What Does Your Horse Want for Christmas…?

Daisy sent me a dad’s response to his 7 year old’s outrageous Christmas list.

Yeah, I don’t think I’d give a seven-year-old $1,00 bucks either.

But it did remind me of Hudson’s last outrageous Christmas List. This year’s plan: don’t ask.

I repeat, Hudson: I AM NOT BUYING YOU A STEER.

So let’s here from all the horses out there! What would you like your human’s to get you for Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanza, Yule festival, Solstice…or just BECAUSE?

If your horse writes you a paper letter, email a photo to theliteraryhorse@yahoo.com, and we’ll post ’em. OOoo…send a photo of your horse too!

Too late, Jane. I WIN.
Too late, Jane. I WIN. It pays to bribe the cat to type. FYI, I promised her you’d bring a can of tuna.  Please pick some up. Also, pencils taste terrible. Why do humans like them?

Hudson Explains His Very Good Reason (which sounds very Winnie-the-Pooh-ish)

Dear Smart People Who Are Not Jane,

There’s a reason I mess with Jane. Via messing with Phil, who, face it, is über FUN to mess with. I mean, c’mon.  If you were stuck hanging out with a Phil, could you resist turning your head casually, and saying a bored: “Booga booga”?

Or “I think there’s a skunk in the bottom of your hay…”?

Of course I’m scaring him when Jane isn’t around.  Frankly, setting him off over nothing is just too much fun to resist.

My latest episode of admittedly over-the-top phreaking out of Phil was precipitated by little pointy party hats.  Complete with chin elastic.

I had a birthday.


The one day of the year I get to look completely stupid. I’m the handsome horse on the left. The messy human staring into the sun (she’s not very bright) is Jane.  The gorgeous babe rocking the stupid pointy hat (Chicks can do this.  I don’t get it either.) is Ginger, with her tidy and photogenic human, Laurie.

Please take notes, Jane. A little make-up goes a long way.  Tidy up, please.

Goody. I've always wanted a paper cone on my head. Party. Hearty.
Goody. I’ve always wanted a paper cone on my head.

Thank you for listening.  Can any of you help Jane develop some horse savvy?  For instance: We Do Not Put Party Hats On Horses Who Are Not Phil.



p.s. There’s one more letter, for Jane.

Dear Jane,

Ginger and I have proven to be excellent sports. Please destroy the Winnie-the-Pooh hats.


Disney's adaptation of Stephen Slesinger, Inc....
Seriously? You thought I’d tolerate an infantile, spelling-impaired, honey-obsessed, bear on my head?(Photo credit: Wikipedia, Copyright:Disney)

I’m enjoying the daily warming massage therapy on my knee, which frankly, I don’t think looks all that bad? Why all the fuss? It doesn’t hurt. At all. If it did, I would have torn you to shreds already. And the Not-Galloping is making me grumpy, FYI.  This is not good for your future.

The ice water massage boot is interesting. For about three seconds. You thought I was yawning for 20 minutes because it felt good?  I was bored OUT OF MY MIND. (But please, no singing.) You could fill those 20 minutes by peeling me some baby carrots, emperor style.

I need to know.  Does ultra-sound treatment on that knee involve more Jane-Singing?  I guarantee you that knee, should you sing, will explode. But not before I take a chunk out of your shoulder.

The real reason for my letter: I don’t understand this birthday obsession you humans have. I was pleasantly surprised that you considered what I, not you, would like for my birthday.

  1. I do not want to be clean.  Clean is bad.  Thank you for letting me roll and roll and roll.
  2. I do love a clean water trough.  Nice of you to scrub it out.
  3. Of course I love carrots.  And food. Thank you for happily providing both.

You are not off the hook for the party hat photo.  Please consider my recent flare-up of Phil Phreaking Out a warning shot across your bow. If you do not cease, I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

(I can make him afraid of cookies.  Do not tempt me.)



My Funny Valentine, Sweet Comic Valentine…

Dear Jane,

Ahem. It is Valentine’s Day.

I find it quite unacceptable that you have not come to see me.
You claim to love me. It’s Valentine’s Day. Do the math.

Strike that. I will do the math for you. I do not trust the human public education system.

If L = mass of love claimed, and V = 1/365, Then G would represent a ‘floating’ factor, giving us an equation that looks something like this:

(L + V) x a factor of G136*= 20 pounds of carrots, minimum.

*(please assume guilt to the 136th power)

If you must be away, consider this word carefully: delivery.

