George is a wimp.
Today we followed a path we used to use regularly but haven't been on for ages. George normally bounces ahead but on paths that are unfamiliar or a little overgrown he hangs back and does his 'I'll watch your back' trick, which doesn't fool me: I know he'd just rather it was me that gets eaten by the gruffalo and not him.
At the top of the hill having safely manoeuvred past potential monsters including a feeding trough and a log - walks for George are full of hazards - we stopped to talk to some horses. I said to one, 'You're a fatty; are you pregnant?' She nodded. Then I said, 'This one's a handsome fellow; is he the daddy?' And she nodded again.
But when we walked on a little I discovered that she was lying to me! She wasn't a pregnant mare, just a fat boy.
At least I think she was. She/he had a flappy bit, which could have been indicative of you know, something.
My education is sadly lacking. I wonder if I should do an animal husbandry course. Or perhaps there's a gender identification course, which would be all I'd need.
Now I'd better get the potato from the top of the gate post.