Hello. 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. This woman here translating and transcribing my thoughts is "all right". 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.
There's talk of a foal or two in the spring. Captain covered that new Quarter horse.
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 with the absence of my vitals!