A Big Crowd, a Little Horse, and a Pink Cowboy Hat

It was the last compliment I ever wanted to hear spoken about my daughter.

“She looks just like Paris Hilton!”

I opened my mouth to protest, to complain, to say something to this stranger staring at my 7-year-old. But nothing came out. Because when I looked at Jamie, I realized the comment wasn’t so far off base.

On this bright and beautiful morning, standing at the downtown corner of Milam and McKinney, my urban cowgirl’s wardrobe consisted of a pink cowboy hat, cow print skirt, snow white boots with pink toes, and a black shirt with so many sequins it would have made Porter Wagoner squint.

It’s not our family’s custom to go out and make a spectacle of ourselves, but you have to understand. This was rodeo time in Houston, the annual chance to go berserk with the whole tradition and historic-identity thing. We’re kind of like an Irishman on St. Patrick’s Day who suddenly rediscovers his lost brogue while dressed in leprechaun green and quaffing way too much beer.

You might as well go over-the-top—or stay home.

Our favorite part of the cultural costume party is the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo Parade. That’s when we take the kids’ miniature horse out of the country, bring her to the big city, and rig her up with a little riding cart. Thanks to my wife’s membership in the Gulf Coast Women’s Equine Association, we’re able to join in with that group and ride in the parade.

You may have lived your whole life in Houston, but if you have never seen the rodeo parade firsthand, you may not believe what I am about to tell you. There are tens of thousands of people—one TV report estimated half a million—lining the streets of downtown to see the riders, floats, carriages, antique cars, and beautiful horses.

Some horses are scruffy after a week or longer on the trail rides that lead up to the parade. Others look like they cost—and many do—tens of thousands of dollars. They glisten in manicured coats and can prance sideways, trot in place with a stutter step—pretty much whatever the rider wants.

On the other hand, our little Eevee cost a few hundred bucks. Her coat is a furry mess because she spent the winter in a field, not a heated stable. She doesn’t have any fancy steps or exotic training. Honestly, she doesn’t look like much unless you happen to love her. But she had something those other horses didn’t.

She had blue glitter on her hooves—or as some spectators observed, “Look, her toenails are painted!” She had gaudy ribbons in her mane and two glittering stars painted on her furry butt. Add to that the fact that her cart was piloted by a 7-year-old in a pink cowboy hat, and you have a parade celebrity as far as most little girls in the audience were concerned.

And let me tell you, there are lots of little girls at a rodeo parade. My job was to walk behind the cart in case anything went wrong. Jamie was joined in the cart, basically a park bench on two tires, by her mom and big brother Jackson. (Not to worry about Eevee—our little horse could pull three adults with no problem.)

The thing that makes a rodeo parade fun—from a human perspective, anyway—is the clash of eras. Helicopters hover overhead while 19th-century wagons drawn by mules clatter along below. A rodeo parade is a stew of who we were, who we are, and who we are gradually becoming as a people.

From a horse’s perspective, it’s hard to imagine a more foreign environment than skyscraper canyons, marching bands, and screeching crowds. There was one pep band playing a style of high-pitched, up-tempo Latin music that seemed specially designed to drive livestock insane.

But none of this seemed to bother Eevee. What got to her were those darn traffic lines painted on the blacktop. She refused all day to step on one—or a manhole cover, which she was convinced was a portal to hell below.

But the day had its rewards, like those hunky Andalusian horses with their handsome vaqueros. Even though the stallions were about three times Eevee’s size, she was totally smitten, her nose quivering as the macho steeds pranced by.

For their part, the studs didn’t even know Eevee was alive, and I felt a sudden kinship for my ugly little pony that I’d never experienced before. The glamorous super models of our respective species will never, ever look our way, but we are lucky enough to share the love of a little girl in a pink cowboy hat.

Editor’s Note: Greg Hassell is a contributing writer for The Buzz Magazines. If you have a new adventure for Greg to write about, please e-mail your suggestions to [email protected].