a pair of palominos
Discover more from The Remarkable Fools Letter
warning: this blog may contain horse palomany horse puns.
Wow… ‘palomany’ and no redline / spellchik.
(it did underline ‘spellchik so palomino, palominos, palomini and palomany all are legitimate spellings - someone research this for me QUICK and get back to me before I hit send. A tall order, I know. I am however feeling both ambitious and mischievous)
It’s 2am on Sunday morning. I’ve had a great Saturday night.
What’s your ideal Saturday night?
Mine has changed over the years.
A rarely washed clawfoot bathtub, Jazz FM and two hours of talking to myself combined for the kind of self soothing soaks suitable for a sudsy saga singing sojourn suitable for a sultan.
Or perhaps a suntan.
Only instead of pink from sun, my posterior would be par boiled and likely wrinkly.
An orange moon of a sort.
The moon tonight was orange.
It winked at us a couple of times, emerging from behind hill tops before finally taking its place in the sky.
We listened to a hockey podcast as we drove. Saturday night is now our night. Hockey night in Canada is either the game on the radio during hockey season or a gossip podcast, historical interview or expert analysis during the off season.
Hockey season is a month away, but hockey night in Canada with my son?
That’s year round.
When we arrived at the barn, that moon popped up across the street. It was hanging out over the house on the hill and the church like windows and the neat-o shaped wood pile and the crumpled down rumbled down extended shed / flaccid barn.
When we arrived at the paddock it was empty.
Where the heck did that pesky palomino go?
Up the hill we marched.
Past the pony patch, the schoolies and the chestnut princesses we walked.
I was beginning to wonder.
Where in the name of anal squirtations did that four legged sauvant trott off to?
Then we saw him.
Well.
It was them.
Not because he’s gelded.
(He’s keeping his ‘he’ pronoun)
It’s because there were two.
Two of them.
Two horses.
Two palominos to be precise.
Only one was a horse.
The other?
A pony.
A palomino pony.
Any palomino pony is a pal ‘o mine.
Well the palominos?
They seem to be quite good pals.
And the palomini?
They got along great as well.
When we lead him past the pony paddock, she’s always watching him. Sometimes she trots over to get a better look when we lead him past.
Do the horses know? Can they tell whos the palomino, whose the bay, whos the chestnut, do they find each other?
Are horses prejudicial for and against horses that look like / don’t look like them?
Do they treat each other differently based on the colour of their hides?
These palominos seem to really like being together.
Lately, they’ve been breaking out of their respective paddocks to go and graze.
He’s an older, lazy quarter horse. He’s seventeen. That’s like being a fifty year old human. Things still work and things are not working as well as they once did.
The pony?
She’s a baby. Three years old? Maybe five. Still? Baby. Young. Sweet. With perhaps the cutes palomino forelock.
Cute.
Palominos in the peach moonlight shone bright like my ass in a spotlight.
It was almost a shame to interrupt them.
We hooked the ole’ doofus of a quarter horse up to a lead line and started bringing him towards the barn.
The palomino pony trotted right after us. She wouldn’t go away.
Once we finished grooming, my son went to ride.
The palomino pony would have been a problematic pest if she felt welcome in the arena. I communicated that she was unwelcome in a clear way that horses understand.
She took the hint and left.
Sometimes it would be nice to have the option of treating lingering humans as you would a pesky palomino pony.
Sadly, you can’t just hit them, no matter deserving you imagine they are.
The barn. Deserted except for us.
The boy. Walk. Trot. Cantor. Happy. Chatting. Concentrating. Fluid during the trot and cantor. Quoting player statistics and projections as he cools off the horse.
The horse. Pleased to work.
The palomino pony? Dunno, chased her away. Ah dear reader, do not despair. Though we did return the palomino quarter horse to his paddock, his time there was brief. By the time we had made it back to the car, the palomino pair were there, on the ridge, once again bathed in moonlight.
They looked really happy just being together.
Or perhaps that’s merely a projection of what this dad felt on a perfect Saturday night.
Giddy up!
ok… so the foolsletter is now over.
Don’t do anything for five minutes then come back and read the next bit.
did you do nothing for five minutes?
Great. This is the secret hidden track part of the blog. This used to happen on CD’s. Artists would leave like five minutes of space then they would like have a secret song that was like all bad ass and stuff. like.
So this is like that only in a problematic format.
Anway… Here’s the bit. unless you read this part as you read the foot notes. Thank you for reading the footnotes but don’t read this bit above the footnotes.
This part isn’t for you unless you’ve read the rest of the foolsletter only arriving at this point having read the footnotes as well but are only reading this part for the first time that is unless you read the foolsletter multiple times and if so, let’s just proceed shall we?
GO
Shout out to me the correct version of the plural form of the word palomino. Shout so loud that your voice travels back in time so that I can edit the beginning of the blog post before you even get to read it.
(perhaps that was foolish, perhaps not as foolish as it could have been but as foolish as it needed to be. so it goes, from the crust of your boogers to the dirt between your toes)
(the plural of palomino should be palomini. Oh look, no spell check. Perhaps that is the plural. hmmm…)
read the footnote, get the joke. don’t read the footnote, eat a handful of farts soaked in larks vomit.
That doesn’t bode well for the perception people have of equestrian sports. I can hear the attack ads now: Equestrian sports, where the participants are rich and the horses are racist.
Vegans on broomsticks - not pretending to fly, that’s problematic - who protest equestrian events will struggle. Owning and riding horses is problematic to them. But if the horses are racist, doesn’t it make it just a little bit more ok for us to dominate them?
If you disagree at this point, please just piss off and keep your damn mouth shut. It’s taking me a really long time to say something pretty damn simple and yet I want make a big riddiculous joke by expressing this simple thing in the most complicated way possible. Are we done here? Good. Go back to the next bit and be sure to shout. (don’t worry about what ever doubt comes in your head, just shout the words or not, certainly don’t scare people. here. do this instead. when you return to the above part of the blog post ‘think-shout the words that you encounter after the word ‘go’. Think shout. That way no one get too embarrassed and no one hopefully dies by think shouting their heads to the point of explosion.
a pair of palominos
I am sure you have your plural by now.
No shouting for now. Have I ever shouted? Except during karate, maybe not. I am doing my best impression of the Last of Barrett's Privateers for the day.
It's an adventure day, entrepreneur style.
Tonight, we rest. Gonna spend some time with my pony in the moonlight.