Monday, May 23, 2005

Imperfection Is Perfection

Whoa! Said my rider.
And I snorted and reared my hind legs kicking him off. I clopped at him lying on the ground. He rolled around, one hand latched to his hat, trying not to be pummelled. I keep kicking at him, so he has to roll away before he can get up. I don’t stop though, so he keeps his distance.
A crack broke the commotion. A strong-looking, strange man had struck the air with his whip. When everyone was quiet, he chides my rider for not keeping me under control and suggests the purchase of a whip like his. Then, he uses it on me once and ties my harness to an awning support.
My rider and the man leave only to come back hours later drunk and bearing whips. They talk about what an unruly horse I am. How I deserve this punishment. And they both start whipping me until I’m lame from it. My rider mounts me, thanks the stranger and forces me to gallop home.
I don’t make it through the night.

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