I am not asking for carrots in a red, heart-shaped box, or a dozen long-stemmed carrots nestled in white baby’s breath. The manifestation of your love for me does not have to be fancy, pretty, or expensively arranged. It only need be pleasantly edible.

I’m a simple, industrial-plastic kind of guy.

Perhaps the visual aid below, of what I look like when off-roading, will jog your memory:


Please get the guy from Palace of Fruit to schlep the sack to my paddock.

Humph. I bet Woodrow gets cookies. I bet Bella scratches his back.

I bet Bella shows up.


P.S. Miss Smokey would appreciate a can of tuna for padding this out on the keyboard. Put it on my expense account.

Into the Equine Heart of Darkness…

Dear Equines and Bipeds,

Hudson here. I am in existential angst.

My life is…boring. It’s a dreary endless round of circles and grooming.

I’m a little cranky.

Jane is furious with me.  Bella is furious with me. Woodrow is…not amused.

I ask you, when you are in existential angst, at whom do you lash out? The people closest to you, naturally.

Well.  Woodrow just happened to be the closest to me at the moment I became overwhelmed with ennui. But this was forever ago.

(Jane said to tell you it was the day before yesterday, whatever that means.)

True. He – ah – might be limping a little on the leg all the antiseptic-smelling people were trying to fix.

And – ah – I might have thoroughly alienated his massage therapist, a delightful woman, who happened to have just finished working on Woodrow’s problem areas.

And – ah – I might have fallen slightly into a habit of lashing out at Woodrow during dinner, which,  if I’m honest, could be a contributing factor into why he’s not getting better according to the vet’s projected schedule. Who knew a little regular slipping and falling could hurt him?

Fine. If I put myself in his horseshoes I wouldn’t be very happy with me either.

I’ve been banished. I’ve also been told in no uncertain terms by Jane that I am not allowed to feel sorry for myself, and you are not allowed to feel sorry for me either.

(No “poor Hudson” comments, please.)

I formally apologize: Woodrow, I am sincerely sorry, from the bottom of my stomach, that I have been a big, mean, bully and caused you both psychic and physical pain.

I do not trust that I would not do it again.  Sorry. I hope you will take this as a sign of my personal failings, not as a sign of any dislike of you.

Jane is taking me to something she calls “counseling”.  I do not quite understand the concept, but she says it involves a long succession of wet saddle blankets, that I will become quite tired on a regular basis, and I will be doing something new.  When pressed to know what this “new” thing is, Jane merely says “I don’t know yet, Hudson.  Please shut up before I hurt you.”

(Hurt me? Why?)

Humans.  So confusing.

I just hope it won’t be as it’s been: circles at the trot on the buckle. Circles at the trot on the bit.  Circles at the walk on the buckle. Circles at the walk on the bit.  Circles of the canter on the buckle. Circles of the canter on the bit. Tiny circles. Medium circles.  Large circles. Giant, arena-sized circles.  Circling the barns on the access road. Circles carrying yourself like this.  Circles of carrying yourself like that. I am not a merry-go-round horse.

I miss all the decision-making I got to do running steers.

I want to know what the new thing is.

Do you know?



In Which Hudson Calls the FBI on Jane

Dear Excellent Equines and Bemusing Bipeds,

I told Jane if she did not stop calling anti-septic smelling humans to look at me, I would have her investigated. Per usual, she did not believe me.  Please note my casual “what?” glance back at Jane.  Me? I have hooves. How would I dial?

Works every time.

The first anti-septic smelling human that came used me as a pincushion. Then, he embarrassingly studied my…digestively-processed feed…under a microscope, reporting back loudly that HUDSON DOES NOT HAVE WORMS.

Humans.  Have you no decency?  There were cute mares around.  How would you like it if  I informed your potential dates that you did not have worms?


The day after being used as a testing ground for sharp metal points, I didn’t feel so good.  My neck swelled up, and I admit, I wanted Jane to stay and read me Black Beauty.  I felt that sick: I wanted Black Beauty. And cookies.  I must have regressed emotionally.  I’ve read things like this happen.

(I hate Chick Lit.)

Do you know what Jane did? I did not lay restfully with my head in her lap while she gently stroked my forelock, and read to me about Merry Legs. She pressed a large, flat, freeze brand on the swelling, and held it there. OW.

I. Am. A. Saint.

She shoved a syringe in my mouth, and squirted that nasty paste in my cheek. Yes, it made the hot swollen thing feel better, but…BLECH.

