A horse of a different culture
- Apr 6
- 10 min read
So even though we hadn’t reached anything that you could call a finish line, Mom turned her back on the scratched-up slope and started downhill.
I know that you have to accept Nature’s rough drafts to truly enjoy the final masterpiece, but we’d been trying to carry on against the boogeyvirus for so long that I wasn’t sure the summit was worth the trip anymore. Maybe that’s what Mom meant when she said that the solution to some problems was knowing when to stop fighting. When you’re climbing the wrong mountain, it’s not the summit that matters, but how soon you realize that you’re going the wrong way. That’s probably why it still felt like the boogeyvirus was getting the better of us even when we overcame its obstacles. Each victory only brought us closer to the top of the wrong mountain.
Mom minced downhill like someone with her shoelaces tied together. I followed behind to avoid being bowled over by the rocks she kicked loose, or Mom herself if she came loose from the mountainside. The gah-ing, godslammit-ing, and balancing arm-chops built a forcefield around her as we made a snail’s progress back into the valley.
Eventually, the ground started supporting us again and Mom’s steps grew back to their normal size. She unflinched her shoulders and the bill of her hat adjusted itself skyward. When I was sure that she wouldn’t slip and squash me, I ran ahead to check out the future. Mom squawked for me to come back any time I went too far, so I hiked in suspense at the edge of the squawking zone.
I came around a bend to find a lady and her hiking partner climbing toward me. Her hiking partner had a very long, distinctive face, and I was trying to place where I knew him from before charging in for a boisterous hello when Mom grabbed my collar. I was so absorbed in trying to recognize him that I hadn’t even noticed that I’d stopped walking. She pulled me off the trail and snapped on the leash.
Then it hit me.
“IT’S A HORSE!” My tail wagged faster as my excitement ratcheted ever-higher. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! I can’t wait to bark at him!”
I’d seen horses before, of course, but never so close up. I tried to come up with the most impressive thing to bark at him when he passed, but excitement kept scattering my words. I was still trying to gather them in the right order when something even more amazing happened—The horse stopped right in front of me!
“Hi Oscar,” his hiking partner said.
“Hi, I’m Oscar and I’m gonna getcha!” I blurted. It came out as a whistle, but I was too excited to care. They knew my name!
“Sorry! He’s a bit starstruck,” Mom said, giving me the sign to sit.
I clamped my butt to the ground and dug a hole in the dust with my tail. “They’re the ones that are starstruck, Mom,” I whispered. “Didn’t you hear? They already know my name!”
“That’s because I’ve been yelling for you to c’mere all morning, you goober,” Mom thought at me.
“You’re such a good boy, Oscar,” the lady said, and my pride puffed up even more. She hadn’t told the horse that he was a good boy.
The horse pretended not to notice the excitement frothing out of me like a boiling tea kettle. He was probably intimidated, but he stayed so that Mom and the lady could talk.
“You used to be able to ride all around these mountains,” the horse-lady said. “But now there’s no trailer parking anywhere. Everyone comes over from the city and fills the parking lots so you can’t turn the horse trailer around. I barely had room this morning because someone parked their dirt bike hauler like a jerk.”
“I know all about having trouble with parking and not being welcome on trails,” I told the horse, to have something to bond over.
“There are fewer places to ride every year because the Forest Service can’t keep up with the blowdowns,” the lady continued. “My mules can get around, but not the horses.” She patted the horse’s neck to tell him he was a good boy anyway. “There are rules against using chainsaws on Forest land, so the rangers have to use cross-cut saws. There are only like six guys for the whole district, so they can only clear a handful of trees a year.”
“It seems to me that if the Forest Service just asked, people from the city would happily volunteer to break trail,” Mom said in defense of Her People. “Office workers are always looking for physical labor to get them outside in the fresh air.”
“Or what about any of those out-of-work loggers?” the Horse-lady said in defense of Her People. “There’s no shortage of them.”
“Right!” Mom agreed, even though she didn’t know the first thing about lumberjacks. “Isn’t that how we got out of the Great Depression?”
“The Civilian Conservation Corps!” they both said together.
“Jinx!” I barked to show the horse that I wasn’t just smart, but quick too.
Instead of shushing herself like you’re supposed to when you’re under a jinx, Mom shushed me and made me lie down.
