Flint's Views from his Field

Monday

Hello and are you well?  I do hope so.  My name's Flint. Fourteen two and in fine fettle.  I’m a pie-bald Irish Cob, or Gypsy Cob if you’d prefer. The lineage is doubtful, but the pedigree's there in my colours and my character.  Me and my "Two-legs" have a great friendship, she can read my every thought and mood and with the powers of telepathy you can do so too.  She says I’m too fat, but she'd do well to look in the mirror herself, as she's no twig herself. She's more of a Yule Log with good burning in it. Anyway, she's here with her camera and sketch book again looking at me like she's undecided. I don’t know if she’s going to cuddle me or kiss me.  I'm not really up for either of these human forms of greeting, but there's always an apple, or a carrot, in it for me if I nuzzle.

Two-legs tells me that if I had a human voice I'd sound like Terry Wogan. I am not so sure. I do know that he is Irish, but that mane of his looks worrying. It looks like it's a good place for some sweet-itch to start. 

T’is cold weather we're having! I often hear you Two-legs say that to each other. It seems to be the precursor for real conversation. Not that this is what you'd call a conversation. It's telepathy between a Cob and a Two-leg.  I'm going to get it over with so I can get back to tucking into my hayledge.  Now it's no secret that I am the boss around here. Those young Geldings, Ali G and Fawlty, are taller (17 2) and very fast on their hoofs, but they knows it's me who gets first Tuck. If they had the courage to stand their ground we'd see the back of each others hooves and then there'd be a row, so it's best they heed my ears and make way.

The grass, they say is greener on the other side of the fence. It isn't; and when it is, my Two-legs sticks a muzzle on my affronted face! It's due to that weight issue again. Look! I'm never going to be a svelte Thoroughbred. I am built for comfort and this here celtic climate. There's no need to waste haylege money on fancy turnouts and warm stables on me. Tho' there is a warm stable here, which I never get to see the inside of. Not cold enough yet! How cold does it have to get? It was  -26 and I was stuck out here counting the stars and watching the grass freeze under my hooves. It's wet and windy weather she's waiting for, before I get a bucket of oats and chaff and a soft bed for the night.

I’m away now, for I’m putting myself in a temper and that Zabi (Arab Gelding) is inching towards my hayledge, thinking that I don't have eyes on the side of my face!!

Tuesday
My Two-legs has brought me grapes. Now, I am partial to a grape or two. The black boy in the next paddock isn't so keen. His name's Zebedee and the clue to his nature is in his name. He's a gentle chap. I’m quite fond of him you know, but it's hard to keep up with his long legs on a hack, and the journey home…. I'd sooner go home on my own. He's out in front doing the prancing crab thing. It would look well in a dressage school, but not on The Spittal. That's the name of the road that leads home. Funny name. I wonder where it comes from. Anyways, the Two-legs is here and she’s brought a head collar along with those grapes. Head down. She's shorter than me so the head has to come down to let her buckle it on. I wonder where we're going. A hack perhaps? A bucket of eatables and a brushing maybe?

It's a bucket!

Apparently I'm a disgrace! Sure look at her and that stupid hat! It is neither on her or warming her, but at least there's this bucket to console me. Don't pull at my mane and don't get that comb stuck! A disgrace am I? CHEEK! I was a disgrace last spring. I'd been ignored for so long that every bramble in the field was residing in my mane. Then the comb got stuck and the orange kitchen scissors came out of the box and nearly sent me on a canter down the road. They were so orange! It took a good full year to look like myself again. And I'm still not right!

Wednesday

Audrey's left me. She's over there chewing with young Fawlty. She's bored with me she says. I'm old and slow and no fun. She thinks Fawlty’s the bees’ knees and full of the joys of life. Fawlty’s all chuffed with himself because of it. Ears pert. Head up, looking important and not quite sure what to do with it all. She'll be back!

Here comes my Two-legs. She's got the head collar and lead rope with her.   I am not moving unless there's a morsel of something tasty in her pocket. "Flinty!  Come here pork-pie". she's shouting.  Pork pie!?! Is she off her legs? Pork pie! Me? I'm the shape God, and his grass, made me. Fine Fellow, that's what I am. A pork pie will not traipse along then old roads with no shoes on.  (Where is that farrier?) OHH LOOK! There's her hand going into her pocket. GRAPES! Oh here, I canny hold me self back form the thought of a grape.  Coming!
 

