THE "HORSIE GAME" WAS DANGEROUS...ESPECIALLY FOR MEN

You would think I’d have learned my lesson with my former dog, a rottweiler named Willow, but now I’ve gone and done it again with my current rottweiler, Wynter.

It all started when Willow was about a year old and weighed close to 100 lbs.

"Look!" I said to my husband one night as Willow stood in the living room.  I flung a leg over her, grabbed her collar, said, "Giddyup!" and pretended to ride her like a horse. "Willow has turned into a Clydesdale!"

My husband rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't be teaching her stuff like that.  You'll give her an identity crisis. She’ll start to think she’s a horse."

As usual, I ignored his advice.  Soon, Willow and I were playing "horsie" every day.

I'd strike my best bowlegged-cowboy pose and then call out, "Where's my horsie?"

Willow, wagging like crazy, would come running. Then from behind, she'd stick her head between my legs and stand there like a horse.

 Unfortunately, Willow soon decided that the horsie game was too much fun not to be shared with other people.

Her first victim was my cousin, who came over to repair our furnace.  Everything was fine until he decided to stand still for a few minutes and talk to us.  Unaware of the horsie game, the poor man stood with his legs apart.

When Willow noticed the position of his legs, she immediately went into horsie mode.  The problem was, she charged at him from the front.

Believe me, it wasn't a pretty sight.  There was Willow, with her head rammed between my cousin's legs, and there he was, standing on his tiptoes and suddenly talking in a much higher voice.

"Sally taught her to play horsie," my husband quickly explained, looking embarrassed. "I told her not to, but she thought it was cute."

"Uh, it doesn't feel too cute," my cousin said, wincing and carefully pushing Willow's broad, rottweiler head down so he could back away from her. "She's not exactly gentle."

After that, no one who stood with his or her legs apart within 50 feet of Willow was safe.  She played horsie with my contractor, the UPS man and my uncle.  For some reason, she preferred men, perhaps because of the high-pitched gasps they emitted when she attempted to ram her head between their legs...especially when her aim was a bit too high.

"This has got to stop," my husband said one night as he came waddling down the hallway, a leg on each side of a wagging rottweiler. "She won't even let me walk!  And forget about trying to go to the bathroom with her around! She's like a Billy goat!"

"Maybe we should just keep our legs crossed all the time," I said. "Then she won't be able to play the horsie game any more and she'll forget about it."

The look he gave me told me he wasn't about to stand around cross-legged for anybody, no matter how good the reason.

Reluctantly, I decided the horsie game had to end, so I stopped assuming the bowlegged-cowboy pose and didn't call for my horsie any more.  And whenever I could remember, I'd stand with my legs crossed.  Pretty soon, Willow took the hint and began to act more doglike and less like a palomino.

One fateful day, however, I went over to our then half-built new house to check on the water in the basement (due to a recent downpour) to see if it had receded.  I brought Willow with me for company.

I stood at the top of the steep staircase leading down to the basement and aimed my flashlight down there, trying to see how much water was on the floor before I descended the stairs.  Too late, I realized I was standing with my legs apart.

I heard the sound of hooves (well, paws actually) come galloping up behind me.  Quickly, I snapped my legs together…but it was too late. Willow rammed into me.

As I was shoved forward, my whole life flashed before me.  I pictured myself bouncing down the flight of stairs and landing face-first in the water, only to drown in my own basement. 

But by some miracle, I managed to grab onto the railing and prevent a disaster.  Willow stood there, wagging with delight.

After that near-death experience, I was very careful never again to do anything that might encourage Willow to play horsie.  Even if a horse appeared on TV, I quickly changed the channel.

WILLOW - AFTER SPOTTING A
CHIPMUNK IN THE RAIN GUTTER

Willow passed away in 2017 and only four days later, someone brought a year-old rottweiler to the SPCA and gave her up for adoption. I thought it was fate – and rushed over there to take Wynter to her “forever” home.

She is bigger and taller than Willow, with a much broader head…and 100 times more energy.  Call me nostalgic (or just a fool) but the other day, perhaps due to boredom from the ongoing pandemic, I decided, just for the fun of it, to find out if Wynter also could learn the horsie game.

She could.  And she did…with a little too much enthusiasm…and strength.

All I can say is that if you’re a burglar who’s reading this and you’re thinking about breaking into my house, I must warn you in advance that if you do, I will shout, “Play horsie!” and Wynter will come charging at you full-speed and ram her big head right into your crotch.

I’m pretty sure I just saw you wince. 😉

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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist and the author of “There’s a Tick in my Underwear!” “Heed the Predictor” and “The Common-Sense Approach to Dream Interpretation." Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.