At least I made her do this twice.  She knows I will spit it out, so she holds my chin up in the air until I swallow. I pretended to swallow. She let go of my chin, I opened my mouth, and out plops a nice line of paste. HA! (Second time, I was not so lucky.)

Next, finally, I have my chiropractor.  I love this human. LOVE. I knew my atlas was out, but he said my whole right side was a mess.  Something about more work would be good.  And massage. And tons of carrots and cookies. Jane, I’m thinking a massage twice a day would help?

Days later, I see something else good: the trailer is hooked up! Jane is going to reward me for my good behavior!

I jump in fully expecting to see STEERS when I jump out.


It was my dentist. He tells the worst jokes.  They’re all human jokes, and most are baffling. I ask you, if a joke started out “A horse walked into a bar…” wouldn’t you all immediately wince, knowing the horse hit himself on the bar? His punch lines never match the preceding tale.

Strangely, I like him.  Not crazy about the head harness/pulley system, but by then I’m feeling oddly relaxed and don’t much care.

After that was the Week it Hurt To Eat and then my stomach felt uncomfortable, which was torture. But at least it got me tons of hand walking and riding in the halter.

I’d be the most awesome dressage horse on the planet if Jane lost the bridle. A fact I never cease to remind her about.  No saddle + no bridle = perfect shoulder-in and canter pirouette.

She says No WAY.  She claims I will trot down the centerline, halt at X, and yawn as widely as possible, so the judge would know my opinion of dressage.  (She’s right.)


At least I’m getting a lot of the good stuff: pellets top-dressed with all kinds of exotic food.  She must have given in to my personal chef request.  Nice.

This was not enough to stop my FBI phone call, however. Someone must quench the parade of humans that smell like anti-septic.

Jane says “Hudson, a real FBI vehicle would be a car.”

Wrong.  The FBI isn’t stupid.  They’d use a golf cart to blend in: common item around barns. Obviously, I watch more CSI and crime drama than Jane.  (I can see the TV from my paddock.)

If the FBI doesn’t make all this poking and prodding stop, I’m going to try something called the “IRS”? I don’t know what IRS stands for, but lately I’ve heard a lot of humans speaking about it with a great deal of anxiety.

IRS must be Special Ops.

Jane, consider yourself on probation.



Let The Human Training Commence!

Dear Equines and assorted Bipeds,

I was invited to a St. Patrick’s Day party in tack room #2.  My human was unable to attend, so I stepped up, and fulfilled her social obligations.

Jane owes me.

Am I right, or am I right?

Green is not my color.

Googly headbands are never my color.

Alas, I am a good sport. And yes,  a very attractive mare has caught my attention.  She was balancing a human foal on her back, and trying very hard not to drop it.

Personally I would have let the foal fall off.  There was a lot of heel action going on. Definitely the humanling was using the reins as handles.  Her mouth is gonna be sooooore.

This is why horses should train you.

  1. If you get a little dirt in your teeth, you will never forget how to avoid getting a little dirt in your teeth again.
  2. We know what you feel like up there, long before you do. LISTEN.
  3. Really? You’re going to begrudge us a few measly carrots/cookies after #2?

Yes, yes, humanlings do fall into a different category.  You’re cute when you’re foals. It’s difficult to reisist the huge grin and enormous “I love you” eyes.  Probably why we cave and catch them, or put up with  all that kicking.

I was rather shocked that Jane figured out I trained her to feed me on hoof command.  (That was just a little side experiment.)  She’s smarter than I thought. Not as smart as an Equine of course, but perhaps a little faster, cognitively, than a boulder.

There, there, Jane.  Don’t mind the boulder comment. You out-smarted me on the hoof thing, so clearly you are back in command.

(What is it humans say? Whoohahahaha?)

Jane’s addendum: Uh-oh, sounds like the training gauntlet has been tossed. No matter what he wants you to believe, Hudson is good-hearted, so I expect the training “attack” will be subtle. Now. How many of you have been trained by your horse?

Hudson on Happiness…

Dear Jane,

I’m totally onboard with our fitness plan.  I love to be super fit, love to go, love to show off my stamina.  Please do not take this as a “back off” letter.

I’m thrilled – and astonished – that we continued to workout through the Celebration of Carrots holiday. (I know humans call this season by a bunch of other names, but trust me, all equines know ’tis Season of Carrots.)

I heard you announce you were ‘going to get a photo of me looking happy, if it killed you’. Let me spell it out. Happiness is not all, “ears forward”.

