I hate it when the bell tolls for me.
Yesterday evening, Kay rushed into the living room and announced, “There are two horses in our front yard.” My first thought was, “Why does she tell me stuff like this?” She may not be the cause of every crisis, but I could build a pretty good case on her indirect involvement.
I took a look, and sure enough, our neighbor’s horses had escaped the corral. I knew they’d move along in five minutes after finishing off what was left of our lawn. I said as much to Kay. She shot me her “you-beat-all-I-ever-saw” look. Then, she rushed upstairs. I assumed to put on her wrangling outfit. Hey, I don’t know what she buys.
I begged myself to not get involved. I was nearly self-persuaded when the words of John Donne hit home. “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee?” I had made my students memorize that poem, intending to stir them to action. Not me to action. I don’t even like action.
But, no one else was making a move to handle the situation. The neighbor’s cats weren’t even interested. Bite the head off a poisonous snake, but won’t corral a horse. And, let me tell you, they could if they wanted to.
Donne’s words tolled on. I chose to go out the backdoor and sneak up on the strays. Sometimes I can’t even believe myself.
I stood in the road a distance away from the critters waiting for them to leave, while trying to look like I was sizing up the situation. A car pulled up beside me and a lady looked at the horses before asking, “Do you know anything about horses?”
I wanted to say— Well, it doesn’t matter what I wanted to say. She told me her husband knew something about animals and she’d try to get him involved. As the lady’s car headed down the street, I slowly approached the runaways. They laughed at me in that o’ so superior manner that horses laugh. Big headed, taunting creatures. Then they bolted out of my yard and out my life… so I hoped.
Then Kay came out of nowhere and handed me a sandwich bag filled with apple slices. No wrangler outfit. “They’ll probably come to you if you hand ‘em apple slices,” she said, supposing I was keen on them coming to me. What I wanted to say was—Well, it doesn’t matter. I grabbed the bag and headed over to Jerry’s yard.
I’m pretty sure Jerry was home, but he didn’t budge. I was Gary Cooper and it was high noon in the late evening. Suddenly I had the equine(s) trapped between Jerry’s cedar fence and me. I can only imagine their fear. I was already seeing the headline on page six of The Courier: “Local humorist knocked silly by laughing horse.”
I didn’t want a lengthy standoff ‘cause it was “Rizolli and Isles” night. So, I held out an apple slice and slowly approached the beasts. The younger of the two lipped the apple from my hand. “There you go, ol’ girl… uh, boy. Whatever.”
I then turned to the older, wiser steed and held out an apple slice with one hand while taking hold of its nylon halter with my other. The monster drew back its head and left me holding an empty halter. My first instinct is too embarrassing to mention.
The manly thing to do would’ve been to grab hold of the mane, hurl myself on top and ride the creature bareback to the stable. Instead I said something like “So, Bucko, why the long face?” No horse laughter. I must’ve hit a sore spot.
I then focused my attention on the younger, more gullible horse. After two more apple slices, I gently took hold of its halter and slowly walked it toward the stable some 70 yards away. It was five steps -- stop and wait. Three steps -- stop and wait. About 30 minutes later we arrived at the stable where the lady’s husband was inside looking for some feed. For the horse, of course.
The older, wiser horse had oddly enough followed us all the way. The younger horse eventually entered the corral, but the non-haltered bigger one would not move. I took hold of its mane and repositioned the halter upside down over its head. The big fellow apparently regained its sense of humor. I just hate that laugh.
The lady’s husband finally walked across the corral carrying some hay. The old horse practically dragged me into the corral. – Set, match, Mark.
Kay couldn’t stop bragging. On the horses. “Aren’t they just the sweetest? Darling, do you have any apple slices left?”
I don’t know if I consciously imitated John Wayne’s walk as I headed back to the bunkhouse, or if it was just a mannerism that manifests itself on a man who saw his duty and did it. No man is an island, you know? Let’s not forget that, Pilgrim.
