Does This Carriage Ride Make My Butt Look Big?

The Grandkids riding out on one of the teams. This sport is a family affair.

When I'm at work sometimes a customer will jokingly ask if they or their party of passengers are too heavy for the horse. It's one of the stupid rants that the RARA's use in their Litany of Lies: That the carriage and passengers are "too heavy for the horse to pull." I explain to people, "The carriage weighs about four hundred pounds and is balanced on the four wheels. This makes it 'rolling weight.' At about a *buck-fifty, I pull the carriage in and out of the storage barn. The average horse can pull at least twice his own weight, and that's dead weight, not rolling weight. We limit our passengers to four adults and two small children (as opposed to four adults and two children who look like they just ate two small children.) So for a horse like Tony, who was once a competitive puller and weighs in at around 1800 pounds (at a conservative estimate) the max weight he could pull would be around 3600 pounds. Subtract the weight of the carriage and driver, and divide the balance by six, that would give a cushion of 500 pounds per customer. At which point, by the way, the wheels would probably come off. So are you too heavy? Not unless there's something you're not telling me…Like you're wearing lead underpants and have pockets stuffed full of Plutonium. Otherwise, we're good.


The "Boat"

We went to the Draft Horse Pulls at the Utah State Fair last week. To those of you who have never been to a horse show where they have "Speed Events" (Pole Bending, Keyhole Race, Barrels, etc) speed horses love love love what they do. They get cranked up at the gate even before they break the laser beam timer thingy. The same thing happens with these competitive draft horses. They are trained to pull when they hear the hook hit the metal, and if the "Hookers" (the guys holding onto the doubletree that the hook gets hitched to) don't get the heck out of the way they'll end up with smashed ankles. Because when it's time to go, this team juggernaut goes!



They started with the "Lightweight Division" and MBA fell in love with a Shire team named Briggs and Stratton.



Briggs and Stratton, waiting for their turn.






They were the first team out of the competition, but they win in our book for Best Looking Boys. The "boat" or sled, which you'll notice is NOT balanced on four wheels and is in arena sand, weighs 4000 pounds empty (which everyone pulled quite easily) while none of the teams (light, medium or heavy weight) exceeded 5000 pounds in their combined weight.



Everybody is watching the action.

The winning pull in the Lightweight division was 9000 pounds. The winning pull in the Heavyweight class was 11,600 pounds. Or there about. They weighted the sled with roofing shingles, and they ran out at 10,000 pounds and had to ask people to be the weight.



So the winning team was less than 5000 pounds and pulled dead weight of 11,600. So are you, your husband, your teenage twins, change-of-life toddler and Goldendoodle "Fritzie" too heavy for a ride?



A team of the "Big Boys"

Not so much.


This was the Heavy Weight winner's Victory Lap, complete with grandson riding the horse.

* I weigh about 150 pounds, not counting my lead underpants.

Love For Sale

On Sunday The Kid and I stopped by the Super Adoption event hosted by No More Homeless Pets in Utah and PetSmart. They have this event twice a year, filling the PetSmart parking lot with huge tents full of pens and cages. The idea is to get as many of the local rescues and shelters together to showcase the pets they have for adoption all in one central location.

I have to admit that I had toyed with the idea of getting one more dog, but after seeing the dynamic currently going on in the house, with Luna and Mindy getting along well, I decided that bringing another dog in right now would be too soon. Mindy just last week realized that she was here to stay, not just a guest. The turnaround came after we took her with us to a bar-b-que at a neighbor's house, where everyone brought their dogs. Luna ran around like, well, a lunatic, playing and chasing while Mindy hung back, shyly, eventually going from person to person, making friends. She wasn't allowed to make friends with any of the dogs; Luna, in protection mode, growled at any of the canines that got close enough for a butt sniff. It was just as well, since Mindy was the tiniest dog there and might have gotten trampled in the raucous fray anyhow. When we returned home, her entire attitude changed. We'd brought her to a place full of other dogs, and then we'd brought her back home. She pranced, she bounced, she displayed an attitude of happiness, joy and self confidence she hadn't before. So I'm okay with the status quo.

