The Cowgirl

Well, thanks to HemisphereDancer's 100 things (#82), today I wrote a letter to a long lost friend. The Cowgirl. The cowgirl and I met on account of her grandparents living next door to me since before we were born. When we were young, she would spend weekends with her grandparents in the city and when we got older I spent most of my summers at her family's small horse farm. Yep, Irish spent many a day covered in mud, crawling barefoot through a creek looking for frogs. The cowgirl's family treated me like an extra kid of theirs except when it came to introductions. I was referred to as the city girl. (I am sure this was a polite way of explaining my black fingernails and combat boots.) By all accounts the cowgirl and I were like sisters. Screaming, punching, hateful, sisters. Always willing to do each other in for a laugh. The thing I remember most about being down on the farm was falling off horses. No, not riding- falling off. I fell off every horse I ever rode. You see, the cowgirl's favorite joke was -not teaching me the correct way to ride. She would then put me on horses with names like Stormy and Shotgun. One day all the kids were rounding up calves so the boys could practice their roping skills and there I was hanging on for dear life to a horse named Hotshot while the adults watched me with tears in their eyes from laughter. Oh yea, I was down in less than 8 seconds. The cowgirl's father said I looked like I was riding a rocking horse and still snickering, he scolder her for not teaching me how to ride. Another good laugh came while we were racing down a dirt road. By the time I reached the finish line, I was dangling from the side of the horse with one leg through the stirrup and one hand on the horn of the saddle. I didn't actually hit the ground until the horse came to a complete stop so, thankfully nothing was hurt but my pride. The list is endless from being bucked off to simply sliding right off the ass end. If I was on a horse, I was going to fall off. Oddly enough the only broken bone I have ever suffered was from washing a horse. We were washing Sandy for a horse show later that evening. And , as usual, I was sporting bare feet. Washing a horse is alot like washing a dog. A 1,000 pound dog. My littlest piggy got stepped on. We didn't tell anyone because we didn't want to miss the horse show. The cowgirl's mom noticed me limping that night and demanded an explanation. By the time I took my boot off my toe had turned blue-black. Being a nurse she just laughed at the expression on my face and told me I'd be ok, that there was nothing the doctor would do but give me some pain meds. The cowgirl and I did a lot of growing up together. Sadly, by high school all I wanted to do was ride around with my friends and get high and all she wanted to do was find some man to marry her. And though we no longer have anything in common, I miss her.