Danny Boy was a new horse to the huge riding stable where my daughter took very expensive riding lessons.  We saw him in his stall and he was a sad horse.  I was menopausal.  The women in the “OFFICE” and I exchanged many terse conversations.  I told them that Danny Boy was sad.  I more or less wanted them to do something about it.  Here is what they did:  Danny was put into an enlarged stall with concrete floor and a drain, a hose, and a bucket of suds and a brush.

As my daughter rode in a circle around the riding arena, I suddenly had to give Danny Boy a horse bath.  I had no idea where to begin, and knew that the ladies were giggling in the “OFFICE”.  I felt the water when it came out of the hose, wetting well my pants and shoes in the process.  It was chilly, but not cold.  I splashed water on Danny Boy and began to suds him up.  They left ragged towels, so I used one for his face and ears. I washed his mane, and tail.  Then I soaped him up from front to back.  I was careful by his front.  Horses tend to bite me, and I did not know this horse.  His middle made me more confident.

Then I had to make a quick decision.  I wondered about his rear under-carriage and privates, as well as, well, his horsey ass.  I lifted his sudsy tail and made a swipe with my hands full of suds around his butt.  I was afraid to use the brush on the region.  I knew enough that horses shit all the time.  I was already mucking about in horseshit from other horses as they headed to the arena.

The four legs I did with the suds covered sleeves of my sweatshirt. Danny did not eat my hay colored hair or bite me.  He did step on my sore foot when I did his rear legs…avoiding the private parts.  By this time Danny Boy and I were equally wet and soap lathered.  I threw the brush into the suds bucket and grabbed the hose.  I could hear the ladies in the “OFFICE” laughing.  I turned on the hose and Danny Boy and I were well rinsed together.  I bent over and rinsed my hair.

I felt murderous.  I took the towels and dried Danny Boy from stem to stern.  I took a towel and wrapped it around my wet hair.  Danny Boy’s mane and tail needed to be towel dried and at the tail I once again faced his horse ass.  I saw different tools to comb and curry Danny Boy. He became animated as I tried to untangle his mane and gingerly did the same for his tail.  The currying part was hard.  I can’t wash my own cat and then towel dry it and comb it as well without getting scratched or grazed by its teeth.  This was a whole horse!  Let’s just say that I managed.

I found another horse’s blanket and I draped it over the dampened Danny Boy.  I shut off the hose and went to the “OFFICE”.  They had no expressions on their faces.  My hair hung in tangled strands.  I had a sore foot, so I limped.  I was soaking wet and hopping mad. “DANNY BOY AND I ARE CLEAN” I shouted.  Then the Tourette Syndrome gene kicked in.  I asked, “WHICH ONE OF YOU BITCHES ARE NEXT?”

I knew I had said too much and it would probably be noted in the next edition of the newspaper in that small town.  I gathered up my dignity and took Danny Boy back to his new stall.  I had wet carrots and a wet apple in my pockets.  I dripped dry as I fed him these and he crunched them with such satisfaction the bath time almost dimmed in comparison.  I ran my hand down his strong neck to say good night.

The line of horses and students were coming out of the arena.  I still had to undo the whole riding gear on my little daughter’s big horse. My daughter looked at me and asked, “What happened?”

I steadied my voice and said, “I just gave Danny Boy a bath, a horse bath.”  The parents of the other students had heard me shout in the “OFFICE.”  They said nothing, which was good.

I said “GOOD NIGHT LADIES”. to the bitches in the “OFFICE”  I took my daughter’s little hand and with my head held high I exited the stable to limp to my car.  It was not enough of a drive for me to let my menopausal temper cool before I got home to our other three children who were watching television instead of doing homework.  The youngest was running around naked.  He was a toddler who filled his own bottle with milk and chocolate.  He screwed the nipple onto the bottle and shook it to mix it.  My husband came home before I could make myself look somewhat human.  Limping and dripping I stripped the expensive riding gear from my daughter.

“What the hell?”  he said.  He didn’t ask.  I did not tell.  I had walked horse shit all over my beige living room carpet.  I stripped off my clothes in front of all of them.  They were horrified.  I made a face and yelled, “HEY, LET’S ALL GET NAKED!  HALF OF US ALREADY ARE”.  The toddler was standing on the dining room table naked with his chocolate milk bottle fastened in his mouth.  My little daughter, the horseback rider, ran upstairs into her bedroom, naked.  And I followed her, naked as well, limping as I went, up the stairs to change.  My husband put his briefcase down and I threw down a pull-up and pajamas for bottle boy. I put on pajamas and went into the bathroom to just sit on the toilet and smoke a cigarette with the window wide open. I hid them in a diaper wipe container, with a lighter.

I caught a nasty cold.