I am in the market for a horse. I have wanted to be a cowboy since I was old enough to slap my butt and gallop around the house — an activity usually performed nude, fresh from the tub, round and round ‘till I was red and dry. Now I guess I need a real horse and clothes, although Lady Godiva just had the horse.

I went to the local newspaper to find a used horse, as even though I live in the Wild West, there are no used horse lots. Not too old to gallop through the house wet from the shower slapping my butt yelling ‘Hi Ho Silver and Away!’ But old enough to know I don’t know anything about horses, I brought a horse-owning acquaintance, Clint, along to help answer my questions and keep me from getting took by some slick used horse salesman.

My first stop at a local ranch brought me face to face with a 9-year-old girl named Annie. A nod and a wink from me were all I needed to let Clint know this would be easy. Annie took a moment to look me up and down, probably to gage how well I knew horses. One look at my white 10-gallon hat, my bolo tie, flannel shirt, dockers, and pointy toe, three-color cowboy boots that pinched my toes like a vice, and I could see the fear masked behind the roll of her eyes and the slow shake of her head, pigtails swishing back and forth, as she led me back to the place where she parked her horses.

“Nice garage,” I said as I scanned the maze-like interior of the place she led me into.

She stopped in front of a wooden gate and turned back toward me.

“Here she is,” she said, hitching her thumb over her tiny shoulder.

“She? Shouldn’t I ride a boy horse?” I asked Clint.

Clint leaned up against a post and hitched one boot heel over a rail and pushed his hat back on his head.

“Let’s take a look at her first,” he replied quietly.

The little girl made some type of clucking sound I took for choking so I grabbed her from behind to perform the Heimlich maneuver. A hard kick to my shins released my hold.

“That’s how she calls the horse,” my future ex-friend said.

“Thanks for the early warning,” I responded. “What ever happened to ‘Here horsey horsey horsey’ or a simple whistle like Dale Evans?”

I looked at the head of the horse that appeared over the rail. It dipped down and nibbled something from the girl’s hand.

“Some type of performance enhancer,” I whispered to Clint. “It’ll smooth out any rough sounds.”

I stepped up on the first rung of the gate for a better look at the whole package.

“She has a nice temperament,” the short cowgirl said.

I looked at the big teeth and the large rump.

“At which end do you take the temperament?” I asked.

Getting no reply other than another roll of the eyes, I returned my gaze to the horse. I looked it over from every possible angle.

“How do I know it’s a girl?” I asked the slick salesgirl suspecting a switcheroo.

“The pink bows in her mane,” came the dry reply.

Satisfied that I had extracted all the info I could, I stepped down and turned to Clint.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked.

Before he could answer, I experienced an excruciating pain in my lower back causing me to jump about 10 feet. I turned and saw the guilty look on the horse’s face.

“I can’t take this one,” I told the girl and my friend as I rubbed the site of the pain.

“Why not?” my friend asked.

I could only look at him dumbfounded. “I can’t afford to feed a carnivore.”

Glenn Parkhurst moved to Stansbury Park in 2003 from the East Coast. He uses his observations while living in Tooele County and his work at EnergySolutions as a project supervisor — which requires he travel frequently — to inspire his writing. He is a single father of four boys and 11 grandchildren.