My daddy was a Florida cracker. And before you dash off an
email eviscerating me for using the politically incorrect term, know that I
mean exactly what I say.
A Florida Cracker was a cowboy who herded cattle with his
horse and his whip. A bullwhip makes a distinctive sound that carries for some
distance and isn’t mistaken for anything else. Hence, the moniker.
Daddy owned his own horse, Dotty—a pretty, tall pinto he’d
bought at a livestock auction with money he’d earned working on cars. He
knocked around a few central Florida ranches in the late 30’s and early 40’s,
until he was old enough to enlist for the war.
I have to admit, every time I look at the picture of Daddy
and Dotty, I think of that old saying you
can’t judge a book by its cover.
One day not long after Daddy acquired Dotty, instead of
taking her for a pleasure ride out in the field or off to chase a herd of
cattle, he decided to ride her into town. And as young boys are wont to do, he
put the pedal to metal, so to speak. He hunkered down in the saddle and kicked
her up to a wide-open run. They were galloping along the dirt road at a
breath-stealing pace when suddenly Dotty skidded to a stop like she’d seen a
rattler in the road.
Daddy said the next thing he knew, he was lying in the road
looking up at his horse, reins dangling in his face. And he hurt. Everywhere. Bloodied
and cussing a blue streak, he got up, quickly checked himself for broken bones,
and looked around, fully expecting to see a snake, maybe even a gator on -the
side of the road. But ol’ Dotty was merely standing stock still, as if she was
waiting on something. Cursing the confounded animal under his breath, Daddy
swung up in the saddle, nudged her…and nothing happened. He nudged her again.
Still nothing. The horse stood as if glued to the spot.
Glue. Livid, Daddy had to admit the idea was growing on him to turn Dotty
into some Elmer's.
He said he pleaded, cursed, eventually even dismounted and tugged
on the reins as if his horse was some stupid, in-bred mule. Dotty was having
none of it. Nothing Daddy did convinced the horse to move a hoof. He tried once
more from the saddle. Nothing. He couldn’t believe it. He’d never seen a horse
act this way and was utterly flustered by it.
Just about ready to have an apoplectic fit and take the dysfunctional
animal to the glue factory, he noticed something.
A mailbox.
And Dotty was standing right beside it. A simple arm’s length
away for a rider.
An idea dawning on him, he reached out, opened the mailbox, and
then closed it. Instantly Dotty’s body relaxed. Suspicious of what might happen
next, Daddy gave her a cautious kick. The horse started walking again as if
nothing had ever happened.
Of course, my dad was not surprised to learn upon asking
that Dotty had carried the mail for the United States Postal Service for over
ten years. She had been trained to stop at any and every mailbox along her
path.
Of course, after this, Daddy and Dotty stuck to trail riding
and herding cattle.
1 comment:
Loved this story. You really have to hand it to that very well trained horse. Lord only knows what else she could have been trained to do had someone taken the time. Thanks fir giving us a great big smile
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