- Vol. 03
- Chapter 11
I cannot forgive you, Donkeys. I cannot and will not forgive you, and when I say ‘you’, I mean all horses, too. (Yes, I know.) I cannot forgive you, for that single time I - as a child who grew late - had been consigned in the horse-riding lesson to the scaled-down budget version:
you, Donkey, you. While the others trotted, galloped, cantered, even, me and my four feet and you and your own four bastard hooves (which did not do anything other than what they wanted to) watched. We watched, observed
the courtly stances, the elegant dances of Homo Sapiens and Equines. And it was just at this moment in time, when I looked away, you chose to quickly and forcefully stick your belligerent nose in the food.
And I don’t know if you know quite what an effective slide your neck is but let me tell you, Donkey: I slipped from the cross of your back into the trough, down the tracks of your mane, in no time flat.
What I remember, Donkeys, is seeing the world from that trough. Looking up at all the others and knowing I was bathing in swill, or whatever you fuckers eat. You wouldn’t have bloody done this to Jesus. I mean – Jesus: imagine the PR. So let’s just agree to keep out of each other’s way, OK? Because I cannot and will not forgive you.