Creative Writing: Butterflied Boy

Equestrian Ignoramus

Another witty title could be Butterflied Boy, but I’ll stick with the aforementioned. Often on our PA excursions, we’d venture over to the nearby horse ranch, and punch a few doggies and saddle up. (Why did ranch hands punch their dogs?) It was another nice culture shocking day out. Ahh!...The nice potpourri of Pocono pines and horse shit. The shit smell assaulted your nostrils, but amazingly you got accustomed to it. As all of us kids screwed around and threated to toss a load of warm turds at each other, the ranch hands would trot out a few massive beasts. Our previous citified interactions with amazing steeds was those that had a NYPD cop riding high in the saddle, or an occasional dipped back – abused one, pulling tourists around Central Park, and of course – Mister Ed.
“Fine, I’m perched in the saddle, now how do you start this thing? Where’s my whip? I have no freakin’ spurs. I’m not here to pose for my western portrait. I’m here to ride over the prairies, up the mountains, through the pass, and to inspect the lower forty.”