You Know You're An Old Coot When. . .

I found myself waiting for Jack and my Annie for a while, so I decided to take in more vibes by riding in the horse-drawn trolley car. Before the end of the day, I did it twice--once with this white draft horse and a another time with a large black Percheron.

The fun part for me was getting a chance to stroke the large animal. I found myself wanting to rub the animal's forehead, like we often did with our cutting horses, but the drivers at Disneyland would hear of it.

They would only let people do that if they rubbed the area behind the harness on their ribs. The animal like it, because he noticed I was there and seemed pleased.

I just wanted to catch a whiff of that smell that every horse has. I guess country boys are like that.

We would always pat them at the base of the front of the neck between the front legs. I didn't do it.

I didn't want to risk the horse striking at me with its massive hooves. Although I don't have a lot of confidence that any of those drivers were the Disney version of the Horse Whisperer, I really think they knew what caused a problem when a tourist did something stupid.

Contrary to my nature, I did what they asked. I actually enjoyed the contact with an animal. It seems like an eternity ago when we cared for our own horses after riding them during the day to herd cattle.

I never liked horses, so it shocked me how sentimental I was about the whole think.

We had this buckskin appaloosa mare, a terrible animal possessed by at least 40 evil demons.

She would nuzzle up to you, and then when you least suspected it, she would bite you on the stomach or love handles, leaving a large bruise the size of your fist while making this ungodly screechy whinny. Her eyes laughed when she did it. Once, it actually left a blood blister on my side.

Sometimes she would decide the day was over, and she would first go to her knees and then roll over. You either stepped out of the saddle, or she rolled over you.

I told dad I wanted to strap a set of buck horns to her head and turn her loose for the opening day of the Utah deer hunt. Utah hunters would even shoot and tag a car, as long as it had a set of great antlers.

The plan never happened, but eventually, we grew tired of Pansy. Yes the evil mare's name was Pansy. We fattened her, and she became a participant in a French exchange program. That was a time when France bought a lot of horses. I figure her steak was the one that bit the person who ordered it.