Friday, June 11

The horse I'm trying to buy.

When buying a horse, it's usually pretty standard that the prospective buyer is given a week to a month's "trial time" with the horse to make sure it'll work out. This also ensures that the seller is not fucking over the buyer by giving the horse some sort of mood/injury-altering drug that would make it amazing until you got the horse home for a few days, when it turns out to be a bucking bronco and/or too lame to move.

The woman is a little iffy on this, so I say (just trying to calm the waters) that I'll put 20% down before the trial (not standard--you usually trial the horse with nothing down). She tells me that she doesn't feel comfortable doing that, because since there are no papers on the horse, how does she know I won't just run off with her?

As Toby relays this to me in sign (it was a damned phone conversation), I stare at him in disbelief.

"I manage a fucking stable you fucking moron," I sign, "where the fuck am I going to run to that you can't find me!!!"

Toby says, "All due respect, ma'am, but he manages a stable...I'm not sure there's anywhere he could go with a horse that you couldn't find him...also if he were going to run off with a horse it would probably be the $50,000 ones we keep here."

He signs to me, rolling his eyes: "I'm still not comfortable with that. If you can get me the money this weekend and find out it doesn't work out, I'll take the horse back before Wednesday only."

"Bitch," I sign.

"We'll get back to you," Toby says.


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