But I did want to foster a cat. Not adopt a cat. Foster. Which I think several of the people who know me in real life were a bit shocked by. I'm not a big fan of children; I love my own child. I don’t want to hold your baby, or watch your toddler, or even hear funny stories about what you kid did with a booger. I often say, "I like other people's children as much as I like other people's cats." But you have to understand that at one point in my life I had not one cat but two. Tigger and Sparkles were barn cats we had when we owned our farm in Missouri. And when we moved, knowing we were going from a rural area where the cats had the freedom to roam, explore and hunt, trying to turn them into house cats just wasn't going to work. So the woman who purchased one of our horses, Nightmare, for a Hippotherapy program, also took both cats. It allowed the felines to stay in an environment they were familiar with, a stable, and do what they loved to do, hunt. So, just as I love my own kid, I loved my own cats. Enough to give them up for a life they would enjoy.

So when the call came out via Facebook that NMHPIU would need foster homes for both dogs and cats after the Super Adoption event, I answered. After all, I have platforms available to me (my blog, Twitter, MySpace and Facebook) that enable me to promote a specific animal for adoption, which I know the fine folks at shelters are unable to devote time to, due to their quantity of animals. Plus I have room for a cat; literally. I have a bedroom in the basement which is used for storage. There is enough area for a cat to climb and explore, yet also have seclusion if they want. The cat will slowly be integrated into the dog domain, so as not to traumatize her further. And hopefully, someone will see her profile and decide to give her a forever home.

So may I introduce to you Wednesday. If you are looking for a sweet cat that needs a home, please consider adopting her.

The 95%ers

Our success rate for trainees is low- only 5% of the people we bring in to train actually continue as an employee for at least six months. Even though we "pass off" a driver after 4-8 nights out, once they've shown proficiency at the job, we still bitch at them continuously correct bad habits when we see then doing something which is either not sanctioned or unsafe. I tell my trainees that I do it to make them a better driver. After all, they go out with a different individual each night, and while we will occasionally compare notes, there is no set training format. So somewhere down the line we might have forgotten to tell them what to do if their wedding party is late (wait time is charged at $20 for every 15 minutes), what to do when they damage a car and the owner isn't around (leave a card), or which hotel canopies they are not allowed to go under (the Hilton).

As a trainer I can never tell if, once trained, a driver will stick around long enough to be considered an "success." As Crazy Shelley put it, it's not worth the brain space to remember someone's name if they're not going to be around very long. We go through so many people that the few brain cells that I haven't nullified with copious amounts of alcohol cannot manage to keep all the names straight. I have much better luck remembering the names of the dogs (but not their owners) I encounter up in Memory Grove or going for walks that pass us at South Gate (Juno the Border Collie, Etienne the Saint Bernard, Jack the Pug puppy and Lola the miniature Australian Shepherd).

There are candidates that I remember because of their quirky behavior or outright stupidity, but being that this is a public forum I won't mention names. I don't relish a law suit because I call someone stupid and it becomes a matter of public record. But I will say that there is a sector that I pity because while I as a human can recognize that an individual is useless and will soon be gone, either through trial and error error error or attrition, half of our workforce never knows what they will come up against next or how long they must endure them.

And that would be the horses.

Whether it's a heavy hand at the bit, commands that come out as either a squeak or a roar, or continuous flapping of the lines as an indication to pick up speed, our training horses (Cleatus, Tony, Charlie, Rex) go the distance when it comes to babysitting. For example, Cleatus, when asked to make a right turn on the way out to South Gate at a street that we normally do not turn right at, will stop, turn his big head to eyeball the driver, and wait for the trainee to change their mind and go straight. It is his way of correcting them. He is patient (more so than I will ever be) and forgiving when faced with an idiot. I've told many people that Cleatus, if he had thumbs and spoke English, would render my job obsolete.

