Shock & Awe

Sunshine Joe
Jul 27, 2017 · 5 min read
(Source: BEEF Magazine)

I have some rich cousins who live in Montana in a triangle-shaped log cabin. We visited them once when I was younger — I was probably about 11 years old at the time. I don’t remember why we considered them rich, and I’m not sure why they lived in a triangle-shaped home. But they were the coolest family members I had met thus far.

I was particularly fascinated with my older cousin Greg. He was a TEENAGER. He knew everything about the ranch they lived on, AND he knew all the lyrics to every Weird Al Yankovic song to date.

In the evenings, when all the adults would gather on the porch to relax in the hot tub while us lowly children were supposed to be asleep in the large converted attic, Greg would do little tricks and dances just for us as we looked down with envy on the shenanigans below. They thought he was entertaining them, but he was really entertaining us. He was the best cousin ever.

One of the things I loved most about their Montana ranch was that I got to ride horses. Now, we did have a horse of our own growing up. But it was an old dying horse that dad had rescued from certain death, or the glue factory or something. He didn’t live long, and he was very rickety. He was a sweet old thing though, and we loved him while he was with us.

The horses at my cousin’s ranch were made for being FAST. Well, at least that’s what I rode them for. I loved nothing more than just jumping on the back of a horse — saddle or no saddle— and riding as fast as I could away from everyone else. The adults usually weren’t too happy about this, but Greg always promised to stay with me and make sure I didn’t fall to my death.

That summer we stayed in Montana for probably about a week — maybe more. And I mostly stayed out of trouble and harm’s way.

Mostly.

One afternoon, I managed to escape my little sisters and went looking for cousin Greg. I couldn’t find him, but I did find the back pasture where they kept the horses I was so fond of racing. They were eating the grass, and standing quite a ways back from the fence I was near. They looked over at me passively, and then went back to chewing.

I was deeply offended. Did they not remember who I was? We’d been having so much fun together!

I tried calling to them with the clicks and whistles that Greg had taught me, but it was no use. They’d look up at me, flex their nostrils, and then go back to eating the grass. I was feeling mightily rebuffed.

Since they seemed so hungry, I grabbed a handful of some hay from an available bale nearby. Leaning my wrists on the metal fence, I started to call once again to my horsey friends.

KA-BOOM! WHACK! SLAM!!!

I heard a loud popping noise. Followed by a thud. It felt like a large heavy board had been slammed into my back, and my wrists had been burned with hot wires.

I woke up on the ground. I was still holding the hay.

My first thought was that my cousin, or maybe even my dad, was playing some kind of cruel practical joke on me. I know this sounds weird, but my family is weird, and we were always playing jokes on each other. Nothing that involved this much pain, but I was getting older, and for all I knew this was a new level of humor.

I also immediately assumed I was in trouble, so I jumped up as fast as I could and started looking around for witnesses. Casually calling out names of suspects in a way that suggested, “I didn’t do anything wrong, but um, did anyone see me do anything wrong?”

I was alone.

After assessing myself for injuries — I was mostly just very sore and confused — I then remembered that days earlier my dad had warned me about staying away from any metal fences. Because the metal fences could electrocute me.

So that’s why the horses were looking at me like I was an idiot.

My god, I suddenly realized. Does this mean I’m going to die? I would be in so much trouble if I died.

I needed more data. So I eventually found Greg in the barn doing some chores. After some super casual chit-chat, I dropped my super casual question about the fence. That being, “What happens if one of the horses touches the metal electric fence, Greg?”

“Well it scares the shit outta them,” he didn’t even look up from shoveling manure.

“Yes,” I knew this much for sure. “But like, besides scaring the s-word out of them, could it kill them?”

“It scares the shit outta them.”

I was beginning to lose faith in my cousin.

“I know,” I didn’t know.

Then he stopped shoveling and looked up at me. He kind of looked me up and down with a concerned look. Oh god, I was definitely in trouble. I was beginning to hope for death.

“Did you touch that fence out back?”

Who me? Me? When I was specifically told not to touch any metal fences on this ranch by my father whom I always listen to and obey? The nerve…

“No.”

Back to shoveling. “Well, okay then.”

I didn’t die. I didn’t die within the two hours I’d allotted myself for dying. I didn’t die in my sleep, like I thought for sure I would. And I didn’t gain any superpowers, which would’ve been cool, but also would’ve given away my crime — so I was at peace with that.

Moral of the story: Horses are dicks.

(Source: The Telegraph)

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