The chestnut horse, who had never wanted to be a gelding, and had never wanted the marks of ownership, had slowly come to terms with the fact he had been named as security (the horse’s name was Knox), and although the old dark brown horse “p*ssed him off daily”, his sensible nature always managed to calm the chestnut down.

They had spoken with the lady’s sister that day and she had seen the truth of the horses. Tears have been shed in recognition of their beautiful souls, and have been shared here so no one will get confused. 

Sometimes we may spell a name wrong, or people may get confused by a simple meaning and make it far more complicated than it ever needs to be. Sometimes, if one is not trained to discern the difference, they may consider many people to be one person, and put them all into the same paddock. 

Horses, just like other animals who associate closely with humans, pick up on our emotions, and send them to those whom they smell as being related in some way. When a beast (and here the red horse raises his head and snorts loudly, for he is not a beast at all, it is that bastard on the far corner who thinks he shines like a moon in sunlight, the upstart) is sensitive to people, and does not know how to close his soul’s doors, he becomes skittish and hurt, for he thinks those feelings are his, when they are not.

This is the way of those who aren’t human.

The notes on the real horses had been written some weeks before. If one visits a farm agistment where horses are, one might discern the truth of these beautiful creatures, not take the stories they share and make them into something terrible. The chestnut horse is not a bad horse at all; he has marks on both shoulders to show his heritage. Beside him in the same paddock, lives a beautiful bay gelding, who used to dance but is now too wise to do very much at all. He is not to be ridden – the bay horse, and the chestnut has been learning to trust people again.

‘If I could, I would fight your bulls,’ the chestnut may think. ‘But these stories are old stories and the toreador does not do these things in Australia. If the children must play with truth and lies, let them know this truth, for I am indeed a horse.’