It’s about slowing down. Putting tools down and getting out of the house. Having a walk, a constitutional, serotonin time. Slip the slippers off and pull on runners, tighten laces, and wrap myself in an extra layer: the afternoon is sunny but cool.
He sees me coming. Stops his munching of grass, raises his head and stares. I click my mouth to make that noise we tend to make at horses. He lifts a long, strong foreleg and begins to step towards me. He knows it’ll be worth the effort.
Carrot tops and ends emerge from my pockets — organic, no less. He smells the air, catches the scent of deliciousness, stretches his neck up and over the fence hungrily. Gimme, his huge eyes say. One is weeping with sticky pus, it has been for weeks now. Must tell the owner of the land, in case he hasn’t noticed.
Are you lonely, boy? You’re hungry. There you go.
I’m scared to feed him by hand. I didn’t grow up with horses, I grew up in the city, and remain wary of big animals, and animals with teeth and fur and claws. I scatter the orange nuggets onto the grass on his side of the fence and encourage him to sniff them out. A treasure hunt. Do horses not see too well? He seems to rely on his nose to locate the food. His lips search the ground and suck up the morsels.
That’s it, no more. I spread my empty hands, keeping them well away from his inquisitive mouth.
His big brown eyes search mine, and for a moment we are locked together, two animals of different species, communicating in some kind of way, without language.
He seems to understand. As do I. He liked the carrot.
He turns and strides back into his paddock.
I turn too, and head back home.