Reverend Boo

Due to Cappy's status as "special" (there are a few perks to having a decrepit horse), when we moved back to the Ghetto he had the run-in stall. It was an addition on the end of the barn with a metal pipe gate front, a metal wall/rolling door for the back wall leading to the paddock, and it was actually almost a normal stall size, unlike most of the stalls in the Ghetto. With his arthritis, it seemed best for him to be able to move in and out as much as possible.

The paddock adjoining it was horse quality woven wire with a top board, a little under 5 foot, and it backed up against the main turnout field.  Cappy still got field turnout, but the luxury of wandering about at will while the other horses had the indignity of sitting in their stalls.

A small Shetland/Hackney monorchid (or at least the one was much too crafty to be found) stud lived in a little building nearby, and the two could stare at each other over the expanse of lawn that stretched between the two turnouts. The Hotrod was an obstreperous little bay, full of fire and with much flingage of appendages in all directions when in motion. He would on occasion have turnout in the larger horse pasture in the evenings, after the regular occupants (including happily unbred mares) had been brought in for the day. As a companion, a tolerant gray Arab gelding was turned out to provide amusement.

For the record, I am a tolerant person. I don't judge. The equestrian world is filled with a variety of people with a variety of preferences. I fail to even notice most of the time, which causes a whole other set of humorous issues.

Cappy judges.
Cappy believes that some behaviors are only appropriate between a female and a male, testicles optional.
He will partake in these activities.
He has viewed others of the predescribed combination take part in these activities. It is not the activity that bothers him, but rather the gender of the participants.


I first suspected this when he tried to attack the miniature donkey jacks at Marilyn's. The first time he saw one trying to mount the other, he went a little "Coo coo for Coco Puffs." I thought he was simply freaked out at the suddenly four-floppy-eared, six-flailing-legged beast in front of him, but time would prove that he disapproved of such activities, flopping ears or no.

At one point, he chased one of the jacks through a  three board fence, the wee beastie sliding on the ground  front limbs stretched, rear limbs trailing like Pete Rose sliding into home. It was funny to watch, although a bit upsetting for the donkey.

 

Like this, but a donkey.

 

Another angle

Donkeys are not really designed to move like that.




As the Hotrod would run around like a loon, Cappy looked on. The Arab trotted about, nipping and playing with the little heathen, hoydon Hotrod, and Cap was content to observe the frolic.

When Hotrod decided to practice his mounting maneuvers, however, Cappy'd  lose his shit.

He'd begin running and hollering, galloping full bore around the paddock, in to the run-in to come charging back out and up to the fence, snorting and unhappy and thoroughly disapproving. Many evenings we'd stand and laugh at him; the Arab gave Hotrod the cold shoulder and did not seem to mind the obnoxious little twit. Only Cappy was disturbed.

It earned him the nick name of "The Reverend."



It does make you wonder, though: What happened growing up in Minnesota?

 

Not story related, but just too bizarre to not share