I was in Maine, staying in a motel outside of Eastport. There in a corral in front of the motel was a horse, with a sign reading "My name is Cheyenne, and I've just come here from Montana."

Well, I went up to Cheyenne, and he was friendly and nice and all, and I was stroking his nose, and we were getting along really well, when he bit me on the right arm just below the elbow. Locked right on and didn't let go.

I was shocked for just a second or so, and then I reached up with my left hand a grabbed his right ear. Into it I whispered, "Listen, you old sack of rotten oats, either you let go of my arm right now or I'll twist yer goddamned ear off!"

Cheyenne let go, and we understood each other after that.

I guess you can call me "The Horse Whisperer."