I am speechless with the honor, themilum. But I think you're being a little hard on Colt 45 Malt Liquor which is an acquired taste for the rough and ready.

Colt 45 reminds me of Colonel Colt:

The Lord made some men large and some men small.
But Colonel Colt made all men equal.

Colt 45 is the gun that won the West. It recalls a time when "the fastest gun" ruled the West, that is, until he came up against someone faster, which explains why all the "fast guns" died young; or until they were bushwacked by a gang or gunned down by a lone backshooter in a hard drinkin' saloon.

The "Maverick Award" is suitably named, themilum, but I'm not sure maverick will think so. His tastes, like yours, are too refined.

Or perhaps you named the Award after the maverick horse* which still runs wild in the West? In that case, your choice will be lauded by all, themilum. [Not just by me. :) ]

* Does the fact that we have any horses left out there in the wild really matter?

How many of these folks have ever even seen a herd of wild horses other than on television, or pictures in the paper or a magazine? Would it make a difference? I think it would. So, since the chances are that you reading this will probably never get to see it for yourself, let me try to share with you what it is like.

The best way to see wild horses is on the back of a horse, so put yourself in the saddle mentally for awhile, and try to imagine it as I describe it for you.

Sitting out there on the open plains, you know they are coming because first of all, your horse senses them long before you do. He begins to paw the ground, raise his head up and starts to snort. The air seems to stir as if by magic, and swells up all around you. You can taste the dirt in your mouth.

Then you feel it. You feel the ground start to tremble up underneath you. You quickly dismount so you can stand on terra firma, and feel it direct, first through your boots, then up your legs into the trunk of your body, and finally up to your heart which has already begun to pound hard in expectation of what you are about to see.

Then you hear them. First the pounding of their hooves. Then the sound of their voices, the stallions calling out to their mares and offspring, then them calling to one another, giving out directions. By this time, they start to come into view, and the sound is almost unearthly yet so connected at the same time.

Now they are upon you and they gallop past with flying hooves and manes, glistening in the sun, muscles rippling, stirring up clouds of dust, and you see something unrivalled in God's creation, a creature so powerful, so beautiful, so mystical you feel like you are getting a glimpse of a part of God Himself.

You stand transfixed, moved by the sight. Your own horse stands in quiet reverence with you as you witness the spectacle together. Then the sounds die away and the earth quiets down once again. All that is left now is a disappearing trail of dust and the sensations of a unique experience of nature at its most awesome.

It vibrates with you the rest of the day, sometimes for several days. You never forget it. You never get used to it. It has not changed since the first time I saw them when I was 10 years old, and I am an old cowboy now, nearing 60.

Does it really matter if we destroy them? Does it matter whether or not they are out there any more when most Americans will never see them? Does it really matter how we get rid of them?

I believe it does. The idea of rounding up our wild horses up and sending them to the slaughter house where they will be butchered for some foreigner to eat – just writing the words – seems to me to be about as tragic a loss and betrayal as there is.

http://www.fund4horses.org/info.php?id=473