Behold: I Am Happy…

Notice my muzzle is not visible.  The submerged muzzle is a key indicator to happiness in horses.

This IS my happy face. I can’t help it you know exactly what I’m thinking.

Where was I? Oh, right. Workouts.

You’re going to have to clip me.  Whole body. I know it’s not supposed to be 65 degrees at the end of December. Repeat after me: Climate. Change. I’m dying here.

I’d like a manly, flashy tattoo.  Motorcycle flames would rock.  (I need compensation for the ‘Dressage Horse’ thing.)

BTW, Shaun sent  me the photo of you wearing your new hat. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Now THIS is a donkey I can live with.

You kill me.  I thought DQ’s had no sense of humor…

Please send me Dinero’s email and chat ID.  I’m going to Skype on Bella’s computer. I heard Dinero is officially retired from roping (man oh man, I know how he feels).  I want to stay in touch. Plus, no one does innocent sarcasm like Dinero.  I need to have a buddy to help me rag on Woodward.

Please pass on to…Santa: a Mrs. Pasture’s Easy Bake Oven is a vital gift,  a life-altering gift.

A new turn out blanket? Superfluous. I don’t mind the drafty old one.



A Dignified Horse’s Dilemma

Hudson here.

It’s that time of year when I am about to get body clipped.  I enjoy a good shave. It’s much more comfortable to work out in winter if I have less hair. Currently, it’s also quite hot during the day, and losing the fur coat would be a relief.  However, I have a problem.

Her name is Jane.

This is my butt after being clipped last winter:

I was a gentleman.  She IS basically twelve.  I was her new pony. She wanted hearts. I got hearts. I consider myself lucky she did not want pink hearts.

It’s a year later. Honestly, we should be over the New Pony stage of ownership.

Jane has not progressed. She still hangs on me, tells me all her angst (Not. Listening.) and is obsessive about grooming.  Fine. I am dealing.

I heard her talking to Bella yesterday about body clipping, they were trying to decide which “Tatts” to put on Dinero and myself.  I’m good with tattoos, they make a dude look cool.


Jane said, “Oh…I don’t know…I’m still attached to the hearts.  I can’t think of anything I like better?”

HELP. I don’t think I could cope with another year of hearts on my butt. You have no idea what it’s like around the other geldings. Especially if I attend roping practice. Dressage geldings appear to be somewhat….Meterosexual…in their masculinity, and put up with quite a bit of flowery crap.

Cow horses are a macho bunch. I went from being The Super Star roping horse to The Horse with Hearts. Oh, they all understand “New Pony” issues. But, um, their humans progress, and move on. Unlike mine.

Save me. Please.


The Bad Thing: Hudson’s Perspective

Dear Jane-Readers,

Please forgive me, but I am going to address all the equines out there, who surely will comprehend my pain.  No offense meant to bipeds: it’s one of those “until you walk in my hooves” sort of things.

Dear Equines,

The misery has compounded. For weeks, Jane has rushed in, apparently aimlessly deciding what to do with me, and then forgetting what she decided.

She has been driving me crazy.

Legitimate grievance #1:

I’ve learned to handle the grooming. I’ve adjusted my philosophy and even put my preference on the bottom.

  • Groom and let’s go.
  • Don’t groom and let’s go.

Legitimate grievance #2:

For nearly 4 weeks, all I have done is WALK.  I refuse to count one trot circle or one canter circle as something besides walking. I’ve walked:

  • on the buckle
  • on the bit
  • stretchy
  • booming
  • lazy
  • on the road
  • in heavy sand
  • while ponying Dinero
  • while being ponied by Dinero

Sometimes all in the same “riding” session. I have dutifully walked with gentlemanly forgiveness, and reasoned with Jane. Despite her abundant faults, Jane usually listens. 

Every. Single. Day. I politely suggested we add to the mind numbing walk program.

Every. Single. Day. Jane said “not now, Hudson, sorry”.

I am not lame.  I am healthy. I am fit. There is no medical reason I must walk.

Many of you may identify with my frustration. {Tucker, Fee, Ginger, Solo…need I go on?} I’m trying to handle my retirement with grace, and embrace my new career (gag) as a dressage horse.

I’m a point and shoot kind of guy, okay? I need to work.  I mean, come on: plod plod plod, turn the corner, plod: hey there’s those turkeys again. And how about that manure pile? You knowI think the sun might have moved a notch…

It’s water torture. Drip drip drip.

Then, The Bad Thing happened…

Continue reading “The Bad Thing: Hudson’s Perspective”