Rocket was a racehorse. That is to say that he was horse—in every way—from forelock to fetlocks. Equus ferus caballas. And he ran in many races.
But he was not a good racehorse. He never won a race. Indeed, Rocket was a very slow racehorse. Equus slowus molasses.
His rider, Jacque E. Shortz, who was as light on the whip as he was in the saddle, believed Rocket’s lack of alacrity was all in his head.
“Listen, Rocket,” he whispered in the horse’s ear. “Speed is relative. Compared to a walking horse, you’re Hermes incarnate. Compared to a plow horse, you’re incredibly fast. A Clydesdale could not hold a candle to you. Compared to a rocking horse, you’re supernatural.
“My goodness,” Jacques chuckled, “compared to a saw horse, you’re a million times the speed of light!”
Patting Rocket on the rump, he cooed, “You’re an Olympian, Rocket. … Now get on the truck and meet you’re destiny.”
And with that, the horse happily clopped onto the back of the truck, which was emblazoned on the side with big red lettering:
Jumping Jack’s Pommel Horses
Made with real horsehide!
Morale: Run faster.