So there I was, down at English Bay, waiting for the fireworks. But I was not alone: no indeed, 200,000 of my closest strangers and several of my friends were there with me.
And they were ready for us.
The three cops.
Actually, there were a great many more than three, although a wholly insufficient number to deal with the number of people celebrating their Welfare Wednesday en plein air. Most of them, indeed, were involved in traffic-denials and bicyclist harrassment and had no free hands, what with all the pointing and waving and whistling and “hey buddy, you can’t go there”-ing they were doing, to be involved in any riot-quelling activities.
Which brings us to the three cops.
The riot police.
The specialists.
You could tell they were riot police because of the quarterstaffs they carried in sheaths attached to their saddles.
Well, I guess technically it’s the SIX cops then, if you take Brigadier’s Law into account.
The Yanko-Belgian (half Quarter Horse, half Belgian).
The Anglo-Percheron (sometimes known as the Heavy Irish Hunter).
The Freisian (aka “those ones that Martha Stewart has, you know, that match the trim on the house”).
And their associated humans.
All were dressed in proper riot gear, the modern equivalent of military plate: it’s the first time I ever saw horses with plexiglas faceguards, reinforced LED-accented tack, teensy poll helmets nestled behind the ears, shin and knee pads like an NHL goalie and, as mentioned above, quarterstaffs. Plus Tasers, guns, handcuffs, snaffles, the usual. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a broadsword, but alas I was disappointed.
And you know, they DID have a mob to deal with, much to the visible consternation of their human partners. Ooohh, those boys were not happy: they were livid, faces like slabs of meat ripped from the flank of a charging bull.
Yes, the entire time they were on duty they were surrounded by a mob six to twelve deep. A mob of Canadians. A mob with one thing, and one thing only, on its mind.
“Can I pet your horse?”
raincoaster 
Now, let’s see . . . who was it who expressed disbelief of my Canadian riot joke from a few weeks back? Hmm? Hmm? Tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk . . . . .
???
it wasn’t you, but somebody did. God it feels great to be smug if only for a few brief seconds before reverting to my dull, static life . . . . . . .
Our mounted ossifieds have the same problem here. Everyone wants to touch the horses. I’m lucky. They have the police stables and police kennels right on one of my morning walks. They wander along the same path beside the river as I do. Wonderful stuff.
For the fireworks competition here in Montreal they close the Jacques Cartier bridge so people can walk up there to get what should be a level and mind boggling view. Cops on horses patrol the bridge which is kind of neat. I prefer ground level not being the type to suffer too much for a 30 minute show (the bridge is very high and you have to start in Ontario to walk up ——kidding).
Oh it just has to be demoralizing to be riot police and have people asking to pet the nice horsey. How can you feel all valliant and crowd controley like that?
Exactly: they were so pissed off, trying to look macho and everyone’s like, “can I give him an apple? He’s pretty!”
But apparently, that’s exactly the reason they use horses when they expect a riot. Everyone goes AWWWWWW! Horsie!
Bugger, WordPress is fucking up. That was me, raincoaster. It keeps switching me back and forth between IDs.
Ooh la la. You are all covert now.
sriusly. im in ur intertubes, cybering ur bfs.
LOL!
[That should be LOLRain right?]
or lolwordguru.