This occupation is one where attention to detail is of the utmost importance. It's the difference between having a successful evening or a nightmare in progress. Safety is our number one concern, for the horse, the passengers, and the driver.

Note the order in which I placed those.

So if a trainee isn’t continuously watching the flow of traffic, getting over to the right out of the way of vehicles, properly holding the correct kind of lead rope, or leave their hooked up horse unattended in the barn lot while they go and get the one thing they forgot to put on their carriage before they left the barn, it's an issue. So when I see an issue, I’ll call the new driver on it, because it'll be that one time that I don’t which will lead to bad habits and sloppy safety. So if I bitch correct them, it's for their own benefit.

And if I happen to kick them off of the box and into the path of the oncoming Trax Train, it's for the horses benefit.

The Replacements

Mindy's car ride home.

We acquired another dog. She's not the dog we originally went so see, but she's the one we came home with. Mindy is her name, and she wiggled her way into our laps and hearts at the Utah Animal Adoption Center.

This is a bad photo, she isn't that bug-eyed.

As far as they can tell, because she was a stray not an owner surrender, Mindy is five, and classified as a long haired Chihuahua. I think she's got some Dachshund in her, because she has a v e r y l o n g b o d y. Also, because of her ears, some Papillion, which would make her a Papshundhuahua, which is not only difficult to spell but hard to pronounce when drunk. Whatever her breed, she's been at the Humane Society for six months, arriving on her last day from the pound. In other words, she was sent to the Humane Society before she was to be destroyed, having used up all her allotted time at the county animal shelter.

Right now we are in the "getting to know you" process. She's a little thing, but both vocal and fast. So far she's exhibiting signs of separation anxiety and hoarding. Plus she's aggressive towards Luna, who just wants her to play the "Chase me!" game. We know it'll take time; it's not like we haven't been through this before.

Mindy had a heartbreaking way of working her head between the crook of your elbow and your chest. She is content to simply push her weight, all 10 pounds or so of her, up against you and cling like Velcro. She doesn't squirm, dig or paw, she just rests, as if disturbing you might make you go away. Living in a shelter must be a tiring thing, since all she wants to do is sleep. Except when we go for the occasional walk. And her Most Favorite Person is The Kid.

She likes to sleep a lot.

Luna, adopted on April 1st, has turned into a model citizen. Of course, making sure she cannot get into trouble has helped exponentially. She no longer has an all access pass to the backyard via the dog door, as anything left around made its way out there. For a while the lawn looked like we decorated with shredded newspapers, dissected flip-flops, and discarded pool filters.

One night, Mr. SD and I were walking her when the neighbor's Pit Bull, usually in a high fenced yard with a "Beware of Dog" sign on the gate, charged across the street at us. Mr. SD ordered Luna to "SIT!" which she did, and I used the Aggressive Dogs in Memory Grove trick, saying in a rough gravelly voice, "NO! BAD DOG! GO HOME!" The dog did retreat a bit, but turning it charged me again, teeth bared, all business. I repeated the "GO Home!" command and it did finally returned to its yard.

Luna loves her pool.

After returning to our house we witnessed this dog charge another family on an evening dog walk, and with the help of another neighbor got the aggressive animal back in the yard and the gate secured. Mr. SD was pleased with Luna's reserve, but also stated that if the Pit had come after me he would have released Luna to defend me. I was thankful that we didn't have Mindy with us, because that would have been a chaotic mêlée of epic proportions.

Luna likes to keep an eye on things going on out front.


Anyway, our inventory is back to "Main dog and Auxiliary dog."

In other news of interest, my submission of the first 25 pages of my novel, The Carriage Trade, finaled in the Utah RWA's Heart of the West contest, and will go on to be judged by a literary agent out of San Francisco. I won’t find out how I placed until October 9, 2010, but it's a win anyway, because an agent is looking at it, and I didn’t have to write a query letter or a synopsis.

