When I was much younger, George Frugé and I decided to get temporarily
rich by shoeing trail riding horses at Bay City, the start of one of the
trail rides leading to the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.

We were working our tails off: we had plenty of horses to shoe, folks
were waiting in line, and most of 'em were jarring a little bit. About
10 am, a fellow comes up and asks me to shoe a horse for him. He had a
bottle of Thunderbird sticking out the back pocket of his bib overalls,
so I figure he was getting primed for a rough day. No big deal, boozing
before breakfast ain't exactly uncommon around some trail rides.

I shod his horse.

About 4 pm, that same fellow, presumably fresh up from a little nap and
with a new bottle of Thunderbird, leads the same horse up to George and
loudly announced that George was by god gonna shoe his horse or he'd
know the reason why on accounta he'd been waiting all goddam day to have
his horse shod.

George eases over and says, "Tom, didn't you shoe that horse this
morning?

"Uh huh."

"Reckon what I oughta do?"

"Pull the shoes and go back in the same holes with a size larger nail so
you don't have to whip the sonofabitch."

Which is exactly what he did.