Maine cowboy gets off his high horse

One of the great mysteries of life, along with rap music and the Camden Select Board, is the appeal of horses and horseback riding.

The Camden Sage, Paul Gibbons, once spoke for males everywhere when he asked, “If you won five lotteries, would you ever think of buying a horse?” The answer, of course, is no … unless a woman is involved. For reasons I could never fathom, young girls and big girls want to ride on the back of these huge, powerful and dumb animals. Perhaps I have answered my own question.

Now, every male in the world over the age of 50 grew up with Western movies and dreamed of becoming a cowboy. They strapped their six-shooters to the side of spindly legs and went out looking for Indians to kill. Talk about politically incorrect. But our fantasies stopped at the paddock door. We knew when we were well off.

We would gladly face down the Dalton Gang in a shootout on a dusty street, but climbing up into that saddle was something else again.

First of all, all horses are crazy. Just look into their eyes. If you yelled “boo,” they would run for at least six miles. Plus, they are absolutely enormous. Another male sage once remarked, “I don’t want anything to do with any creature bigger and dumber than I am.”

Second the motion.

But the root of the problem, so to speak, is the male anatomy, certain portions of which were not designed to rest upon a saddle. After a few minutes in the saddle, most males wonder how Hopalong Cassidy did those monthlong cattle drives, then went to visit Miss Kitty at the Long Branch Saloon.

If a man is riding a horse, chances are great that he is trying to please some cowgirl. Greater love hath no man than to climb on to the back of these wild beasts.

My first reaction to a suggestion of horseback riding is Don Imus and Christopher Reeve, two experienced horsemen who have been severely injured, almost killed, by their steeds. If these experts can’t handle the beasts, what am I supposed to do?

I should be able to ride, I know. My grandfather Patrick Twomey ran a livery stable just off Beacon Street in Boston. I believe those are his horses that are seen on the opening of the television show “Cheers,” since his business was a few doors away. I have even taken riding lessons.

But the horses know.

They know, just by how you sit on their backs, who is going to be in charge for the next few hours. I figure that if they don’t head out to the open range in a full gallop or hurl me off their back, then they can do anything they want, go anywhere they want. Just don’t hurt me.

On one of my early rides, Blue Eyes was bored and asked the ride leader (some 13-year-old girl) if we could speed it up a little. I happened to be on a curve at the time. My horse took off around the corner, revealing a serious flaw in the saddle’s fastening device. The saddle slipped upside down with me in it, holding on for dear life. My head ended up a few inches in front of the massive hoofs of my horse, which, for reasons unknown, stopped in midstride, saving what is left of my brains.

Horses have tried to bite my feet, race through a barn door with me still aboard, and generally have ignored all of my orders and commands. That horrible treatment and the obvious anatomical drawbacks have kept me out of the saddle for several grateful years. Never again, I promised myself.

Then Blue Eyes played the trump card. “But it’s my birthday!”

I am a weak man.

Saddle up.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmears@msn.com