Thirty-five years ago, the family was visiting Phil's parents, who had retired to their non-working "farm" in Knox County, Ohio. Our daughters, then about 9 and 6, went horseback riding with their dad. I dropped them off at the riding stable and went shopping, being spectacularly allergic to horses. They were still on the trail when I returned to pick them up. The teen-aged stable girl said, accusingly, as if this had to be the rider's fault, "Loser's back!"
"What do you mean, he's back?"
"He came back! Loser came back! Your daughter must have gotten off during the ride." I had a sudden vision of her FALLING off.
Then our older daughter appeared, on foot. No broken bones. This small denizen of the Washington, DC suburbs explained, "He stopped to eat leaves and when I tried to make him go, he turned around and tried to bite my foot!"
He sounded like a pretty wild horse for a young, inexperienced rider. "For heaven's sake, why'd you put her on Loser in the first place?"
The girl shot me a look of disgust. "His name is LUTHER!" she informed me.
Oh My gawd, that was good. I hate it when I suffer from creative hearing. A syndrome that seems to afflict me more and more often.
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