Horace was a horse. His parents had had quite a sense of humor: Horace horse. He grew up tough because of it. He wasn’t a regular-domesticated-ride-um-around-kind of Horace horse. He was a wild mustang-you-better-not-even-try-to-put-a-saddle-on-my-back Horace horse.
He ran around the deserts and plains near the biggest damn gully on the planet, in northern Arizona. His parents had told him of days past when his forefathers had to work as slaves, pulling plows or carrying naked ape-like creatures on their backs. But now they were free as long as they could run very fast and paid attention. Horace was a fine white stallion, the kind Indian legends are made of. He could out run anyone or anybody and once kicked an enormous cougar in the teeth when that ol’ cougar got a little too close to his companions.
“Being free is really cool,” Horace said to himself.
He danced on his hind legs when no one was looking and made love to all the mares in his herd.
There is a place up there on the northern side of that big ass gully where Horace and other wild horses seldom go because if they get caught they get turned into glue by naked apes out for a buck. Horace would risk it once in a while because if you can run really fast you can watch the sun set seven times by out running the shadow of a low mountain. Horace loved to do it because despite his fierce reputation a sunset was something Horace enjoyed watching more than anything else.
As far as I know he’s still out there...horsing around.
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