In the tail-end of winter I had spontaneously decided to take a trip, determined to shed the frost from my grey pelt and to do something productive with my time. I braved the chilly waters and took to the islands, where I traipsed unnoticed watching how the other half lived while searching for any unguarded mares. It turns out that winter was probably not the best time to go pillaging, as the herds seemed to gather closer and the stallions kept a keener eye on their growing trinkets. Defeated, tired and empty handed, I decided to return to base, now slipping from the choppy seas and slinking across the shores.


The swampy earth, no longer sleek with the discomforts of winter, swallows my feathered fetlocks as I stride towards the main water source. The wet and slimy greeting is something I have not missed, though it does serve as a reminder of who I really am; a ‘goonie. As I walk, squelching with every step, I scan around the terrain for my brothers and my dark eyes soon settle on the painted hide of the ever-happy Marauder.

I have not seen the paint since the day I arrived here and though I normally tend to shy away from authoritative figures, today I lift my broad skull and with a deep squawk I announce my presence. ”Felony” I chirp as if we were long-lost mates ”My brother from another mother, how’s life treating ya” I say, knowing full well that the stallion lacks a sense of humour. ”I thought you’d be out snatching the newborn colts for your collection, what with spring upon us an all” I finish shit stirring, the ever-present smugness spread across my features.

FRIESIAN MUTT | SIXTEEN TWO HANDS | TWELVE YEARS