h-o-r-s-e

Tengo had his big wrestling tournament in Chokhatauri this weekend. Early Saturday morning, after a breakfast of fresh hot khatchapuri and tea, the busli young men of the household packed their things to spend the day watching men hug each other. It was me, the two brothers, and two of their cousins, Zaza and Giorgi.

After a week of melting, it was snowing really hard again. We trudged to the end of our street near the abandoned concrete gas station to wait. The marshutka, delayed from the snow, was a LONG time coming. We got bored. It all started as idly tossing snowballs in the street, but it scaled to all-out war pretty quickly. I scooped up a big clump of snow and ran to the gas station for cover. I jumped through the hole in the wall, spun around, and immediately took a snowball to the face.

After exhausting my stock, I turned around to leave through the doorway, and saw a dead horse. It was lying on its belly with its hooves splayed outward. It must’ve wandered in for shelter from the storm.

“Guys,” I yelled. “There’s a dead horse in here.” They dropped their snowballs and walked towards me. We made a little circle around it. Zaza patted its sides. Yup. Dead. We held a brief funeral service, and Zaza asked me, “you want sit?” I declined. The dead horse is probably still there. Who wants to move a dead horse?

I had to leave the wrestling tournament early to pick up Katie Sweeney in Batumi (What?!?!?!) but I got this text from Temo later on: “Temo. Is good. Chempion.”

 

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1 comment
  1. Miguel Randazzo said:

    Did you preside over the horse funeral with Ukelele in hand?

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