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?”