John had a horse, Her name I can't recall. She'd weave but nothing ailed, something not right with her. The whites of her eyes flashing all the time. Like those cd's strung out to ward off the sparrows. She'd take a mint from you then drop it in the straw. She knocked him down once whilst he tacked her up. Then turned back to her haynet as if she'd just broken wind, instead of Johns ribs. She could only be shod if the weather was fine. Father said she needed taking out behind barn. He called her Chappie. Flat backed and dead mouthed, Tendency to *****. You couldn't get her in a trailer without a board and whip and plenty of hands. She wasn't afraid just backward in her ways. She'd stand for the farrier? If the sun shined like I say, No trouble at all. Ex race horse John claimed but who knows. Aren't they all? Mother made him ring up to the house if he was tacking her out. She feared she'd throw him Leave the old **** for dead. She was head shy and I think John did it to her. I never saw him raise a hand but he knew the bottom of plenty of bottles. Hid 'em in a welly boot. Imagine getting up on that beast when your too drunk to find your ****? Madness. The pair of them. She never gave me pause but I was small then. They know, don't they?