“Aw, come on Mom. Let me at ’em!” I begged, stretching my nose as high as I could without taking my belly off the ground. “You think it’s exciting to startle a bunny or a squirrel? Just you wait till we get this horse going.”
Mom didn’t answer. She just checked to make sure that I was staying down.
The Horse-lady waited patiently until she was sure she had Mom’s attention again. “The CCC built all of these trails.” She rotated a long arm to show that the trails were all around.
Mom stiffened invisibly. She’s always suspicious of a trap when someone talks about history that she doesn’t know about, in case they say something wrong that she doesn’t know she disagrees with yet. She changed the subject instead. “And I still don’t understand why the bathrooms are closed!” Mom had practiced this speech so many times that there was no chance that the horse-lady could look at it in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
“They’re ventilated, and they don’t even flush!” The horse-lady nodded the same so there nod Mom used when she declared victory in an argument.
“Exactly!” The stiffness fell out of Mom’s arms as she waved them for emphasis. “That’s just what I’ve been saying!”
“It’s called an immune system,” the Horse-lady went on boldly. “You need to be exposed to germs to build up immunity, not hide scared in your house for the rest of your life.”
“That’s just what Mom’s been saying! Haven’t you Mom?” I looked at her for backup, but her smile was frozen like she had a slow internet connection. It took a second for her thoughts to buffer before the lights in her thought bubble turned off and the exit signs lit up.
The Horse-lady saw it too. “Can Oscar have a treat?” she asked to make peace. She pulled a snack the size of a hot dog from a pocket on the horse’s packpack and broke it in half. “My dogs love horse treats.” She leaned forward to give one half to the horse and threw my half on the trail.
I looked at Mom. She closed her eyes in a go on sort of way. I swallowed it in three big bites to show the horse that I was the kind of guy that you could share a pellet with. When I had hoovered every crumb off the ground Mom turned back downhill.
“Have a good ride on your horse!” she called over her shoulder so the horse wouldn’t feel left out.
“He’s a mule!” the lady shouted over the horse’s rump.
“Shows what I know!” Mom signed off with a wave big enough to be seen from the next mountain.
I’d spent most of the conversation staring at the horse and waiting for my chance to speak, but I’d heard a few things that Mom and the Horse-lady said. When the clip-clopping was out of earshot I asked, “Was that lady a Friend or a frenemy?”
“She was nice. Why do you ask?”
“She said that the internet is ruining her trails because it’s bringing City people to the country to fill up her car kennels. But we found this trail on the internet, and we wanted a spot in the car kennel, too. Is it like the prairie dogs who are afraid outsiders will bring cooties?”
“I don’t think she was concerned about the virus, just crowds. I can’t say I blame her.”
“Isn’t there enough room in the world for everyone?”
“Country people are kind of territorial about their land,” Mom said, like it was a fact that only dumb dogs wouldn’t know. “The reason they live out here is because they don’t like crowds.”
Mom finally seemed relaxed enough for me to ask about something that had been bothering me since yesterday. “Remember how the Women of a Certain Age were all wearing muzzles yesterday?”
“Sure.”
“And do you remember how you pulled up your muzzle before you talked to them?”
“Yeah. The way I see it, someone’s either wearing a mask because they’re afraid of germs, in which case I should respect their boundaries and use a mask as well; or they’re doing it out of respect for my safety and I should give them the same courtesy. It’s only polite.”
“But where was the Horse-lady’s muzzle?” I asked. “Do they not have boogeyvirus in the country? What if they think it’s just a fashion statement and they don’t know the danger they’re in?”
Mom prickled like she was nervous to have this conversation, even in her thoughts where only I could hear. “I’m pretty sure she knows.”
“But…” I said, but I didn’t know where to go from there. “But…” I tried again, but it was no better the second time. “Are they murderers?” I asked finally.
“Well…” Mom said, but she didn’t seem to know where to go from there. “Um…” she tried again, but it was no better the second time. “Murder involves intent, so I don’t think that’s the right word,” she said finally.
“They don’t mean to hurt anyone, right?”
“Look, all these Covid restrictions have been hard on everybody. A lot of people feel like they’re being told that other people’s lives are more important than theirs. I know I feel that way sometimes. And without travel to unite us, different areas are developing their own customs around masks and safety. Difference doesn’t have to lead to conflict as long as we understand each other, but without constant exposure to different perspectives, people are turning tribal.”
