the inside of my wall until I could get a contractor out to replace a bunch of the siding and insulation. It was the biggest check I’d ever written in my life and I hope he was STILL IN THERE when they sealed it up.

5. The Killer Chicken

YEARS ago, when I first got my mare, the barn I kept her at had all kinds of non-horsey animals running around. Goats, peacocks, peahens, dogs, cats…and chickens. There was one chicken in particular was a stealth master and a real hate on for humans. You did not go into the second barn alone. That was his domain. And if you did? Take a fucking broom. Otherwise, as you would walk down the aisle, beyond the echo of your boots you’d hear a skittering. Stop. Turn. Just a chicken. Minding its own damn business. Fine, right?

Turn around, keep walking. More skittering. Until it got close. Then there would be mad skittering, as this killer chicken would close on its prey and send you running for your damned life out of the barn, out into the open, away from its domain and its hate and its wrath.

When two people were present you’d never notice it was there. But when you were alone. You were prey.

#mememe #meme replies #animal stories #adventures with swaps