The Pirate Gig!

Last April Ro got a call from Christus St Joseph Villa, a senior living center in Salt Lake City. August of 2009 we hauled Charlie Horse and a carriage over and worked their Pirate themed Family Day. We had a blast. Prior to last year, "The Boys", also known as Hardrock and Coco, were the employees responsible for this job and they approached it with their normal laissez-faire attitude. In other words, they never dressed up for the part. But because Ro and I did, the lady in charge of the event fell in love with us.

Anyway, last April Ro got the call, "Would the carriage company please reserve August 21 for St Jo and could Ro and Slave Driver be the employees who work the event?" Because the Pirate theme was so popular last year that they were thinking that they'd do it again, but only if Ro and I were coming, otherwise they'd go with a different theme.

Thank god, because if it'd been a Luau, our choice of costume would have been a 'Hula Girl' or the 'Roasting Pig'. Neither of us can pull off 'Hula Girl', at least not without making everyone sick.

Well, Ro responded, "Hell YES we'd be there!" And then she called and had me circle the date in big red marker in my appointment book. And then she reminded me several times over the course of the summer. And when I signed up to work on that night because I forgot she erased my name and reminded me again that we were doing what we lovingly call "The Pirate Gig."

This year St Jo had a surprise waiting for us, a big ass Pirate Ship stationed at the entrance… Charlie is just about the most "street broke" horse you'd ever see, but I still asked Ro to jump down and walk next to him while we passed it. Charlie has to work with frail and old, and getting him jacked up right before we stick frail and old into the carriage is not a great idea. But he passed it with only a glance, and was his usual funny yet professional self.

Some of the residents don't want to ride, but they do want to see Charlie.(Obviously, Ro and I play second fiddle to Charlie. Just like downtown, nobody gives a crap about the driver, it's all about the horse…) So, their assistants will wheel them right up under his nose. Charlie is great with both kids and people in wheelchairs. The chair doesn’t bother him a bit, and he drops his head so they can cuddle with him. We have horses at South Gate who, if given the opportunity, will use a human as a scratching post, rubbing their big head all over them. But Charlie never does that, which is good, because a horse can head toss a child like a Hacky-sack.

We integrated a few new features to both Charlie and the carriage this year. On the carriage, we added a big flag complete with wire so it's continuously waving (thank you, MBA, for the suggestion) and little flags on the back. The parrot we got for Ro ended up on the carriage dash, as it wouldn't exactly sit on her shoulder without looking like a prop in a Monty Python sketch.

I added a beard and moustache to my costume, to enhance the air of scallywaggery to my pirate carriage pilot character, and Charlie got a hat with a red plume and a colorful little hair extension with carrots on the end. Sorry, but pony beads in a horse's mane is too much of a pun.

Anyway, I know the real reason you tuned in is to see the photos. So here they are:

How To Tack Up Your Draft Horse For The Vertically Challenged:

1) Ask to work with the tallest damn horse in the herd.

2) Get your horse's headstall.

3) Beg your horse to "Please, please, please, drop your head."

















4) When the begging and pleading fail, get a ladder.

















5) Climb up the ladder, risking a neck-breaking incident, and apply bridle.










And, of course, right about that time your horse will drop his head for you.

A Carriage Driver's Work Is Never Done:

Educating The Equus-Ignorant, One Person At A Time.

"A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals and you know it."

—The Character of "K" from Men In Black.

Last week I took two photos of Charlie Horse's legs and uploaded them to facebook. This is what they looked like, accompanied by the captions:

"Ooooh, is your horse's leg broken?"








"Yes, see? Now the other one is broken."

I was joking. Mocking people who walk up and tell me that my co-worker has a broken leg. It's amusing at best and irritating at worse. However, it's not nearly as annoying as people who feel compelled to tell me about the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer feeds Rusty the carriage horse Beef-a-Roni. Because really, people, that shit never gets old.