“So she didn’t want to hurt anyone?”
“I don’t think so,” she turned the question over in her mind like she was looking for the key to one of life’s great questions hidden on the label of a box of crackers. “People have been saying ugly things, but I do think it’s coming from a misguided desire to protect themselves. When you’ve gotten the message over and over for months that you’re a toxic piece of filth that isn’t even fit to breathe other people’s air, it’s gonna have an effect. Some people acquiesce because they want to be the good ones, but you can’t really blame others for rebelling. It’s up to us whether we tolerate or judge people’s differences.”
“But you said it yourself, it’s only polite to wear a muzzle.”
“Sure, it’s polite where we’re from. But in other places people might express respect differently, like by welcoming strangers despite their flaws and cooties. Think of it this way: some cultures think it’s disrespectful to show the tops of their heads to God and other cultures think it’s rude to wear a hat while you’re eating. In countries where yarmulkes, hijabs, or turbans are common, they might think it’s terribly rude and dangerous for someone to walk around with the tops of their heads showing, but to a visitor, covering your head might seem unnecessary or even rude. Some visitors would cover their heads out of respect, but others would hang onto the culture they grew up with, and that difference would become part of their identity. It’s like that, except we’re covering our faces, not our hair.”
“Like how my bandana tells people that I’m a polite dog that isn’t going to eat them?”
“Exactly.”
“Except I wouldn’t eat a Friend, even without my bandana,” I said. “The muzzles save lives. All the signs say so.”
“Masks save lives, and yarmulkes, hijabs, and crosses keep Yaweh, Allah, or God Almighty from smiting you. I guess the danger you feel depends on what you believe and how you deal with the uncertainty of life. Maybe we can acknowledge that everyone’s having a rough year in lots of ways that have nothing to do with a virus. Sometimes you can make a bigger statement by not saying anything at all, and the kindest thing you can do is let someone hold a different opinion without trying to change their mind.”
“Radical,” I said. “But I don’t get it. You two agreed on everything. She even shared her horse treats with me.”
“You said it yourself yesterday, agreement is the root of every disagreement. Country people blame city people for misunderstanding them and ruining their way of life. And city people blame country people for misunderstanding them and sabotaging their efforts to get back to their way of life. That’s called politics. It’s why people are so angry lately.”
“Because the poly-ticks sucking their blood makes them itchy?”
Mom noticed that she was scratching the bee sting again. “Yeah, but probably not in the way that you’re thinking.”
“Remember how Lily said that people fight about ideas? What if they just shared their feelings? Then they’d know that we’re all on the same side and we could all be friends again.”
“Right. But there are 2 sides to every story. Politics are the fight over whose interpretation is right.”
“Like how you know how to look at a fun adventure and see nothing but problems,” I said to show that I understood.
“I guess, but this time everyone sees problems. They just can’t agree on which problem we need to solve, since the solution to one just makes the other one worse.”
“Then you need a third story,” I coached. “Has anyone asked a dog yet? When you fleshy folk see nothing but fences and locked gates, it’s a dog who thinks to tunnel underneath.”
“More like we can’t agree what side of the fence we want to be on. Do we save the lives of a few or restore the quality of life of the many? Each one comes with heavy, irreversible consequences, so people need to buy into the sacrifice. Politics is the fight over who gets the short straw.”
“How do people decide what side they’re on if they don’t want to lose something important?”
“You listen to the ideas of people you trust, and when they say something that rings true with your experience and beliefs, you adopt their view. When enough people adopt the same view, that’s when we can move forward with solutions. Until then, all we can do is fight.”
“Can’t people take poly and tick medication every month like I do so they don’t catch bad ideas?”
“There’s no vaccine for politics, silly. I wish there were.”
“But they’re making one,” I said. “The Witch was talking about it, remember?”
“Maybe you’re right,” Mom said, “…in a way,” she added so she could be more right. “Once the vaccine comes, I’m sure we can put all these politics behind us. But that’s still a long way off. In the meantime, we need to figure out how to get through this without killing each other.”
I replayed Mom’s conversation with the horse-lady in my mind, but couldn’t figure out where it turned into a fight. “So how do you know who’s a bad guy?” I asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? The liars, of course!”
Want to keep reading? Grab Oscar’s book, No Place Like Alone on Amazon.
