For you non-horsey types, equestrian humans tie us up to stop us wandering off. They do this by attaching one end of a sturdy rope to a head collar which we are obviously wearing. The other end is attached to a solid metal ring via a completely ineffective bit of bailer twine, usually, old, frayed and worse for wear. The reasoning being that if we spook, we can break the string and not hurt ourselves. It is important to note that we are attached to this ridiculous bit of thread for the sole purpose of us being able to break it. This is important.
Now, being tied up is annoying. You can hear all kinds of exciting things going on elsewhere in the yard, possibly involving food, and you are expected to just stand there and look pretty.
Well, stuff that for a game of soldiers.
The other important note in this little tale, is that I am clearly not a small horse, so not known to be light on my feet. I was stood on the yard one day, Mum had gone off somewhere, and I could swear I heard the sound of a bag of stud muffins being opened. So, I did what any horse would do under the circumstances, I carefully untied my lead rope and went to find out. Mum was in the barn, doing something in my tack box, she turned around and came nose to nose with me and my 'Whatcha doing?' face. She wasn't cross, but I, of course, was advised to please not untie myself.
Ok, not a problem. My solution is to just lean away from whatever I'm tied to until I hear the unmistakeable tink, which means the string has broken. I cannot be held accountable for shoddy twine and it is what we're supposed to do. However, I have given more than one aunty an attack of the screaming hab dabs when they look up to see my tail disappearing around the corner.
I also have been known to sneak up on people in my field. Dad was poo picking one day and I tippy-toed across, he turned around and I was standing right behind him, he tood a step back and nearly fell in the wheel barrow. That would have been so funny!
Not so entertaining, though, was when I tried it with Mum. She'd brought me my tea, and I was happily eating it while she wandered off with the fork and wheelbarrow to the other side of my field. When I'd finished, I strolled over to supervise.
I didn't know she hadn't seen me. There I stood, patiently waiting for her to start making with the scritches/treats/both. Still, she carried on shovelling, totally oblivious.
So I gave her a little nudge with my nose.
Well, she must have shot about three foot in the air and let out the most unholy squawk which I really, really wasn't expecting. It was terrifying! I spooked, spun on my heels and whoo hoolied to a safe distance. My heart was pounding, I was snorting up a storm, and she had gone a very funny colour. We both stood awkwardly facing each other and panting while we recovered.
And that, dear friends, is how I became known as the ginger ninja.
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