labelled
the doctors probed
while I persisted stamping my hooves
on the cold floor of the locked ward
“Mr Watson ... you don’t eat grass!”
“Crap!” I flared.
hooves tap, clop, tok, tap...
“Molasses, salt tablets. Now!” I snarled.
“Mr Watson ... why these antics?!”
“Let me out of here ... I’m a winner ... I have a Cup to win!”
“Mr Watson ... you’re not a race horse ... you’re a human being!”
Oh yeah?
all my life I’ve been under some kind of label—
full blood?
half blood...
half breed!
half caste—
and even questioned about being
well
with magnificent bloodlines like that
I decided
I must be a goddamned pedigree of some sort!