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Hufblack and honey
The Hufblack flashes in the setting evening sun. I painted Jack's fingernails. OK, not his fingernails, but his hooves. We're riding Pleasure tomorrow. We have to cut a good figure. The Stetson steamed and shaped again, the quarter horse's mane plaited, the vest ironed with bling bling, immaculate hooves. What could possibly go wrong.
I rub my saddle. With beeswax lotion. I put some Tobacco Honey in the lotion. That's the scent I'm going to spray myself with in the morning. That's how we become one. The nose rides along. We will smell of honey. Like honey and tobacco. Of honey and horse. Of honey and freedom. We will win. And then we'll light up a Marlboro.
I rub my saddle. With beeswax lotion. I put some Tobacco Honey in the lotion. That's the scent I'm going to spray myself with in the morning. That's how we become one. The nose rides along. We will smell of honey. Like honey and tobacco. Of honey and horse. Of honey and freedom. We will win. And then we'll light up a Marlboro.
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