wrangler punchup

Bayou Bob's serves a mean catfish po' boy. "Bob," infamously Bayou in culinary talents and drawl, hosted four of us for lunch today, and I was treated to quite an afternoon.
My old man was seated directly across from me, and let loose on a barrage of stories in a Texan accent I've not heard from his mouth since his mother's funeral attended by all the Lone Star Pharos. It must have been the presence of Ed, another good ol' boy, that spurned him on to say things like "yewsta could" and "by gawd, I reared back un socked 'er as hard as I could." "'Er" indicates the feminine, not just a lazy tongue.

In my father's youth, he was a counselor at a summer camp called Cheley up near Estes Park. Estes is a quaint little hamlet that beckons tourons from across the nation to plug their campers and RV's into water and sewer lines. It begs them to sit back, enjoy the view, and eat a hamburger flavored ice cream cone with sprinkles on top. Really, when you're looking up at the Diamond, only the biggest, most bad ass wall in Rocky Mountain National Park, you need fuel for the viewing. Although, to be fair, despite Estes' putt putts, fudge shops, and junk peddling, Cheley was actually a ways from the town center.

No matter. Dad worked at this camp, taking young brats away from their parents for a few weeks at a time. His job was to lead hiking, camping, and horseback riding trips. I envision him as a strapping college kid with a full head of hair and a mustache. There actually are pictures floating about somewhere with some significant lip fuzz. I like to think of the blackmail potential, but this strategy seems likely to backfire given that he has seen me wear dozens of neon wrist bands and pink spandex shorts. He might have pictures of that, too.
Family lore tells of a conversation the two of us had regarding my affinity for the bright colors and arm decoration:
"You look gay."
"Do you mean happy and care free, or that I prefer my own kind?"
"Does it matter?"
I was 10 at the time of this little chat.

So imagine my father, all young and muscled and furry, and probably even sporting a bracelet, anklet, and necklace. Affinity of jewelery is genetic, I hear.

As he tells it, he is in the barn with another counselor and two horses. The horses are in their stalls, and each counselor is saddling his respective pony. These stalls are not much bigger than the animals themselves, but each wrangler is inside the stall fidgeting with a bridle and saddle. While my dad is adjusting various equine straps and buckles, the mare he is working on decides to do something stupid. My father professes to hate horses, so at this little turn of events, he exhibits zero surprise.
His horse leans over the railing and bites a chunk of flesh out of the horse one stall over. This sets off quite the chain of events. Upon having a billiard ball sized hunk of muscle torn from its body, the adjacent horse reacts with wild bucking, snorting, jumping, and screaming. Needless to say, this puts my dad's friend, the other wrangler, in quite the tight spot. Dad decides to put an end to things right then and there, so he rears back, and as hard as he can, punches his horse in the throat. At this little assault, the mare stumbles backwards and crashes through the gate, onto the main floor of the barn. Its shod hooves provide comically little traction, and legs sail akimbo. In the kicking madness, the saddle flies off, and for whatever reason, this sends my father totally over the edge. He grabs the halter rope and drags a 1,200 pound beast back into the stall. He admits a level of blinding rage, because at this point he is now back in the confined space with a horse that is wild eyed and seeking revenge. The horse jumps around wildly, crashing into the sideboards of the stall. Luckily for my father, enough room exists between the rails for a human to slide out, and he does just that.

"But I'll aim ta tell you, boy. Next time she and I went out fer a ride, when I said left and pulled them reins left, there weren't no confusion. We went left. I'm da boss."

And with that, the boss set to demolishing his shrimp po' boy. He's the boss, so I didn't tell him that the catfish was better. I'll let him have things his way. Don't need to be punched in the neck to learn that lesson. Although that reminds me of the time Will Gorman punched me in the forehead...