My Hat!

Sometimes we need the light side

Based on a true story from my younger days – in different times. Enjoy.

There was dew in the grass. He picked up some hay that he had cut the day before. ‘By about eleven,’ he estimated. By then the morning sun would dry it out enough to allow him to bale. A small flock of blackbirds lifted from the field as he tossed the hay back down. They settled a little farther away. He looked up at the clear blue sky. The rooster crowed. Birds chirped in the background, darting through the trees along the road.

He walked down to the barn where Maybe was waiting to be milked and on the way in he gave Sugar a flake of hay. Sugar snapped her head over the stall door and tried to grab his hat. “Buzz off, Sugar,” he gruffed. “Bloody quarter horse. Some kinda mean streak; always after my hat.” Maybe swished her tail indifferently and gummed the hay he gave her. She was pretty full. He placed the bucket under her udder and pulled the little bench over and sat down to the task of milking. Maybe was a permanent fixture in their lives. He had acquired her from McCauley’s older brother who had assured him she was so close to freshening that she might calve before he got her home. Maybe it would only be next week. It became a joke over the next few months until she finally dropped the calf, and after that, the name stuck.

When Maybe’s udder was soft and flabby he got up and carried the milk off towards the house, patting Maybe on the flank like he always did. Outside it was already warmer, but something was wrong. Sugar’s stall door was open and she was gone. “How the hell did she do that?” he muttered, knowing it was his fault, not hers. His eyes drifted across the field and up the road where he saw Sugar cantering proudly away, her head held high and her mane and tail blowing behind her. Even from the distance he could see that gleam in her eye. “Bitch!” He carried the milk to the house and called in, “Sugar’s out. Got to go get her,” and walked back to the stable, putting his left arm through her halter and squeezed a little grain into his left palm at the same time. He began the long walk up to the road, his pace unhurried. The blackbirds lifted out of the hay and moved further down the field ahead of him. ‘At least she didn’t charge across the field,’ he thought. He looked at the hay drying in neat rows where he had raked it the day before. He would have been upset if she had trampled those rows of hay, not that she would have done much harm. “Come on Sugar, here Sugar, come on Sugar,” he sang. The horse belonged to Gus Williams’s daughter, and he got paid to board her. He resented the food she ate because she did nothing, but he appreciated the boarding fee. “Here, Sugar, come on Sugar,” he crooned as he walked towards her, remembering that he had to woo her back, that he could never catch her if she ran. She was already slowing down or stopped, examining some fresh grass on the side of the road, pretending she didn’t see him. He walked calmly on, still singing. They were both over half a mile from the stable. “Here girl, got a present, here girl.” She looked up pretending to be surprised and cantered off. ‘Should throw this grain away, that’d teach her,’ he cursed, but he knew it wouldn’t. She would have no reason to wait for him if he had no grain. He held it up to his nose and sniffed it as though he could convey its sweet smell by enjoying it himself. She lolled by the side of the road munching some flowers. “Come on girl, that’s enough. I got work to do.” He felt like giving her a good swift kick, but he knew better than that. He circled around so that he was farther from the stables than she was and then quietly approached her, singing his irritation. He placed his right hand upon her shoulder and reached his left up towards her snout so she could smell the grain. She nuzzled his closed fist, cajoling him to open it and as he did, he slipped the halter over her head and pulled the bit into her open mouth. She whinnied in resentment as though complaining that he hadn’t played fair. He didn’t care. He could only think of how much time she had wasted. He took the reins to lead her back. She refused to move, raising her head.

Source, Rumo, Wikimedia Commons 1993

‘Oh, the bitch,’ he thought. “Come on, Sugar, if you’re not going to cooperate, you are going to have to carry me back.” He considered it a form of exploitation to ride a horse, and he felt the horse was somehow diminished by allowing itself to be ridden. “Come on!” he said, walking purposefully back with the reins in his hand. She followed for a few paces and then stopped again. “Stubborn mule,” he muttered. “Okay, you’re going to carry me back, then.” He placed the reins on either side of her neck and swung himself up onto her wide bare back. She began to walk immediately, before he was ready. He couldn’t understand why people liked riding and had never bothered to learn. His legs were splayed wide to wrap around her torso and he could feel the muscles strain in his thighs. He lifted himself gently by pressing his knees into her side. She began to move faster, slowly approaching a canter. He became more dependent on his knees as her body twisted and rolled under him. Her neck was sleek with sweat and shone as her shoulder muscles rippled with her pace. She was well into a canter now, and it was all he could do to pull the reins a bit to the left to indicate to her to turn. ‘I never did this without a saddle,’ he realised. At least they were almost back and he could get to work. Bloody horse. How was he going to punish her for this stunt? What would she understand? He was bouncing almost out of control on her wide back, marvelling at the strength of her shoulders. “Gawdammit,” he yelled as he bounced from side to side. Sugar broke her pace and the extra, unpredicted manoeuvre sent him down hard onto the ground. A sharp pain in his thigh emanated through his body, restricting his breathing. He couldn’t move. The pain coursed down his leg. He had landed on a rock. He thought of nothing, just the pain, even his arms were frozen. Sugar looked at him and made a guilty beeline for the stables.

He lay still for a while waiting patiently for the pain to subside. When his breath returned, he released a long moan. Soon he got control of his arm and felt his thigh. It was still numb, but if he moved a bit, he would no longer be on the rock. Soon after, his thoughts began to return. ‘She knew,’ he thought. She knew he had been hurt. She felt guilty. “Bugger!” he mumbled. Slowly he staggered to his feet and walked with weak menace towards the barn. Sugar stood innocently in her stall. She let out a loud welcoming whinny. “Bugger you!” he hollered at her and closed the stall door. She leaned over and snapped at his bare head. “My hat!” he called. “My hat. Where’s my hat?” He stumbled out of the stable and looked up the long road.