Cowgirl Hat

I once owned a 10X beaver Stetson. It was actually purchased as an accessory to my ski gear because in the late 70's and early 80's it was fashionable to wear a cowboy hat with your apre-ski attire. We skied in the Rockies and loved it so much that we decided it would be a lovely place to live. Skiing and the move to Idaho are another story for another day. This story has to do with my cowgirl hat. I loved the hat and adorned it with a wonderful feather band. Nonetheless, even with the hat and the great western clothing I was definitely not a cowgirl. Growing up in the city I thought horses were beautiful creatures. It only took one visit to my country cousins to turn my head around. While feeding a horse blades of grass through the fence it bit my shirt which was the same shade of green. Later that same summer I went to feed some horses at a home near the river while my dad talked boats with the residents. Electric fences were an unknown phenomena to me and after my little hands were pried off the hot wires by the owners of the horses, I no longer had any interest in horses and decided that a kitten was a much better pet. Therefore, I have never been fond of horses and they were definitely not fond of me. They say animals can since fear and it has been unscientifically proven that horses know if you are not a horse lover. When we lived in Hailey, Idaho (yes, the city owned by Bruce Willis and Demi Moore) we purchased a horse for the kids to ride from Jenny, my ski instructor, who was also a rancher. We would spend lovely Sundays at her ranch in warmer weather, sharing a home cooked meal after a leisurely ride around the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountains. Jenny sold us the 18 year old appaloosa named Brandy who had been the horse her own children had ridden. We boarded Brandy at her ranch. Brandy was patient and gentle with children and they in turn loved to ride her and never complained about the necessary brushing and grooming. When we would ride I would ride Brownie, Jenny's most docile horse, Brownie, so I could be with the children. My youngest daughter, nicknamed "Tex" due to the fact that she practically lived in her boots and hat, would ride behind me on the rump of the large brown horse. Brownie immediately sensed my dislike and fear of horses and would walk as slowly as he could, trudging far behind the others. He loved to put his head down so I would feel like I was about to fly over the saddle horn. At the end of a ride Brownie would start to trot towards the corral in anticipation of the oats and the apple that waited in his stall. On one such approach Tex let go her grip on me and bounced along the rump, off the back of the horse and onto the dirt. I couldn't see if she was okay so just like Dale Evans, I threw my right leg out of the stirrup, back across the saddle and leaped to the ground to check on Tex. She was no worse for wear and giggled as she rubbed her sore bottom. I pulled just about every muscle in my body and could barely move for three days. The horses had a great laugh about this as they munched their post-ride treats. We moved to Boise the following year and left Brandy at the ranch until we could find a home with a pasture. Before we could settle into the new home we bought we learned that Brandy was eating too much on the ranch and loved to either stand in wet spots or rub against the barbed wire and we needed to bring her with us. She had to begin her relocation at a boarding stable where we could monitor her diet and treat her hoofs. With the absense of Sunday rides, Brandy had overeaten on the spring grasses and was a mess. The kids were in school so the care for the horse was suddenly my responsibility. Brownie had evidently clued Brandy in to my fear and dislike of horses. Whenever I treated her hoofs in the stall she would purposely pin me against whatever wall or gate was closest. Going to lift one of her hoofs, she would at first give it easily but then she would drop it heavily on the top of my foot leaving a new bruise where the last one was just healing. Brandy's did, however, find a way to top all of her rude behavior and reaffirm my dislike of horses. The boarding stable was about a half mile from the Vet so when she had an appointment, it made little sense to load her into the horse trailer and then unload her again at the Vet's office. Instead I walked her up on the grassy strip alongside the road and when I reached the Vet'sI tied her lead to the hitching post. As I signed us in on the office register someone asked urgently "Who owns that appaloosa out there?" Of course, it was Brandy who was pulling her head out of her harness and looking for the best way to escape. I ran out the door just in time to see her trotting down the road while looking back at me with an evil sneer headed toward a busy intersection. Without a thought as to how to subdue this horse, I also trotted down the road, catching up close enough to grab her mane. Whatever I thought would happen did not. Grabbing the mane of a horse after it has started gaining speed is pretty futile. Brandy just kept going and like Fred Flintstone I put my boots to the asphalt to try and slow us down. Across Brandy's neck I could see the intersection. Our light was red but Brandy did not obey traffic laws either. She kept going as a pick up truck was in position to meet up with us in seconds. Suddenly the truck stopped, the driver jumped out and grabbed a rope from the back of his pick up and ran toward Brandy. He was able to get close without spooking Brandy because she was still looking back and laughing at the silly woman hanging off her mane. The cowboy threw his rope across her neck, said something that she understood and she came to a stop. With profuse thanks you's from me, we walked her back to the hitching post where he secured her harness and without a word walked away. It felt for a minute that I was in a modern day western or on a segment of candid camera. The folks watching at the vet's office just walked back inside probably mumbling something I wouldn't have wanted to hear anyway. The vet came out with a hypodermic needle and said that maybe Brandy should have a little sedation to help calm her down. Calm her? I was the one who needed calming. Brandy was still laughing, or at least until she saw the needle. We finally had something in common...a hatred of needles. The vet instructed me to hold her lead while he injected the sedative. Just like Roy Roger's Trigger, Brandy reared up on her back legs, pulling me along with her, my feet danling in the air. As if this wasn't enough, we still had the vet exam to get through. As Brandy mellowed out I thought all was going to be okay. That is until I had to walk her back to the stable. As the sedative took over, Brandy just wanted to go to sleep. I can only imagine what it looked like to the motorist going by as I practically drug this horse a half mile to the stable. After that I insisted that we either hire a stable hand or move her to the house. We soon bought a new house with a pasture for Brandy and I was content to just wave at her from time to time from the safety of my kitchen window. The stetson was stored safely away in the box from which it came and my horse riding days were over.