"Most new weanlings follow the same routine. I call it the weanie shuffle. The weanlings all run around crazy for an hour or so and then congregate in one corner to choose a leader. The guy that gets the long straw picks out a path and head-to-tail, they march around the paddock like soldiers on a scavenger hunt. Every so often, a voice from the wilderness will cause the formation to break up into small, noisy groups that think they heard something important. After a few minutes, they all decide it was a wrong number and return to their treks, only stopping occasionally to see if one of the group happened to sprout a bag. A bag being an unattached mammary gland, preferably one that is both available and full of something close to 2% milk fat. Colts are the worst, as they assume, quite illogically, that another colt's penis has a mystical power to convert urine into milk, leading to all sorts of crotch-snatching and less than sincere apologies. Fillies join in of course, but they categorically fail to reciprocate the favor, choosing instead to kick the offender senseless.
I can only stand about an hour of this nonsense before I retreat into the house. Sure, I feel guilty, but the best thing I can do is to watch the "Wheel of Fortune" and the let the boys and girls process the mess. Besides, this is going to go on for at least a week which is about the length of time it takes me to lose my hearing and them to lose their voices. Now if I could just lose my vision.
UPS Guy: "Sign here, sir...ah, what's that horse doing...is he...?"
Me: "Nothing, nothing."
UPS Guy: "Well, I just took over this route...Geez! Look what he's doin'! Can I get a picture of this??"