Shoeing time comes all too soon. I always dread the day. So I picked out one good sorrel who’d be easy all the way.
The sorrel never misbehaved while nailing on horseshoes. I used to think, while shoeing her, I could prob’ly take a snooze.
I commenced to shoe the sorrel, scraped the hoof till it was clean. That’s when I heard the raspy voice. Looked up and there was Gene.
Gene made his presence early on a Sunday afternoon and promptly won the title of the neighborhood buffoon.
He weren’t a bit religious but he always called me brother. He could talk your ear off then he’d promptly start in on the other.
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.”
When it came to nailing horseshoes Gene was way out of his league. He asked me what the shoes looked like and how much glue we’d need.
I told him he could help if he’d stand back and hand me tools. I’d bet if you searched Webster you’d see my picture next to fools.
So, again I reached the sorrel’s foot, pulled it up between my knees. She lost her footing, jerked on back. Her foot pulled from my squeeze.
I must have hollered whoa, then Gene the looney, crazy nut, stepped right next to the sorrel and he kicked her in the gut.
His stunt was unbelievable. Even for a goof like Gene. ‘Cuz what he did was as crazy as screen doors in a submarine.
Gene scared the sorrel half to death. She flung me with her nose. I crashed down like a burlap sack filled with potatoes.
I landed on my back, all I could see was thrashing hooves. I tried to find my wits while dodging all the sorrel’s moves.
At last the sorrel took off running. Gene offered me a hand. But the words I soundly blessed him with surely shook the Motherland.
Gene rode off on his chopper. Haven’t seen a hair of him. And I won’t be soon forgetting the day when Gene kicked in.