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riding, for example, although Cary did try to go horseneck riding. The horse would stand for no part of those shenanigans and promptly threw Cary to the ground on his head, sending his glasses in another direction. Perhaps that’s why Cary went astray in later life.
But Cary correctly warned me about choosing Red Baron on that Monday morning.
"Look,” he said with a thick New York accent. “That horse has been cooped up all weekend in that small stall, licking that hunk of salt and eating hay and parts of wood off his door. He’s gonna go nuts the first chance he gets.”
“Cary, are you lost, or what?,” I said, as though I was some sort of expert. “You got it all wrong. How many horses are there in Brooklyn, anyway? Only those the cops ride. Red Baron will be as mild as a sleeping kitten with me in control.”
Red Baron was rumored to be a racing horse at one point of his career. But these were his declining years, spent trotting and cantering for teenage, smartalerk summer campers.
The horse would be putty in my gentle hands.
Cary was right, of course. The only thing I got for my cockiness was a mouthful of oily dirt. I also got laughed at. I was accostumed of being laughed at but the dirt was none too tasty.
1 mounted Red Baron, checked my stirrup length so that it struck just below my ankle bone and checked his eyes for signs of temporary insanity.
Monday horseback riding sessions
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