Let me start with an introduction to the main characters in this story.
Katie, a large Percheron mare with a severe case of PMS (permanent mare syndrome), my father, a medium height stocky fellow with a great sense of humour, and myself, a tall-for-my-age skinny kid, 13 years old, all guts and gab like a young crow was the way my father would have described me. So there you have it – an unlikely group.
We’re going back to the summer of 1943, a great one for making hay. My day started around 6 a.m., getting the team in which meant a fight with Katie. Get her in a fence corner, struggle to get a halter on, watching out for her feet; she’d step on you if given a chance. To this day I have an odd shaped big toe to remind me what Katie was like.
With the team in their stalls and oats in the feed trough, I’d harness them and go in for my breakfast. My job today: mow the last small field of Timothy and then rake into windrows the field we’d cut a couple of days ago. Sounds easy, right? Wrong! My dad was a stickler for straight swaths and windrows. I mean, what would the neighbours be saying, son, if they’re not perfect?
The day went as planned; me fighting that damn mare to try and make nice corners and straight rows.
Reckon here I’d better explain something. That Katie mare would come into heat the first warm day of the year and stay that way all summer. Reckon that’s what made her so miserable and hard to handle. ‘Course, being young at the time, I didn’t really understand her problem nor have the patience to put up with it, which brings me to the main event. I’d finished for the day and brought the team in to unharness before turning them out. Dad was there to give me a hand.
Guess here is a good time to tell you my goal at this time was to be a cowboy so I never missed a chance to ride. Dad had started out of the barn with Mike, the gelding and seen me looping the halter shank over Katie’s neck and tying it to the halter ring.
“Don’t try riding that mare the mood she’s in!”
Too late. I’d already grabbed a chunk of mane, jumped and pulled myself up on her back. As soon as we cleared the barn door she made a couple of big crow hops. I’m clamping my legs as tight as I can which ain’t easy on that wide body, but I’m still here, another couple of hops and she settles down to a walk. No problem right? Wrong! I had sat up quite proud of my bronc riding and relaxed my clamp on her fat sides. That’s when Katie went into full bronc mode. She reared up, causing me to slide back to her rump, then dropped her head to the ground and kicked up sending this wannabe bronc rider into orbit.
Here I must digress to fill you in on my dad’s activities that afternoon. He had cleaned out the pig sty placing the manure on the edge of the manure pile. Getting the picture?
From out of orbit comes this body landing headfirst up to its shoulders in this odorous pile of fresh pig manure. Every orifice of my head is filled with this crap, as I try to extricate myself from the slimy pile and push down with my hands, only to sink deeper.
Finally I crawl out backwards and stand up. I’m digging my fingers into my eyes and ears; don’t dare to breathe in. Then I hear it. When my dad laughs it starts out as a hearty chuckle progressing to a kind of squeak like “eeehe, eeehe.” That’s what I hear as I dig the pig crap out of my ears. “Are you okay?” “Eeehe, eeehe. eeehe.”
I was mortified, not only failing as a bronc rider but covered in this stinking (dare I say it) pig shit. I staggered to the creek and threw myself in, still trying to clear my ears, nose, and mouth. The taste and smell linger to this day.
Anytime I figure I’ve got the edge on my fellow man or a horse, I remember Katie.
