I was the queen of talking tourists and locals into taking the “adventure” ride through Dallas at an hourly rate. This is just one account of another horse-drawn adventure.
One cloudy night, I encouraged an older couple and their parents to allow me to show them “all of Dallas”. After a couple of light-hearted, fun-filled hours it began to rain. We started down a residential street where the yards had no grass. It was apparent, we were in a bad area. Cigar smoke poured from the missing windows of a candle-lit house on the East side of Dallas. Chickens roamed freely and we were not on a farm. The green argon 
building shone brightly. I knew where I was going, just not exactly where I was.
“Trot-On Tex,” I shouted. Within moments we were entering a one-lane tunnel. There was no room for error. Tex could not second guess my command. There was not enough room for him to step out of his lane, much less turn around. These carriages had a fifth wheel. Tex was a beginner’s horse, he was to have been my punishment for speeding on a fast pair earlier in the week. But not this night, this night he was my hero so the echo followed his pounding hooves through the narrow passageway to the other side without issue.
Having escaped death twice already this evening, I decided it would be a nice gesture to raise the carriage top to shelter my guests from the rain. Surely my eternal smile and extensive knowledge of all things Dallas must have protected them from realizing they had been in any sort of danger.
Feeling better, we pressed on and entered the “Punk Rock” section of Dallas, Deep Ellum. Music was blaring. The street was filled with mohawks, tattoos and nose rings. I had been here before and knew that we were safe.
Suddenly a shirtless skin head climbed on to the side of the carriage. He held the top rails, balancing between my passengers. I ordered him to get off and he refused. We had already been through so much that one rogue punk was not going to spoil our night. ‘I must protect my passengers’, I thought to myself. My adrenaline kicked in. I yelled at him and hit him with the lash of my whip. Reversing the whip, I poked his bare chest, trying to knock him down. It was pure chaos. It seemed to go on forever, why wouldn’t he just leave us alone? After a few more lashings one of my passengers grabbed my whip, stopping me suddenly. “That’s my son” she shrieked.
I apologized profusely. I had just beaten a boy with my whip in front of his mother and grandmother. “I had no idea.”
“It’s OK,” she assured me, “I did not recognize him either.”
Looking back… From dog led parades with helmet clad little sisters, to Dallas carriage rides that require a whip for safety – I’ve always made my passengers’ safety a priority….
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