And His Name's Not Ed

I came home from work on the usual 5:15, but there was nothing usual about what I found. A horse was tied up to the oak tree in the back yard.

Would have fit in fine on a ranch, or even a farm. But on Woodside Lane in our little suburb, not so much.

"What's that thing doing here?" I asked of my wife Carol.

"You'll have to ask Heather," she replied. "You know how she's wanted one."

"On Dad, he's not a thing," Heather laughed, bouncing into the kitchen. "That's George."

"A horse named George?"

"You won't believe what just happened," Heather said, "but that's what he told me."

Great, I thought to myself. A talking horse. And his name's not Ed.

"Well, you'll just have to introduce me," I said.

As Heather and I went out through the back door, and crossed the deck, I had a chance to look "George" over. I'm hardly an expert, but he seemed like a good looking healthy horse to me.

"George, this is my Dad," said Heather.

"Mr. Morrison, I'm pleased to meet you sir," George said, with no accent I could detect.

"Wait a minute," I said. "How do you know my name?"

"Well, nothing complicated. It's on the mail box out in front."

Hmmm... So, he can read too.

"George, how did you end up in our back yard?"

"This will sound silly, but I got lost looking for Pine Street."

"This is Pineapple Street," I had to tell him.

"That doesn't make any sense," George said. "Pine and apple trees together?"

Made me feel better. He wasn't so smart after all.