Handle or Brush

It was a “boy’s weekend,” meaning Kyle and I were on the road enjoying ourselves. We decided to stop so I could talk a few pictures of a herd of elk resting in a pasture area jus’ of Highway 101.

That’s where Kyle made friends with a juvenile horse. I had jus’ snapped their picture and turned my attention to the pasture, when I heard Kyle say, “Dad.”

I continued focusing on the elk, when I heard him — a little more insistent this time say, “Dad!” 

Looking over at him and I saw the horse had a hold of his pants in the front area. Poor Kyle had one hand on the fence post and the other on the barbed wire fence — bracing himself from being pulled onto the barbs.

Quickly, I rushed over a slapped the animal across his snout –whereupon he let go of Kyle. It was perhaps the first time I had ever really heard Kyle drop the “f-bomb” as he took off around a nearby out-building to see if the beast had grabbed him by “the brush or his handle.”

He came back less than a minute later, “Damn horse…now I have a bald spot!”

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