Dog and Pony Show

Sunday, Aug. 25, 2002 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

Back in this episode, I didn't take the time to tell you about the Percherons I hauled half-way to Santa Barbara. Occasionally, I get a driving gig from my former boss at Acme Horse Movers, when they're short of drivers. I have a soft spot of gratitude for Henry; he was the first one to give me a job after I got out of prison, so I try to oblige him whenever he calls me. Besides, he pays well and gives you a bonus when you drive with less than a 12-hour notice. The Percherons were a perfectly matched team of four dappled grays, huge, burly fellows, weighing a ton each, with big bony faces, and hooves 'bout as big as my skull. Real sweet guys, genial and serene, all confirmed bachelors (ahem, geldings) and obviously devoted to each other. I don't think I ever seen more affectionate horses, they were always nuzzling, or nibbling, or nudging each other. And me. I'd never handled Percherons before, and had always assumed that the big draft horses were dullards, but these guys had some brain to go with their considerable brawn. They certainly had the "sparkle." Which is what Lord Riley calls the feeling you get from a smart, well-trained horse who's alert and responsive to your touch, who knows what to do better than you do. Oh, man, these guys were lovely, and a joy, and I want one, I want one! But they'd make lousy pets.

Mario (my former boyfriend), his son Jacob, and the Fiend, plus Spook the Moondoggie, wanted to come with me to see the horsies. Hey, how often do you get a chance to hang with Percherons? The horses' owner (let's call him Mr. Williams) told me to "bring a crowd" when I phoned him to ask if I could bring my small entourage with me to the fairgrounds. (The Percherons were showing at the same fair where the mater bought her pigs. Yes, she bought plural pigs this year, as in two, but neither of them was Oscar.) Mr. Williams gave me exact and elaborate instructions about where to locate him at the fairgrounds, none of which I needed, because he appeared beside the truck as soon as I pulled in, jumping on the running board to tell me how we could park right next to the stables. I was driving Henry's rig, and the Fiend, with the entourage, was following in my '58 Apache*. Williams wanted to ride along with me, on the running board. I had to insist that he get into the truck. You never let the client, or anyone, ride on the running board. That's the kind of thing that gives your insurance agent nightmares. We had a short but good-natured argument, then he climbed in, complaining.

After we parked, everyone was introduced, including the Moondoggie, but we left the big white woofer in the Apache, since he tends to get overwrought around livestock. He'd work himself into a barking frenzy, fer sure. It's not aggression, it's just his way of letting you know how thrilled he is. You should see him around the pigs. He almost wriggles out of his skin with excitement, and he can't stop telling you, and the whole world, how amazing these pigs are. At the top of his lungs. Weirdly enough, he had the same reaction to snow, the one time my brother and I took him for a romp in the mountains. We had this notion that a dog bred to haul sleds through the Arctic Circle should experience snow at least once in his life. The Moondoggie was ecstatic to the point of hysteria. After an hour we were forced to pack up the expedition, to get him away from the snow, so he could calm down.

Mr. Williams seemed amiable enough. A paragon of hospitality, with a dry edge of humor. The Moondoggie loved him immediately, but the Moondoggie loves everybody, so that was no indication. Jacob was the measurement of the man. Jacob is not an overly shy kid, but when he meets an adult for the first time, he's reserved and quiet, and tries to hide behind his father or me. But Jacob came right out of his shell for Mr. Williams, chattering away from the get-go, asking all sorts of questions. He was standing next to Williams when I led out the first horse, and he backed into the man, who bent over and gave him a quick hug. That horse was surely intimidating to a small boy who was only 'bout as tall as the horse's elbow. To demonstrate that I was not intimidated, I had picked the biggest member of the team, one of the wheel horses. His name was Denny, he was a complacent, obedient, two-thousand-pound pussycat. He was a piece of cake.

Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, Mr. Williams scooped up Jacob and plopped him onto the massive creature's bare, smooth back, with nothing to hang onto except a hank of hair. I think Mario, who is not any kind of a horseman, had to bite back a shriek. Six-year-old Jacob, who had never ridden anything in his short life, not even a pony, did shriek, a strangled, soundless noise. He grabbed two fistfuls of mane and dug his heels into Denny's ribs. Denny swished his tail, flicked an ear, and nodded his head, once. Denny was unflappable.

Since the horse didn't need handling, I worked at soothing Jacob (and his father.) I talked, Mario talked, Mr. Williams watched, smiling. Sadist. The Fiend didn't say anything, but he moved close to Mario and I noticed he was holding one of Mario's hands, unobtrusively. Once I convinced Jacob that his mount was altogether mellow and rock-steady--and not slippery--he realized he was riding a monster horse (too cool), and he became rather impressed with himself. The Fiend had brought his camera, so we have some priceless images of the diminutive Jacob perched atop the ponderous Denny, grinning his face off.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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