Why cuss when spitting works better?

I never did fall in love with horses.  The ornery Shetland pony we had when I was a kid probably had a lot to do with that. When I was interested in learning how to ride Dad didn't want me around his working horse.

Instead of telling you why I didn't like the phony, um, I meant pony, here are a couple of things I remember about horses from when I was a kid.

Dad had a roping horse he was real proud of. One of the exercises he did to get the horse accustomed to having a steer on the end of a rope was to pull a railroad tie around the corral. Of all the things my brother and I did with our dad, this one stands out as being all around fun.

He screwed a large eye bolt into the end of the railroad tie and tied one end of his rope to it and hitched the other end around the saddle horn.  After he got the horse, whose name I have forgotten, somewhat used to the strange pressure on the saddle horn he let us come in the corral. Our assignment was to add varying amounts of weight to the railroad tie while it was being dragged around the pen.

As you might imagine, most of the stuff we did with Dad resulted in big trouble with Mom at the state of our clothes. He pretended innocence but I'm sure he had a plan when he told us to stand on the tie. It wasn't moving so it was easy. Just stand there, right? He gave his horse a nudge and it took off. The tie went right out from under our feet.

Then he pretended to be mad but gave us another chance. This time we held hands for balance and told him we were ready. We ended up in the dirt anyway.

The game was actually fun when he and the horse got the tie to sliding along. We would run along beside it, jump on and ride until it hit a bump or a little snag. We never did master staying on when he made the left-hand turn past the cow shed into the south corral.

That's my non-horse-lover fun with horses story.

This is a story Dad told me about what a great animal handler his grandfather was.

Dad said he was in early high school and had been riding his horse through some tall cane feed. That stuff is really juicy and his horse slipped and went down. Dad, fortunately, was thrown clear and hopped back to his feet. The trouble began when he couldn't get his horse back on its feet.

It didn't appear to be injured but it wouldn't stand up. Dad pulled on the reins to no avail. He hollered and cussed with equal results. His horse was embarrassed and also as stubborn as a mule.

From the dining room window at the house his grandfather, Bailey, had seen what happened. Taking his time, he walked out to the patch of feed. By then, my dad was in a lather while his horse just laid on the ground. He had been riding for years and had never come across or heard of an animal behaving in such a manner.

His calm, methodical granddad knelt at the horse's head and patiently worked up a mouthful of saliva. He leaned closer and spat directly into the horse's nostril. The horse surged to its feet. Yes, spitting works better than cussing every time.