My family will vacate in rural (pronounced, natch, ‘rule’) Travis County within weeks for our annual spring fling with my best bud and my kid’s not-quite-cousins.

My wife bakes horse treats for which anything on four hooves will behave exactly to spec. Well, not strictly ‘anything’, as there was the Shetland to whom we referred as ‘BBQ’ in honor of my most common impulse toward it, but that’s another story. Stanley could not be that obstreperous.

Need I suggest more specifically?

Oh, and as to the NYRB: I once sold a sidebar to the NYT Mag. After the appropriate editorial condescension had been glazed atop, I barely recognized the damn thing.

You’re just lucky she didn’t pull the Lawn Jockey post while simultaneously outing Tidy to the riding community as a Person Whose Sister Blogs That They’re Racist.

(It has been my experience that telling them they are racist straight to their pasty white sunburned faces does not produce results either, so whatever they say, you may as well blog about them.)

Fantastic.

(I know Stanley’s too tall to be a pony. Y’all can shut up now.)

She had some horses.

She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren’t afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues.

She had some horses.

She had horses who called themselves, “horse.”
She had horses who called themselves, “spirit.” and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.

She had some horses.

Yay for Joy Harjo! Yay for Twisty posts!