(In
a stable: the bar is a trough)
Horse
1: (Trots over to the Bartender) Hey, what’s on tap today?
Bartender:
The usual water.
Horse
1: What about grub?
Bartender:
Well, we’ve got oats… and that’s about it.
Horse
1: I’ll have some of those, please.
Bartender:
(Uses hoof to depress a tap, releasing oats down a chute into a bucket) So, how
was it out in the field today?
Horse
1: (While devouring oats) Slurp – snort – neigh – don’t get me started!
Bartender:
All right.
Horse
1: (Swallows first course) OK, it went like this –
Bartender:
Oh, so you are getting started, then?
Horse
1: They’re filming some sort of retro piece of what they think happened
way-back-whenever, where we have to wear these old saddles and they use spurs
to make us start moving –
Bartender:
(Shudders) Spurs.
Horse
1: Yeah, I mean, you guys already have me choking on a piece of skin from my
neighbors and you’re yanking my head around until it almost falls off, you also
need to jab me in the sides with knives to tell me where you want to go? I get the picture.
Bartender:
Oh yes, what they do for “historical accuracy” and to be “period appropriate.”
Horse
1: (Slurps some water from the trough as Horses 2 and 3 trot over) Yeah, and if
that wasn’t enough, I had a double role today as “Wild Mustang #4,” which was
another fun romp.
Bartender:
(While serving Horses 2 and 3) Why, what did that entail?
Horse
1: Oh, not much – my direction was just to act “free.”
Horse
2: (Head and ears perk up) Sorry, what was that word you just used?
Horse
1: What, free?
(The
three customers and the Bartender laugh uproariously)
Horse
3: Those two-legged freaks really have some nerve. So’d you at least make a run for it?
Horse
1: Nah, how could I? Guards were all
around – they just kept signaling at me to basically run in a circle until one
of them “heroically” lassoed me to fall hard on the ground, thereby breaking my
wild spirit.
Horse
2: Oh come on, you’re a horse, you love to run, don’t we treat you so well?
Horse
1: You keep telling yourself that.
Horse
3: Did you bite `em when they took the lasso off?
Horse
1: (Sighs wistfully) No, but I left them a nice mess to clean up afterward.
Bartender:
Sweet. Make them work for it, I always
say.
Horse
1: I think they’ll be wrapping up this bit of old timey dress-up tomorrow, so I
might get a little break before the next go-around. What about you two?
Horse
2: Ugh, they have us reenacting the last really big kerfuffle they had where
they used us to run straight into their projectiles. My great-great-great-great-great-grandmare
was in that one, you know.
Horse
3: Really?
Horse
2: Well, we think she was – she was taken away and never heard from again, so
it was either the front lines or the glue factory. At least this version has her going down
fighting.
Horse
1: Is the reenactment dangerous, then?
Horse
3: Depends on how you define “danger.”
They’re not shooting projectiles to kill us this time, but with all the
forced falls, eardrum-shattering explosions, and horrific fires flaring up all
around us, it’s a toss-up whether a broken leg, flying object, or heart attack’ll
do us in first.
Horse
2: My guess is a broken leg, but I think a heart attack would be the easiest.
Horse
1: Unbelievable.
Horse
2: Still, suppose it could always be worse.
Some of these weirdos do try to fix the broken leg now, instead
of just being all “Too bad for you, it’s better this way,” and projectile right
to the head.
Horse
1: I guess.
Horse
2: And I have to admit, my current rider’s not that bad.
Horse
3: Shut your mouth – he’s a rider.
Horse
2: Believe me, I’ve had some beauts. The
last one on that fake farm we were sent to tried to make me go across that fake
lake, even when his trainer was yelling at him to stop, just because he
wanted to prance around in front of some filly.
We almost both went under, but guess who would have been the one who
drowned, what with all that unnecessary equipment strapped to their body? Not him, let me tell you.
Horse
3: Oh yeah, I remember when that happened.
That was a close one.
Horse
2: Yeah, so at least this one sneaks me sugar cubes and brushes my hair at the
end of the day and pats my head soothingly every time he makes me fall down
next to exploding ordinance.
Horse
1: Aw.
That’s almost sweet.
Horse
2: Yeah, it’s slightly less of an ordeal.
Horse
1: Well, I guess we shouldn’t complain too much – I have three cousins
who’re racehorses.
(The
others shudder)
Bartender:
How are they holding up?
Horse
1: Let me put it this way: I used to have eight cousins who’re racehorses.
Horse
3: Ouch. Maybe their luck’ll hold out
and they can retire to have some foals.
Horse
1: Foals who’ll be trapped in the same lives.
Horse
3: Good point.
Horse
2: Guess there’s nothing for it but to enjoy the small perks that come our way
and hope we can grow old enough to relax on a real farm.
Horse
3: Isn’t a farm just as bad?
Horse
2: Nah, by the time we get there we’ll be too old for them to make us do
anything really strenuous, and from what I’ve heard, at least there everyone
works for their daily oats, know-what-I-mean?
Horse
1: (Gasps) You mean the two-legs work with the horses?
Horse
2: Out in the fields and everything.
Horse
3: OK, then we’ll let those guys think they treat us so well.
