Dog Bone

No one could ride Dog Bone.

 Rumor around the corrals and campfires of Southern Colorado had it that Dog Bone had been a colt in a wild mustang herd, rounded up from the Nevada desert and culled. That meant the older horses, deemed un-trainable, were probably shot on the spot, the younger ones hauled off for a brutal introduction to the world of man at the rough-hewn hands of hard living cowboys. Dog Bone had no doubt seen his mother, relatives and everyone he’d known, slaughtered at the hands of men.

 Now, a dozen years later the memory still burned in his brain like the brands on his flanks.    To this day, no one had ridden Dog Bone. Perhaps the only reason Dog Bone wasn’t Gravy Train at this point was that for some reason he had allowed himself to be packed.

 Yes sir, that huge paint mustang, had no problem with packsaddles. Never batted an eye when the carcasses of elk or deer were strapped across his broad back. In fact Dog Bone didn’t even mind when the resident cattle dog ‘Booger’ sat atop him. But no human had ever been astride that horse for more than a shake of a lambs tail.

 Sometimes late at night around a flickering campfire, the coyotes howling out there lonely woes to the jaundice moon, a group of crusty cowboys would discuss Dog Bones demeanor.

 “Perhaps it’s a psychological issue.” Said Baldy one evening, a canned bean clinging to his feral mustachio.

 “Considering the good fellows barbarous past. Simply Freudian actually, seeing ones mummy dispatched before ones countenance.”

“Quite right my good fellow,” chimed Buckshot. “An absolute repugnant abomination quite frankly, to be cast adrift upon life’s anesthetic shores at a unseasoned age…absolute abhorrence.”

“Perchance a cerebral blockage of tragic events, has allowed dear Dog Bone to continue as amiable and complaisant as he is,” added Big Mac.

 And so it was throughout the years that Dog Bone found himself passed from cowboy to cowboy, ranch to ranch, until one day finding himself farmed out to Crested Buttes own ‘No Hope Goat Ranch’ and the possession of one Steve Kortz, outfitter.

 Now Steve Kortz knew the rugged back-country surrounding Crested Butte, like most folks know their bathrooms, so it was he I called when approached by a couple of Houston high-rollers for a horseback trip to Aspen.

 The trip itself, across 12,000 foot Maroon pass is a comfortable two day ride, and the Texans promised the most extravagant camping adventure either Kortz or myself had ever experienced. Bring plenty of packhorses; there would be no end to the beverage and culinary delights they assured us.

 And a Texas sized picnic it was. Buckwheat, Banjo, Bandit, Digby and Dog Bone stood patiently as bowls of Green Chile Guacamole, Roasted Red Pepper dip, Hawaiian Spread, Artichoke Phyllos, Cheese Empanadas, Cheese Balls, Garlic dip, Stuffed Baguettes, Baked Lamb, Braised Beef, mussels in herb sauce, sautéed veal kidneys, roast loin of pork, rabbit in prune sauce, pigeon pies, Lemon rum soufflé, walnut cake, plum tarts, and spice cookies were carefully stacked in canvas pack saddles.

Then came the bar: “Which one of these pack animals was the most trustworthy?” Inquired the robust Texans.

 “Dog Bone” replied Kortz.

Bottles of Lambrusco, Pinot Grigio, Barolo, Dom Perignon, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Pinot Noir were carefully wrapped & placed alongside Sherry’s & Ports. Then came the 50-year-old Tequila’s and the 100 year old Cognac’s, Brandy’s and Anisette.

 For Kortz and I, who generally ate whatever we found dead in the trail, this was indeed a feast.

 That night’s campfire debauchery was the stuff of legend, and when we deposited the Texans at their private jet the following day, they were so pleased with the trip, that the remaining food & bar became ours as a ‘tip’.

 That night high above Aspen around a crackling campfire, Kortz and myself again partook of the Houston hospitality with renewed vitality.

Finishing off the last Veal Kidney, we attacked the bar with a vigor inspired by the lack of civilized company and the crisp mountain air.

  That 100-year-old cognac seemed to release in me a new-found courage that had lain dormant since my teen-age years. I turned to my inebriated camp mate across the fire and said: “Perhaps you were unaware of the fact, my good Kortz, however my upbringing included an extended period of ranch employment. My knowledge of the equestrian species runs vast and deep…I believe I can ride our amiable friend ‘Dog Bone’.

“No one can ride Dog Bone.” Stated Kortz sucking the stuffing from a large olive.

 I rose un-steadily and stumbled across the fire to the tethered packhorses.

“It is simply a matter of gaining the animals trust,” I was relating to Kortz as I allowed Dog Bone to sniff a greasy fist.

 I leaned in close to the mustang’s ear and whispered: “My good Dog Bone, I understand completely your sentiment against humans, however you and I share a common tragic past.

You see, my parents were run down by the Budweiser Clydesdales” I lied, “Smashed flat, leaving me an infant orphan. I feel your pain, my friend.”

 I then leapt onto Dog Bones back with the grace of a Sea world porpoise.

 The big mustang made one move, it wasn’t so much of a buck as it was a…launch.

Now, I am a large, somewhat un-gainly man however I found myself slowly cartweeling into the night sky as gracefully as a 12 year old Russian gymnast might dismount the parallel bars. Slowly I sailed above the trees, admiring my feet against the star-studded sky. How long I hung in that thin mountain air is anyone’s guess, till again returning to earth, landing with a tremendous crash flat on my back in the sage brush behind the reposing Kortz.

 I lay there groaning and unmoving as each organ, bone & muscle slowly checked in with my consternated brain.

 Kortz slowly turned his head from the dancing fire and drawled these memorable words:

“No one can ride Dog Bone”.