End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com & www.rooftopwriter.com
 |
Yesterday evening, Kay rushed into the living room and announced, “There are two horses in our front yard.” My first thought was, “Why does she tell me stuff like this?” She may not be the cause of every crisis, but I could build a pretty good case on her indirect involvement.
I took a look, and sure enough, our neighbor’s horses had escaped the corral. I knew they’d move along in five minutes after finishing off what was left of our lawn. I said as much to Kay. She shot me her “you-beat-all-I-ever-saw” look. Then, she rushed upstairs. I assumed to put on her wrangling outfit. Hey, I don’t know what she buys.
I begged myself to not get involved. I was nearly self-persuaded when the words of John Donne hit home. “Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee?” I had made my students memorize that poem, intending to stir them to action. Not me to action. I don’t even like action.
But, no one else was making a move to handle the situation. The neighbor’s cats weren’t even interested. Bite the head off a poisonous snake, but won’t corral a horse. And, let me tell you, they could if they wanted to.
Donne’s words tolled on. I chose to go out the backdoor and sneak up on the strays. Sometimes I can’t even believe myself.
I stood in the road a distance away from the critters waiting for them to leave, while trying to look like I was sizing up the situation. A car pulled up beside me and a lady looked at the horses before asking, “Do you know anything about horses?”
I wanted to say— Well, it doesn’t matter what I wanted to say. She told me her husband knew something about animals and she’d try to get him involved. As the lady’s car headed down the street, I slowly approached the runaways. They laughed at me in that o’ so superior manner that horses laugh. Big headed, taunting creatures. Then they bolted out of my yard and out my life… so I hoped.
Then Kay came out of nowhere and handed me a sandwich bag filled with apple slices. No wrangler outfit. “They’ll probably come to you if you hand ‘em apple slices,” she said, supposing I was keen on them coming to me. What I wanted to say was—Well, it doesn’t matter. I grabbed the bag and headed over to Jerry’s yard.
I’m pretty sure Jerry was home, but he didn’t budge. I was Gary Cooper and it was high noon in the late evening. Suddenly I had the equine(s) trapped between Jerry’s cedar fence and me. I can only imagine their fear. I was already seeing the headline on page six of The Courier: “Local humorist knocked silly by laughing horse.” I didn’t want a lengthy standoff ‘cause it was “Rizolli and Isles” night. So, I held out an apple slice and slowly approached the beasts. The younger of the two lipped the apple from my hand. “There you go, ol’ girl… uh, boy. Whatever.”
I then turned to the older, wiser steed and held out an apple slice with one hand while taking hold of its nylon halter with my other. The monster drew back its head and left me holding an empty halter. My first instinct is too embarrassing to mention.
The manly thing to do would’ve been to grab hold of the mane, hurl myself on top and ride the creature bareback to the stable. Instead I said something like “So, Bucko, why the long face?” No horse laughter. I must’ve hit a sore spot.
I then focused my attention on the younger, more gullible horse. After two more apple slices, I gently took hold of its halter and slowly walked it toward the stable some 70 yards away. It was five steps -- stop and wait. Three steps -- stop and wait. About 30 minutes later we arrived at the stable where the lady’s husband was inside looking for some feed. For the horse, of course.
The older, wiser horse had oddly enough followed us all the way. The younger horse eventually entered the corral, but the non-haltered bigger one would not move. I took hold of its mane and repositioned the halter upside down over its head. The big fellow apparently regained its sense of humor. I just hate that laugh.
The lady’s husband finally walked across the corral carrying some hay. The old horse practically dragged me into the corral. – Set, match, Mark.
Kay couldn’t stop bragging. On the horses. “Aren’t they just the sweetest? Darling, do you have any apple slices left?”
I don’t know if I consciously imitated John Wayne’s walk as I headed back to the bunkhouse, or if it was just a mannerism that manifests itself on a man who saw his duty and did it. No man is an island, you know? Let’s not forget that, Pilgrim.
End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com & www.rooftopwriter.com
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