I must resort, once again, to hacking into your blog to communicate with you.
Why can’t you read minds? Humans. So developmentally impaired.
- I fail to see the humor in worming paste.
- You squirt nasty paste in my mouth, put me out on grass, and hope I won’t remember an hour later? Daisy is correct: I am still pissed. (I hacked your texts too.) It gave me more time to plan my retaliation over a leisurely snack.
- If you come back smelling like Barbie, retaliation turns into revenge: you hoped I’d forget, and went to visit another horse? I don’t think so.
- I hate it when you pull the “Gentleman” card. You told that cute red mare’s mom I was a complete gentleman. Now I have to wait to retaliate until red mare is out of sight.
- Don’t. It’s not pretty.
- If you insist, could you please sit straight?
- I. Am. A. Saint. If I give you a hard time, it’s because YOU are driving the Saint insane.
- Fine. I give you points for not correcting me when you screw up.
- Okay. Points for trying. And I admit, you do listen.
- I don’t feel like running until I’m saddled and finished yawning. What’s the fun of running in turnout? I like the company. It’s more fun if we do it together. (BTW, what is a “Migraine”, and why should I care?)
- It’s highly unfortunate that I am a Gentleman, I can’t in good conscience retaliate. It’s the curse of having principles. See #1 above.
- I might like the OCD grooming. Don’t let it go to your head.
- Who knocked up Barbie? (Of course I know, I have a superior sense of smell.)
- We need to move. I practically raised Barbie, I need to oversee our foal’s education.
- If you fed me more, my neck wouldn’t be sore. I’m constantly, desperately, searching for food. I have to twist my neck to get through all the obstacles between my stomach and the green stuff.
- I hate your grass destroyer. HATE.
- I’ll try to say this delicately: check the bathroom scale.
- Yeah, you failed in the leaping from horse to horse thing. You surprised me. I didn’t think you had a ounce of daring. I’m rather proud of you for trying. Can we do that again? (Lose the spurs, and no boots please).
- FYI, if you don’t want me to bite, don’t use a girth. Even gentlemen lose their tempers under torture.
- I need a massage. And grass. Hey, I heard you can trailer-in to the race track, and they’ll let you breeze during the off hours. Can we go?
Dinero and I have a request. Please put a steer in our paddock. We’re, uh…lonely. We need a…pet. Preferably a fast…pet.