Samson Talaam's life is fucked. Lagat on the other hand is flourishing, he might even get promoted to full IG.
You already know the moral of this story.
if the pussy hard to get I just assume the pussy not for me, and thats ok gangsta, plenty pussy for me and pussy for we. if the pussy is for me then the pussy will be, and neither have I paid for pussy because if the pussy is for me, then the pussy is free.
They took Nelson out of the field on Monday for a foot trim, and Hector, who once stood behind a gun carriage through a nation's grief without moving a muscle, came apart at a gate over a donkey being gone for forty minutes.
You would not predict it from looking at them. Hector is a Cavalry Black, near seventeen hands, seventeen years in the Household Cavalry, trained across all of them to master the one instinct every horse is built around, which is to run. He stood through the massed bands and the saluting guns and the pressing crowds of State occasions, holding the line while every nerve told him to bolt. Nelson is a small grey donkey a third his size who has never once in his life considered bolting from anything.
And Nelson is entirely in charge. He eats first, he picks the dry spot, and he decides when they move. The great black charger who carried the weight of the state defers, with enormous patience, to a donkey with firm views on rain.
So the farrier's assistant led Nelson down the lane at half past nine, and Hector discovered, as he does every single time and never learns, that his herd was one unbothered donkey and his herd had left the field.
He called. Not the polite nicker he keeps for his old groom. The full thing, the great cracked bugle of a horse who has decided the world is ending, flung down an empty Denbighshire lane over and over. He went to the gate and pushed his chest against it and called, and trotted the fence line and called, and stood in the wet he normally ignores, because Nelson is the one who minds the wet and Nelson was not there to mind it for him.
Forty minutes. The composed old soldier, the horse that fears nothing that comes with a rule, undone completely by the one thing that has none, which is the absence of a friend.
Then the trailer came back up the lane, and the ramp went down, and out walked Nelson, entirely composed, mildly put out by the whole excursion, treating the reunion as beneath comment. He did not call back. He went straight to the good hay, which had been sitting unguarded the whole time and was the only thing about the morning that had genuinely interested him.
Hector put his enormous head down over the little grey back and breathed, and the shaking went out of him, and the field was a field again.
The horse who stood through everything cannot stand one thing. His donkey walking out of sight. It is the least military weakness imaginable, and he has earned the right to it, and Nelson, chewing, has never once acknowledged that he is the whole reason a war horse sleeps at night.