Thursday
Ah it was a grand day yesterday. Two legs is not a bad soul. I got to the stable and she’d a bucket of the finest pony nuts I've tasted in a long time. It had been a long time, but no matter. I got my grub and a good brushing. She tells me that I always look a disgrace.  I'm only a "disgrace" 'cause she has me that way. If she spent less time with her paints and her young Whaa she'd have me looking lovely.  The young Whaa wasn't there yesterday. It was just me, Two-legs and the dogs. Dogs are funny aren’t they? Four legs, mostly.  A tail to be proud of, but they have far far too much energy to stay healthy for long.   You never see a 30 year old dog now, do you?

The farrier came today. Nice chap. Full of confidence and soft natured. I feel comfortable with him. I do what I'm told and he leaves my hooves looking marvelous. I always feel better when my hooves are done. Two-legs called it my New Shoes Day. It makes her strangely too happy. I think it's something she feels she's sharing with me. "Look flint. NEW Shoes!" she says to me cuddling my neck. “New shoes aren’t they lovely?”  They're not new. There the ones he took off me in December.  He's just put them back on because they're not worn out. Hardly cause for such jubilation.

I'm not sure were to put myself when the dogs start chewing on my clippings. It's disconcerting for a fellow when they’re trimming your hooves and throwing the off-cuts to the dogs, who are delighted with the taste. I hope it doesn't give them ideas about chewing on the rest of me! I don’t think that they would...chew. Best not to ponder.

Friday
Two-legs call us The Happy Hackers. Sounds nice enough. You’d never think that it would be grounds for a row. Taffy got his tummy in a knot over me pass-remarking this to him yesterday. Taffy said it was his Two-legs who thought the name up. Was he calling me a liar? I was only filling in the time with a chat, while our Two-legs pockeld (messed) about with their hats. He got into a right strop about it. He even stopped chewing on his hay-net to pin his ears back at me.  Grumpy old man!  The mood fell from there.

My Two-legs and his like to chat. They often seem to forget they're supposed to be telling us where to go. Isn't that why they've reins in their hands?! Just as well we horses know the roads so well. 

The Happy Hack was in silence. Taffy wouldn't talk to me. He spent the whole hack bumping into me (accidently on purpose) and looking everywhere except where he was going. He stumbled more than once! I didn't like to mention it to him, incase he made a go for my neck. Grumpy Fart Bum!

I’ve got a rug on me today. Two-legs says there’s bad weather coming so it will stay on me for a while.

Audrey's back. Nothing like an old fiddle to play a fine tune

Saturday

Well, there she is, standing feet apart bracing herself against a Scottish breeze amoshing me to stand still. She should try standing still, freezing her tail off. If she had a tail she would not be asking me to pose in front of that confabulation she has in her hands. It's for a painting she tells me. Indeed and some painting that'll be with the wind and the rain. Ears back, I fixed her my steeliest glare and she laughed out aloud. That spooked me, I can tell you. She canny take a hint this Two-legs of mine. Laughing at the meanest face in Lanarkshire.  Fool's pardon!

She’s put her hand in her pocket. EARS UP! Interested! What treasures are about to be bestowed on me? A green grape? An orange carrot? ... A white what?!  She's going to eat it herself the MARE! What is she doing? Blowing her nose, she tells me. Sensing my disappointment, the other pocket is dipped into and out comes a polo mint! How splendid! The day's a good one when there's polo in your mouth. Makes one's lip curl in pleasure with the smell and it querley (greatly) clears the sinus. Not having the benefit of a hanky to hoof.  She's going to paint me and put me on display somewhere in London soon. At least that is what she hopes. I'm hoping there's another polo in that pocket of hers!


There's talk of a foal or two in the spring. Captain America covered that new Quarter horse, Molly. She doesn't talk much. Zabi says she's moody.  Zabi would be right. A fine fellow is our Zabi. None too pretty, but decent enough.  He doesn't get out much. I could be doing with getting out a bit more often.  My Two-legs is a “fair weather rider”!

Sure won’t these foals be the cause of some excitement when they come. All the Two-legs will be running about in a sweat with their confabulations. Do you know, if they hadn't have doctored me there'd be manys a fine foal with my smile on his face around here. Indeed, I am very popular with the ladies. That Thoroughbred, Audrey, won't let me be. She'd be mine for the taking if only I had the notion to take. The spirit is there. Even in the absence of my vitals!