Fatale Abstraction

This is my new pal Erin. I've declared we are going to open a head shop together when we're old ladies and call it the stoned pony™, even though I don't do anything illegal anymore and strongly urge everyone else to follow my pristine (lately) example, unless they are buying lifestyle accessories which are purely decorative from our store... Anyhoo.

This is her horse, Pops, a 7 year old Arabian. This orange confection is the matador shirt she had to wear for showing in the Western Style, before the pony was up to snuff for English style. She thinks this $500 shirt is garish, and I think it's fabulous, even though it has no fringe down the back of the sleeves. The Dale Evans neckerchief just makes the look. Anyway, I think she looks like a million, gaudy or not.

But about the horse. Pops could get a job at an airport if they ever run out of german shepherds. Apparently, horsie's first trainer liked to indulge in a bit of herb before training sessions, and got Pops into the habit of getting the US RDA of vitamins T, H, and C. Did you know people bake horses by blowing the smoke in their ears? Consequently, this horse never lost the urge to imbibe and would never pass up an opportunity to get comfortably numb. Now, considering how easily spooked horses are, it seems like this could backfire woefully if one started getting paranoid, worrying about the 5-0, etc...

Erin met some chick at a show once, and Pops was obsessed with her purse and would not be dissuaded from nuzzling the handbag. This freaked the woman out, but later on, she pulled out a joint, and Erin said "A-ha, THAT's what he was after." The horse can smell weed a mile away, apparently, and he's mad for it.

I'd like to see an under-achiever pothead horse, sitting around watching Andy Griffith and Mister Ed re-runs, outmoded butt-sprung ugly old velour couch, industrial bag of cheetos and a pony keg of beer at hand. There'll be a picture of dogs playing cards on the wall, and the tv remote will be controlled by a clopper. Clop On, Clop Off. The owner would nag "we never go anywhere anymore - what do you want to do with your life? We never talk." The horse's giant head would sway toward the owner, eyes rolling balefully, as if to say "you talkin' to me?"