That Horse Don't Canter

"I'm a New York Walker," I explained.

"A New York Walker?" he asked incredulously. I get that a lot.

"Yeah," I replied. "Little known, but better bred, cousin of the Tennessee Walker."

"So what does that have to do with your lack of urgency in delivering the mail?"

"Oh, don't you get it?" I asked patiently. "New York Walkers walk. We don't canter."

"Look, if you don't get a move on it," said my rider churlishly, "those checks will not get delivered in time. There are going to be a lot of very unhappy people."

"I don't think you understand what an existential question cantering is for a Walker." I was judging my chances of throwing the bastard and trampling on his face.

"But you cantered all the time, when George was riding you," he protested.

"That's a very different kettle of fish," I explained. "Or bale of hay. George and I see eye to eye on the cantering issue. He is four-square against it, just as I am."

There was a pause in the rider's attempts to spur me to greater speed. "But you did canter for George. On numerous occasions. I saw it." He sounded confused.

"Well, of course, I cantered for George." I was being very patient with the numbskull, I thought. "That's because, as I said, we are both against cantering. Since we're on the same page, ideologically, it's fine for me to do it for him. You, on the other hand, are an unreconstructed pro-canterer. I can't canter for you. Also, I don't like you."

"You are aware, are you not," said my rider, "that the glue factory is your very probable destination, if those checks aren't delivered on time?"

"I rather think it's your ass that's on the line," I snickered. I have infinite, and heavily supported, confidence in human stupidity.