Me (nonchalantly, because a panicking horse is not to be trifled with): I've had an offer for you.
Titch: (speaking with his mouth full): Oh? (no panic, then) How much?
I tell him.
Titch: WHAT!!!??? I was sold for ten times that only a few years ago.
Me: Well, you were probably worth ten times more then.
Titch: I'm much more mature now.
Me: No you're not. You know perfectly well you're not.
Titch: How about stud? I'd enjoy that.
Me: Titch, we've discussed that before. You know you can't...you've had...you know... that little operation?
Titch: You can be very cruel sometimes.
Me; You're in good comany. All your neighbours have been...done.
Titch: But I'm well bred!
Me: So are lots of them. You just weren't very successful.
Titch: I bet you haven't had any operations like that. I bet you've had foals. You have, haven't you?
Me: Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose I have.
Titch: Are you well bred?
Me: Not really.
Titch: Did your grandfather win all his races?
Me: I'm not sure my grandfather did a lot of running.
Titch: Well, then. (Munch.) I'll have another of those carrots, if it's not too much to ask.
Sarcasm doesn't suit him, but I let it pass. The offer stands, and I'm trying to decide whether to accept it. This whole situation is very painful. Titch can be a bugger, but I do love him.