A famous equestrian, who is not the master of horses that he once was, showed up in Panola County with a covered wagon and a pulling horse, gentle as banana pudding. He had obviously lost his skills pertaining to horses, mules, Mexican jackasses and all other members of the equestrian family.

When he had his fill of Mississippi hospitality he begin preparations for the return journey with a gift horse.

There is the old saying, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” That horse’s mouth can tell his age, so you can make a decision that will help decide whether he is young enough to pull a plow or get a ride to the glue factory.

The mouth is also a good place to determine the probable results of being bitten. A good biter is kin to a crocodile and alligator on steroids.

Randy put new shoes on his gift horse and was feeding him on the finest grain known to man or horse.

It was during that fit of generosity that the horse playfully chose his moment to show his endearment for the aforementioned of the shoeing process and casually amputated Randy’s index finger and just as casually kicked him, not once but twice, in a place is best not mentioned.

If it was my horse and my index finger, I would have done the world a favor and promptly solved the problem with that old model 1911 Colt that I keep close to my head for sentimental reasons. 

Randy, being the type of person who believes in second chances, had the remains of his finger re-attached by the local vet and petted the gift horse and broke camp for the heathen nation of Arkansas at 6 a.m. 

He had made it to Pleasant Grove when the gentle horse played out. 

During the process of switching the harness to the gift horse Randy became momentarily distracted by the equipment. That old pile of soap bones chomped onto a significant half acre or so of his left chest, shook him like a rat terrier shakes a rat and then flung him into a barbed wire fence conveniently located nearby.

While he was extricating himself from the wire — as his posterior portion was at its most vulnerable — that beast took a similar chunk from the part that fits the saddle. 

To the spectators it was evident that that damn cannibal was going to eat ol’ Randy. When a rescue team that included a farmer and his crew arrived, the horse backed off and a farmer checked out the carnage. 

He asked, “Son are you okay? Can we do anything for you?”

Randy said, “Yes sir. If you have a reliable heavy caliber firearm I would be much obliged if you would shoot that damned horse.

As it turned out the farmer was indeed the owner of a Dirty Harry Special in the infamous Model 29 Smith and Wesson pistol. Promptly and without further ado he shot the horse and was generous enough to provide a backhoe to dig a grave for the cannibal horse from Hades.

We are planning to do a benefit show to raise a monument at the burial site, not for the horse but for the only cowboy in history dumb enough to attempt to hitch a three-year-old, 1,200 pound unbroken stallion with sore feet to a wagon. 

Tall in saddle,

Ricky Harpole