Spaghetti Western

The sun dances high in the sky as it beats out its last rays of summer heat. Our car slowly ambles into the sleepy little western Canadian town of Keremeos. Little do we know that the emphasis is on “Western,” and one never knows what one will encounter when setting foot in a “Western.” We round the corner and smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk tied up to a tree I find this absolute beauty. I call her Winnetou.

I quickly glance around expecting to see the swinging doors of a saloon just a few steps away. Despite the odd dreamlike quality of the horse, the parked cars and grocery store down the street assure me that I am still in the twenty-first century. Being the first on the scene, I snap a few pics and make friends with Winnetou. Shortly thereafter a few others begin to gather obviously as taken by the situation as I am. Eventually a drunken cowboy comes stumbling onto the scene to collect his horse.

He poses for a few photos hamming up his instant celebrity status. The local sheriff arrives and assures us that riding a horse drunk is not a criminal offense. He tells us that the horse knows the way back home better than the cowboy and just to make sure that we know, that the cowboy is totally harmless, even drunk. Eventually the cowboy saddles up and rides off into the sunset as I play all possible soundtracks in my head.