( Insert eyeroll here —> )

But I digress…

On Saturday evening I noticed a drum-circle type young man skulking around the street side of Kar's carriage. She went around, found him taking cell phone photos of Bart's rear leg, and asked if she could help him. He immediately launched into an angry diatribe about documenting the fact that the poor wretch couldn't even put weight on his leg he was in such bad shape.

Kar stood in front of him, bent one knee and asked, "You mean because he's standing like this?"

"Yes!"

"He's resting that leg, just like I am."

(Had it been me I would have added "you dumbass" at the end of the sentence, but Kar is way nicer than I am.)

Then Kar asked him if he just wanted to make assumptions, or would he like to be informed. He actually chose information, and by the time they were done conversing, he came away with a new understanding of equine physiology.

Kar was also admonished to "Free your horse, you bitch!" while walking Bart on Main Street, which would be a little awkward being that we're smack dab in the middle of downtown.

Oh well, one moron at a time, I guess.

Don't Call Us, We'll Call You...

I found out this week that I will not be working Gardner Village this October. Did they call and say, "Thanks for doing the witch thing for us but we're going in a different direction this year." No. Did they send us a pink slip to let us know we were no longer of service? No. How did I find out then, you might wonder…

I went on their website and looked on their October Calendar, where it states that "Ride to a Witch" will take place select weekends from Oct. 1—31, and you ride on a restored antique truck…



Okay, so that means we're out. Because I don't haul the folks around on the bed of a restored truck (which, by the way, is beautifully restored. And I hope it's mechanically sound. Because we kept two tractors out there, just in case one broke down, and two flatbed trailers, for the same reason. At one point last year Hard Rock had to run to a tire store and buy a new one because he got a flat and the tire shredded. So if their truck breaks down, they're f*cked. Because for $5, nobody's gonna "Walk to a Witch.")


Sigh.

I'll miss Gardner Village. It was an easy yet lucrative gig; it was eight minutes from my house, and I was home and in bed by 10 O'clock. Plus I got to work with Ro, which is always fun.

Okay, onto the "real" blog.

Last week carriage driver Kar and I were standing around shooting the breeze, trying to look busy when she suddenly said, "Guy in a skirt."

I, being my usual intelligent and observant self replied, "Huh?"

Kar pointed down the sidewalk and repeated, "Guy.in.a.skirt."

So I squinted, and tilted my head sideways and finally saw him waaaaay down the block.




Now, being me, I grabbed my camera and tried to get a photo but of course he was so far away it was difficult to make him out. So I left my camera on my carriage within grabbing distance and waited. Eventually he arrived at our location and instead of giving us a "WTF are you looking at me for" look he walked right up, introduced himself, and asked us if we would be willing to write down our idea of "The American Dream."

So I ignored that and right away asked if I could take his picture.




He actually has okay posture, he's just all hunched over like that because of the backpack. Turns out his name is Aaron Heideman and he's travelling the lower 48 states, asking people to record for him their version is of the American Dream. Yes, citizens, he's a writer. Now, back to the skirt. It's not often we see men wearing what is traditionally considered women's apparel. And when we do, they usually have their arms wrapped around a set of bagpipes, which indicates that they are not in fact in a skirt but are wearing a kilt which is different. Plus if you call it a skirt they will beat you senseless with their bagpipes. Anyway, what Aaron is wearing is not a kilt, nor it it exactly a skirt, it's a utilikilt. And he says it is very comfortable and good to travel in.

Imagine if Carhartt made cargo skirts in that ugly Carhartt tan, for men. Now imagine if all the construction workers started wearing them. Now imagine they all have to climb ladders, and ask you to hold the ladders for them.

Ugh. Never mind. That's just nuts.

