Matching Children

Dixie and I both like kids, but for very different reasons. Dixie likes them because they don’t intimidate her the way bigger people do. She also says she likes the sound of their voices. We’ll get back to our barn after being out with kids and she’ll start talking about what this one said or what that one looked like. Honestly, unless they hang a carrot from their teeth, I’m not likely to notice what anyone looks like, and even then, I’d probably only remember the carrot. But then there were the twins.

Neither Dixie nor I had ever seen matching children before. And when I say matching, I mean matching. Right down to the shoelaces in their sneakers. They were orange, I think, that first day, with matching shorts and hair bows. I can only assume that’s when Dixie decided she wanted to start wearing bows in her hair. Of course her thick wayward mop is no match for the blonde curls the twins sported. And their voices! They laughed and sang and chattered in musical voices, saying things like “Omgosh,” which most certainly has a more delicate meaning than when I blurt “Oh! My! Gosh!”

So I think you get the picture. We were enchanted. Both of us. And there was no food involved. That first encounter was highly unusual. We’re used to children who may not have actually seen a horse before, but if we fail to live up to their expectations they usually don’t let on. They simply walk away to find some activity more to their liking like chasing the peacocks, which I’d like to add at this point I secretly find amusing. I’ve been known to chase them myself when nobody is looking. Having said that, let me emphatically state that it’s against the resort rules. Don’t do it.

Anyway, our little curly blonde bookends were not shy about expressing their feelings, and apparently their initial level of enchantment was somewhat less than ours.

“Omgosh! We love horses,” they sang together as they reach into the bucketful of children’s brushes Mel offered them. I should have guessed this was not going to go too well when the one on the left looked disdainfully at her scruffy red horse brush as if worms might begin crawling out of it at any moment. The one on the right snatched a purple brush and quickly attacked Dixie’s wild mane. The red brush, after careful inspection, was apparently accepted and I soon felt its soothing caresses along my itchy back. But then it stopped. Mid-stroke. Dainty orange-laced sneakers stepped away.

“We love horses, but we’ve never actually been this close to them,” says the wielder of the red brush. “They, um, sort of smell.”

The purple brush stopped. “Maybe we only thought we loved horses,” she says.

Dixie and I exchanged a look. I could see the heartbreak in her eyes. No child has ever told us we smelled. Not once. Here we were in the presence of these two delightful children who might not REALLY love horses, particularly us, after all. Had we let down the entire equine race over a little hygiene? Dixie was getting fidgety. Her eyes darted around looking for an escape. She tugged left, then right, I guess hoping Mel would turn loose of the lead rope and let her run. She was near tears I think when it happened.

Let me state here for the record that I have been doing this entertaining the kids gig for a little longer than Dixie and I came to the realization early that the whole thing goes a little smoother if you tend to your, um, personal functions BEFORE the children arrive. Somewhere other than where the children are. ANYWHERE other than where the children are.

I don’t know if Dixie’s hurt feelings had something to do with it. Maybe she just lost control. Literally. She lost it. Luckily the poo missed the orange shoelaces. Most of it landed squarely between Dixie’s own back feet. In her haste to extricate herself from a bad situation suddenly turned worse, she stepped squarely in the pile, poo sticking all over both back hooves. Oh! My! Gosh!

“Good luck cleaning that mess off of her feet!” one giggly girl told Mel as she tactfully maneuvered both of us away from the pile. I hid my face in the grass. Dixie squirmed. There would be other children, other days for brushing, other chances to be hugged and patted, but I saw no way out of this smelly mess with the blondes.

Before I could swallow the lump forming in my throat, orange shoelaces appeared next to my nose. Stiff bristles pushed the forelock away from my eyes. “I don’t care if you do smell,” said the musical voice. “I think I could still love you. But omgosh, we have GOT to do something about this hair!”