Whoa, Nelly! You're not thinking we ATE it, are you? The First Annual Thevictorian Thanksgiving BARn-Field Horse-Donkey? No! What do you take us for, The French? We ate turkey like any normal old-fashioned American family on Thanksgiving.
It all started when Hick got up this morning and prepared himself for a trip to town to assist my mom with some heavy lifting. He stepped out on the back porch to feed the dogs, who were raising a racket on the front porch. "There's a horse or a donkey in front of the BARn."
That's kind of an odd way to put it, even for Hick. Our neighbors across the gravel road have two horses, and the ones next to them have a horse and a pony. I figured one escaped. I don't know where Hick got off insinuating that we had a donkey wandering around our acreage. It's not like anybody out here has set up a live nativity scene. That's in town. Of course I had to interrogate the witness.
"How do you know it's not the neighbor's horse? One of them is standing with its neck over their fence, looking this way."
"Because it's not a horse."
"I thought you said it was a horse or a donkey."
"No. I said it was a horse-donkey."
"How can you tell it's not the neighbor's horse?"
Sigh. "I KNOW what a horse looks like, Val. It's a horse-donkey."
"What do you mean, a horse-donkey?"
"A horse-donkey. Somebody must have bought one, and it got loose." Always the perpetual auctionophile, our Hick, assuming that horse-donkeys are traded willy-nilly at the auctions of Backroads.
"What in the world is a horse-donkey?"
"The horse gets with a donkey, or a donkey gets with a horse. You can tell by looking at it."
"Wait a minute! Do you mean a MULE?"
"Yeah. A horse-donkey."
I felt like George Costanza listening to Frank ask Susan's parents about the love life of the rooster, chicken, and hen.