Anyway, you can read all about Aaron's exploits at
American Dream Or Bust

Name That Ass

I promised you a contest, and I'm delivering…

This contest idea came to me as a result of 1) being bored, 2) having nothing to look at but a big, hairy ass, and 3) noticing that Tony's tail dock resembled a heart (hint hint...) Upon checking a random sample of our other horses, I noticed several had very distinct tails. Now some of these will be easy peasey, especially for our employees. But the rest of you have a fighting chance of matching the name to the butt.

I've posted tons of pictures over the last three years, plus descriptions of some of our horses. So your job, if you choose to accept it, it to match the name with the horse's ass.

I've simplified it a bit; after all we have five blacks and five Belgians, so I'm keeping the numbers down by only including the horses that you, if you've been a regular reader and paid attention, should be able to identify.

Like I said, there are no prizes, just glory. You can either put your guess in the comments or email me at slcslavedriver@gmail.com.

Good luck. Have fun! See how your ass knowledge compares with those of others…



#1

#2

#3

#4

#5

#6

#7

The above butts belong to the following horses, in no particular order:

Tony, Cisco, Charlie, Rex, Jerry, Bart, and Cleatus

Bits And Pieces

We had the honor of taking Arnold Friberg to his final resting place. He was a renowned artist and a member of the LDS church that lived and worked right here in Salt Lake City. I was not there to take photos, but you can learn all about it and watch video of Jim and Charlie here. On a side note, Jim is famous in our stable for, um, letting his "pride" show so to speak… which he did all during the funeral.

I don’t know, maybe it's a horses way of showing respect.

Speaking of walking around with your dingle hanging out; The horse named Kid, who had a long and illustrious career as a carriage horse and retired last year to northern Utah with Wease passed on last week after a valiant fight with, um, not being able to put his junk away. I'm sure there was something else going on there, but during a short, terse conversation with Wease, that's what I took away from the conversation. So, Kid has shucked his mortal coil and is probably posing for Arnold Friberg right now. Hopefully Arnold can slap some pretty on him, because Kid was one fugly looking horse.

How do you know when a horse is tall? You can't tell with Ro & I we're kinda shrimpy, but when Kar has to stand on a wagonette to hose Cisco down, you know he's tall, because Kar's up there just shy of six foot.

And that's about it unless you want to hear about my new cell phone (EVO, and it's way bigger than my last phone) or my new netbook (Acer, and it's half the size of my laptop) or how it's been as hot as the surface of the sun out here. Or how we were mentioned in an article about the bike riding ice cream vendors (except they called us horse carriage riders instead of horse carriage drivers.)

I'll be doing a contest next week. There are no prizes, just glory. The only way to study is to run through the blog and look at the pictures of our horses.

There Is No Warranty Against Insanity

I have a pool. It's nothing grand; people who usually vacation at the Atlantis Resort on Paradise Island in the Bahamas will not flock to my backyard any time soon. It's large enough for me to get into, as opposed to Luna's pool,
Luna's Pool
which I would not want to get into because it's dirty and has a distinct "Eau de Moist Chien" aroma about it.

Anyway, I purchased a solar cover for my pool. Living as I do in the desert with the low humidity, it can be very hot during the day but as soon as the sun goes down it rapidly cools. With a solar cover, the idea is that as the sun warms the pool, the little bubbles create extra mass (similar to a serrated blade being "longer" than a straight blade. The serrations add length; the bubbles add surface space or volume.) The cover also allows the air in the bubbles to heat up with then helps heat the water, and the cover helps retain the heat and also decreases evaporation.

So, I have a solar cover. Over this past spring into summer I've noticed after removing the solar cover a bunch of the "bubbles" have remained in the pool. In fact, often times it looks like I'm swimming with a jillion contact lenses, or very tiny appendage-less jellyfish. So, unable to locate my receipt (of course) I called the company I purchased it from, asked them to look up my sale via my customer number, and found out that, contrary to usual M.O. I did not in fact buy the cheapest piece of crap they sell, but one with a 2 year full and 8 year partial warranty.

