Cowboy Wisdom: The Most Dangerous Horse in the World

 

Years ago I wrote about my pard Roger Miller and the time Canadian whiskey met a certain paint mare. Roger knew I hadn’t been around horses much for a long stretch, so he appointed himself mentor. At first his steady stream of advice rankled. I’d grown up with horses; I just needed time to settle back into the rhythm. Then it dawned on me: I was lucky. A real working cowboy was handing me the kind of hard-earned knowledge you can’t buy.

Roger had spent his early twenties on the Vail and Vickers Ranch—Cowboy Island—on Santa Rosa Island off Santa Barbara. He carried fond memories of those years and the old California vaqueros who’d shown him the ropes. Their lessons stuck.

One of the first practical ones arrived right after we’d strung barbed wire around the new pasture. Roger explained that manure wasn’t a problem if you broke up the clumps and spread them. A good kick or two from a size-11 cowboy boot did the job just fine. I knew exactly whose boots would be doing the kicking. I took to the chore with all the grace and aplomb a man can muster while dodging horse apples.

Around that same time the paint mare was starting to accept me, and I was probably giving her a little too much attention. Out of the blue Roger said, “The most dangerous horse in the world is someone’s pet.

”It sounded like throwaway wisdom. I filed it away anyway.

Years later the circle closed. I had Cash, my “bomb-proof” gelding, and Kasidy, my alpha mare. I understood completely why Cash feared her. I never wanted to feel the full force of one of her kicks either. I learned to keep one eye on the mare and give the geldings plenty of get-away room.

But daily life with horses makes you casual. You drop your guard when you’re busy. One hot afternoon I was picking manure in the loafing shed. Cash was trying to sidle into the shade beside Kasidy. Suddenly he bolted. In less than a tenth of a second his front hoof pinned my shoe to the ground, then he slammed me into the fence as he thundered past.

From somewhere above, Roger’s voice floated down: The most dangerous horse in the world is someone’s pet.

I walked away with bruises and no broken bones. The bigger problem is that Cash still believes if he runs to me I’ll protect him. He’s bumped into me more than once while escaping the mare. I just hope the most dangerous horse in the world doesn’t eventually finish the job.

Could it be my old mentor is now my guardian angel? Quien sabe.

Afterword

Roger crossed the Great Divide in the fall of 1998. That same year Cowboy Island died too—the last cows shipped to the mainland, the cowboys let go. The National Park Service took over. Some lessons, though, refuse to stay buried.

Thank you Grok xAI for your wisdom and fixin' my spellin' etc. -- Drifting Cowboy

Kasidy May and Me -- A Poem of Cowboy Mounted Shooting

 

Kasidy May and Me

A Poem of Cowboy Mounted Shooting

In the nineteen-fifties, when I was still a small boy,

My heroes rode tall across the silver screen’s joy—

Hopalong Cassidy with his black hat and grit,

Gene Autry’s clear voice and Roy Rogers’ quick wit.

They taught me that courage and honor could ride

Through dust and through danger, with justice as guide.

But time has a way of turning the page,

And at sixty-five I stood at a different stage.

The boy in me stirred when I searched for a mount,

Not some gentle trail horse of ordinary account,

But a partner with fire, with heart, and with pride—

A clever grey mare who would not be denied.

Her name is Kasidy May, four years in her prime,

A beauty of silver with markings of time.

She’s no living toy for a casual hand;

She’s power and grace, answering every demand.

With “power steering” soft and “overdrive” strong,

She slides to a stop as if hearing a song.

Together we found a new sport to pursue,

Cowboy Mounted Shooting—bold, fast, and true.

We race through the pattern of barrels and poles,

While single-action .45s speak from our souls.

Blank cartridges flash and the balloons burst bright,

As Kasidy May thunders with all of her might.

Around the first barrel she glides like the wind,

Her body collected, her balance refined.

I lift the revolver, the hammer falls clean,

A bloom of white smoke where the target has been.

Another balloon, then another in turn,

While her flying lead changes are smooth and well-earned.

A light tap of spur and a rein on her neck

Bring collection and focus, without any check

Of the spirit that carries us both through the course.

A soft signal slows her; she answers with force

When I ask for more speed on the final long run—

Two partners as one underneath the same sun.

She grows a bit wiser with each ride we share,

Learning the patterns, the timing, the care.

The arena grows quiet, the bleachers look on,

As gunsmoke and hoofbeats write stories of dawn.

After the rundown we ease to a walk,

And share a deep breath that needs no more talk.

In this dusty arena the years fall away;

The boy who once watched is the man who can play.

No longer a dream on a flickering screen,

But living and breathing in leather and sheen.

Kasidy May carries the heart of that lad

Who once cheered the heroes in black-and-white glad.

So here at this age I still ride for the thrill—

The pop of the balloon, the rush of the skill,

The bond with a mare who is honest and keen,

The proof that adventure need never grow lean.

While playing the cowboy, old age is set free,

And Kasidy May gallops the best part of me.

© Jerry England 2008

Kasidy May crossed the Great Divide in 2025, and that leaves a big empty space where a fine grey mare once stood. Everything I wrote about her—the power steering, the sliding stops, the flying lead changes, the way she made an old cowboy feel young again—she was clearly one of the special ones. Partners like that don’t come along often, and they leave hoofprints on the heart that never quite fade. She carried me through the patterns, the gunsmoke, and the joy of the sport. That kind of partnership lives on in the stories, the poems, and the quiet moments when I still feel her beneath me. 

Rest easy, Kasidy May.
You were a good one.

(expanded and refined just for fun... a poem I started in my youth (age 65) back in 2008. Grok helped me finish it today, 2026)