I grabbed my knife and nippers first, a habit or routine? Which brings me to my story ‘bout a “hippie” name of Gene.
Gene would talk your ear off, then he’d start in on the other. He weren’t a bit religious but he always called me brother.
I’d have to say Gene had less brains than a juniper fencepost. I’m not saying he was stupid—maybe a hippie overdosed?
Before I even had a chance to reach the horse’s leg, Gene’s Harley roared on in and, to the seat, a strapped-on keg.
Gene claimed the keg was empty and it never left his bike. He called it, “Conversation, and it’s what the ladies like.”
He said, “I saw you out here slapping on a few horseshoes. I’m here to spend some time and give advice that you could use.”
I told him he could help me even though he had no clue. ‘Cuz shoein’ ornery horses ain’t no Sunday barbecue.
So, I reached the sorrel’s right-front foot, pulled it up between my knees. But the sorrel pulled on back. I gave my knees an extra squeeze.
I hollered whoa, then Gene flipped out, the looney, crazy nut! He stepped up to the sorrel and he kicked him in the gut.
Gene scared the sorrel half to death, jumped six feet in the air. All I could see was thrashing hooves—not a worse place anywhere!
They say a horse won’t step on you; they’d rather go around. I’d like to find who made that up and stomp him in the ground.
So, the sorrel took off running. Gene offered me a hand. But the words I soundly blessed him surely shook the Motherland.
Gene hopped up on his chopper. Never saw him past that day. If you see a keg strapped to a Harley, stay the heck away!
– Bryce Angell