And, the item is still under warranty. The helpful operator advised me the steps I needed to do to submit a claim:

Cut a 12x12 piece of the cover out.




Write a letter with my information on it so they can verify the purchase.

Slip the cover sample and the letter into a padded envelope…

???



Excuse me? A PADDED envelope? To ship stuff that is essentially really thick bubble wrap?

Insane.

Kick Me...

Working as I do for a carriage company there are not a whole lot of perks. The hours are long, and those long hours are usually hot, cold or wet. You can't use the john unless you wrangle another carriage company employee into holding your horse for you while you disappear into Temple Square for a stolen moment of relief in the heated/air-conditioned comfort of the Visitor's Center. And you pack a lunch or brave the yuckyness that is the Carl's Jr's drive thru, because decent restaurants just don't see a need to add "Carriage Parking" in their lots. However, the one perk I do have, the one that makes me shudder at the thought of looking for a "real" job (ie one with actual schedules) is the benefit of being able to pick and choose the days on which I do work.

This is my benefit package. It's the reason why others were jealous because I traveled to Chicago last August for two weeks, returned home for four days, then took off camping for another week. And while it tends to drive Ro insane, ("Who the hell am I supposed to get to cover this weird wedding? It's goofy, and I need you to drive it!") She cannot complain over much because she also takes off whenever the spirit moves her.

Which bring us to this: I do not sign up to work holidays that involve drinking and/or fireworks.

Why?

Because on those days I usually find myself drinking and blowing off fireworks, that's why.

However, this past Friday I conceded to work the Riverton Fourth Of July (but held on the Second of July) Parade. I assumed it would be easy, fast, and painless. Three words I adore.

What I got was what I always get: long, tedious and so-not-worth-it. I won’t go into all the details, because the blog will only spiral down into a rant, which is not unusual, however I have given Ro permission to beat me senseless the next time I agree to drive in a parade. And after she has beaten me into a heap, I've encouraged her to then give several swift kicks, lest I ever forget and agree to work a parade again.

Anyway, although our parade ended much better than some others did, here are some observations regarding it:

I drove the Grand Marshall, Cleatus Hamilton, and his lovely wife Sharon. Cleatus is a relation to the carriage company owners, and my favorite horse Cletus is name for Grand Marshall Cleatus. They even got to meet, although I don't think either one was too impressed with the other.

And while Cleatus (the human one) and Sharon are nice, they are getting up there in age, so when they realized the quantity of candy they would be required to toss to the crowd they blanched a bit. And I must admit that for a little while there the begging from the sidelines was so intense I felt like I was roaming the streets of Calcutta with a pocket full of coins. So I assisted, tossing taffy high into the air and watching it bean bystanders on the noggin.

Okay, I admit, that part was fun. Pelting people with candy left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Giddy, even.

Plus it gave me plenty of ammunition to use when children ran into the street and tossed "poppers" at Rex's hooves. I "gave" those kids extra candy. At a high rate of speed. Aimed at their heads.

Oddly enough, they thanked me for it.

Silly people.

Anyway, for your viewing pleasure, here are a few photos from the Riverton Parade.

And while you enjoy them, I'm going to get a big ass glass of wine and shoot bottle rockets disguised as Tootsie-Rolls at the neighbor's kids.




The Grand Marshall sign. It's a good thing I drove Rex, if I'd driven Cleatus he would have been confused by all the people lining the parade route shouting out his name.



Human Cleatus with his wife Sharon.



The Cleatuses meet.




Slave Driver and Rex.



Hardrock and Cleatus: they brought up the rear.




Parade veteran Scooter,(driving Tony) who for reasons I cannot fathom, loves to drive parades.



Scooter again.





Scooter and I were at the front of the parade, Hardrock at the end. We had to sit and wait for it to be ove to get back to the horse trailers. I spent five hours of my life working this parade, none of which I will ever get back.