Saddle Up Your Pig by Deborah M. Prum

What will a mother do for love? To what lengths would she go to make her children happy?

My sons expressed one great desire as we planned our summer trip to Montana. Yes, they were excited about scaling rocky cliffs, seeing a grizzly bear close up, and bathing in the icy waters of a glacial lake. But what they really wanted to do was to go horseback riding in the mountains.

This would not have been such an unreasonable request except that I am terrified of all hairy mammals, large or small. So, for me, working up the courage to ride a horse would require a few therapy sessions before the trip and the ingestion of a large dose of calming drugs during the actual event.

But I wound up devising a different plan, one that did not involve therapy or drugs. I figured once we got to Montana, I’d go ahead and I’d bribe them. I’d say, “Hey, let’s forget about those big smelly horses. What about some really dangerous white river rafting?”

Well, the rafting bribe fell flat. All three boys looked at me aghast. “You know we’re lousy swimmers, Mom. What are you trying to do, drown us?”

So, we spent nine of our ten vacation days exploring the wilds of Montana. I kept hoping that if I put off horseback riding long enough we’d be hit by a blizzard, hurricane, or typhoon. No such luck. On that tenth day, I peered out of my lodge window to see a big cloudless sky. My heart sunk. As we headed for the corral, I tried to talk myself into believing this event would become a delightful family memory we could relive with pleasure for years to come.

Lucinda the Large greeted us, dressed in a black cowboy hat, a black shirt, black pants and black boots. I suppressed the thought, “Isn’t it the bad cow persons who wear black?”

I walked through the open gate of the corral to greet her, but she growled, “Step back, honey. You don’t want to spook them horses.”

Spook them? Gosh, no! I jumped back a good twenty feet.

Lucinda began collecting money (a small fortune) from the other five patrons who would be riding that morning, then she came to our family. She sized up my sons, two teenagers and a seven year old. When she got to me, I said, “Look I’m five feet tall and under a hundred pounds. Please give me a small friendly horse with a skinny back who walks very slowly.” Lucinda’s eyes glazed over as I spoke.

Next, several cow poke types brought out a string of horses and began helping people get onto them. Lucinda held the reins of a huge black creature with red eyeballs. It snorted as it skipped toward me. I didn’t like the skipping, I wanted a horse that ambled.

“This here is Satin.” Lucinda smiled.

Did she say Satin or Satan? Either way, this was not the horse I had imagined. The back of that beast stood at least ten feet into the air. Not only am I scared of hairy mammals, I hate heights, too.

I glanced at my oldest son, seventeen and the epitome of cool. He squinted his eyes and ever-so-subtlely pointed his chin toward Satan. The heartless child was warning me not to make a scene—the kiss of death for a teenager.

I narrowed my eyes at him and then let Lucinda hoist me up into the saddle. I am not that heavy but the distance was great. So, it took Lucinda several tries, the last of which was more of a toss than a hoist and I almost tumbled over the other side.

As I perched unsteadily, I could hear Lucinda complaining down below. “Dang short legs.” No matter how she tried to adjust the stirrups--folding them, cinching them, tucking them--my feet fell a good eight inches short.

The rest of the party had already gotten into their saddles. Many of them glared at me as if this were all my fault. I’d have glared back but I didn’t want to express any negative emotion that could be sensed by Satan. No use setting him off.

Finally, Lucinda gave up. She called to one of the other cowpokes. “Go get Rosy!”

I didn’t like the way that cowpoke raised his eyebrows and grinned when he answered incredulously, “Rosy?!”

As I tumbled to earth from Satan’s back, I looked up from the dust to see Rosy, a pinkish animal with the head and tail of a horse, but definitely the body of a pig, a fat pig.

I had no trouble getting on Rosy’s back because her belly hung only two feet off the ground. I did have trouble sitting on her back because it had to be at least three feet wide. Rosy was a porker, all right. My legs stuck out at ninety degree angles from the saddle. An elegant sight.

We started up the mountain with my seventeen year old Nathaniel up next to the trail guide. My seven year old Ian sat on a normal sized horse in front of me and my fifteen year old Eric on a normal sized horse behind me. The seven other people rode following us in a long line down the trail. The trail guide, a sweet boy who hadn’t yet grown facial hair, began telling us the rules of the road, shouting rather loudly so that the folks at the far end could hear. I prayed that his yelling wouldn’t cause a stampede.

“Don’t make your horses gallop,” he said. No problem there. “Keep a safe distance from other horses because if they are too close, they will bite each other.” I’m okay with that. “Don’t let the horses graze. If they eat baneberry, they could get sick and die.” All right, I’ll watch out for the baneberry.

Two minutes into the trip, it became clear why Rosy was so rotund. She paused at every blade of grass and every bush to take a nibble. The great Montana outdoors was her personal Burger King. Every time she stopped, Eric offered me helpful advice. “Yank on the reins, Mom. Kick her hard.”

Since much of the trail was a narrow ledge several hundred feet above many sharp rocks, I was loathe to do anything that might even remotely irritate Rosy. Although it was a stretch, I pictured my porcine creature rearing up and tossing me off the mountainside. I felt slightly guilty exposing Rosy to the possibility of baneberry poisoning, but I was much more afraid of exposing myself to a painful death.

Finally, about forty-five minutes into our trip, the trail guide boy said, “Ma’am, you have to let that horse know who is charge! Hold those reins up high!”

Of course, I was thinking this horse knows who is in charge. She was in charge. But I could see the violent looks I was getting from everyone, so I held those reins up high. After fifteen minutes of no noshing, Rosy got downright peevish and bit up into the rump of Ian’s horse in front of her, inspiring that horse to kick back about six inches from my face.

Thank God we only signed up for a ninety minute ride.

I spent the rest of my time wrestling with Rosy and muttering nasty retorts under my breath to all the folks who continued to give me unwanted advice. Finally, at the very end of the trip with the corral in sight, I experienced one more equine delight. Apparently, when a horse at the head of a line begins to pee, all the rest are inspired to do the same. Of course, with my luck, Rosy could pee vigorously. Since I was sitting twenty-four inches off of the ground, I got treated to a warm smelly shower.

Back at the lodge, the boys asked if they could hop into the saddle the next day. What a tragedy! We didn’t have time. We had to catch a plane in Kallispell.

Now, back home in Virginia as I recall our trip to Montana, I am quite certain of what this mother will never again do for love.