“I know horses. I’ve been around them my whole life.” His long, stringy pony tail and Harley vest with the misspelled Harly set this confident man apart from others who came to check out my pet horse.
Looking for a small pony for his granddaughter, my mare Lilly might just be what he wanted.
Along with a silent friend, almost like a Lennie to the Harly George on Of Mice and Men, anyone could tell that George was in charge.
Walking through the gate, he asked me about Lilly, a small sometimes high strung one-time mother. He pet her, looked in her mouth, stood back to look at her, and asked again how much I wanted for her. At the point where I told him $50, he stood right behind Lilly and pet her on her butt.
This guy’s going to get nailed, I thought. But then I recalled how he told me several times about his knowledge of horse behavior. He must know what he’s doing standing behind her.
Kerboom.
Then CRACK, quicker than a toad’s tongue nabbing a bug, Lilly kicked back and hit him square on the knee. George looked startled, stunned, but then tried to minimize it by limping around saying he’s okay.
“Can’t have a kicker if she’s going to be around my granddaughter,” he announced. He tried exiting gracefully, and here Lennie said the only words I heard from him: “Are you okay?”
He said he was, no big deal, but I could tell by his limp that Lilly had hit solidly on his knee. Lilly continued eating hay, glad this stranger was leaving.
Cordial and gracious me, I walked them to their pick-up and thanked him for coming to look.
George handed the keys to Lennie, asking him to drive. With a wave, he got into the passenger seat, but I didn’t hear anything more from him about being a horse expert.
Lilly never apologized.
