Titch likes to mess about. He prances up to other horses in the field, and nips them on the bum. This doesn't always go down well. Today, he has a cut on his knee where he's been kicked.
Titch: We're not going out, are we? I've got this sore knee.
Me; It's just a little cut. You'll be fine. Have you been in another fight?
Tich: Yeah. You should see the other guy!
Me: No-one else has been injured. Just you.
Titch: Oh, Is that right?
Me: That's right.
Titch: And we're going out?
Me: Too right we are.
Titch: Can we go to the dairy?
Me: Okay. We'll go to the dairy.
The dairy is a route much beloved of all the horses because it is short. It's the convalsescent route for those recovering from colic, minor injuries or whavever. Titch loves it, and as we set out, he completely forgets his sore knee. We bounce along the road, shying at everything in sight, and when we meet a woman in a bright orange coat, he turns tail and canters off down the road. With some difficulty, I pull him up and apolgise to the woman, who is looking startled.
Me: What on earth was that about?
Titch: You know I hate orange.
Me: I think you're feeling a lot better.
Titch: No, I'm not. I've got his sore knee....By the way, are you still thinking of...of ...getting rid of me?
I think about the huge bill I've just paid the stable. Then I look at Titch's glossy coat, his big dark eyes, his long legs and his ridicuously kissable nose. And I sigh.
Me: No. Of course I'm not.