Unplugged & Unmedicated

Whoa, Horsey!
Written by David M. Muench

I have absolutely nothing against animals. Most of them I love. Especially with a little seasoning and barbecue sauce. There is one animal, though, that holds a special place in my heart. I am speaking of course of the horse. Equus caballus. Death on four hooves.

It was a warm, spring morning in '95. My girlfriend and I enjoyed a wild, inebriated night of camping with some friends at a local lake in which I had learned a harsh lesson in mixing beer with the "Hard Stuff." I evacuated the contents of my stomach before turning in, and the morning light brought with it a hangover from the bowels of Hell.

Later on that day my girlfriend thought it would be "fun" to ride horses at the lake. My head was still punishing me from my lack in judgement the prior evening, but I still acquiesced to her idea.
We drove to the stables where they had the horse rides. The cowboys asked what our level of equestrian expertise was. My girlfirend had been around horses before, so she was an old hand. Me? The last time I was on a horse was with my sister in '76 - and that horse had gastrointestinal issues.
The cowboys then chose the horses that are comparable to your skill level. My girlfriend had a spirited beast who was named Flash, or Lightning. You know, something really cool.
I had an old horse with one hoof in the glue factory door who went by the name of "Okie". I even think that the hoof in question may have been prosthetic.

After a brief "driving" lesson we were off on the trail with the other "concrete cowpokes".

I admit, about five minutes into the ride I was actually enjoying the loping gait of Ol' Okie. My mind conjured up images of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, lumbering on the trails; a six-shooter on my hip and my steely eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the sun (or in this case, last night's hangover). Since my girlfriend had a "steed for speed" she frequently bursted ahead, while me and Okie plodded along the trail. A few times Okie was feeling his oats and started to break into a trot, but fearing his demise (and mine as well) I pulled back on the reigns a bit to slow the old codger down.
Along the trails were signs emblazoned with arrows directing the flow of traffic, which kind of killed the fantasy of the Old West. I assume those arrows were meant for us as I wouldn't imagine the horses could discern an arrow from an apple.

My girlfriend and I came to a fork in the road; and in the 1800's I'm sure we would rely on instinct to know which trail to take. Fortunately it was the 1990's and there was a sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Pulling the reigns to the right I then realized that the old horse may also be afflicted with a mild case of Alzheimer's, because he started to turn left. If that wasn't bad enough, there was some sort of motorized vehicle coming down that left path. I was thinking "Great, Okie is going to get spooked and either have a heart attack and collapse on me or throw my city boy ass off onto the ground."
Normally in the old Westerns it's the guy that gallops in on the horse to save the damsel in distress. Nope, not this day. With the grace and speed of a jockey my girlfriend races in front of Okie and successfully turns him in the right direction. If that wasn't bad enough, that motorized vehicle was a four-wheeler driven by one of the cowboys, and he witnessed this heroic "rescue" of a man and horse gone astray.
All I could do is smile sheepishly and say, "thanks, honey." I no longer fantasized about being that old rough and tumble cowboy of the West as I continued the rest of the ride with my head hung a little lower, but still keeping my humor as I joked "Gee, it's kinda bad when the woman has to rescue the man."

Damn horse.