I read Misty of Chincoteague when I was a child -- even lacking as I did that nine-year-old desire to bareback a pony any pony -- but it must not have been this edition or else I would be dead today, so squarely does the horse's ass of it sit on you.
IS THIS WHAT HAVING A HORSE DOES TO A WOMAN. I'm going to make a bold claim: this is the largest most encompassing horse's ass that has ever appeared on paper. It almost seems to spread, or to change shape from second to second like a cloud, now seeming to shift into a president, now seeming to shift into a hippopotamus. Never seeming to shift into a horse. A column of tail pours out of it like a column of terrible light; it is the light that no one wants to see by! Also, my sense of humor generally sees no place for base scatology, but here I will make an exception, BECAUSE. What unspeakable vantage point is this? I feel like the picture was composed to put the viewer in the exact position of a magnificent dump the horse just dropped; it says you are the magnificent dump of a horse, this is the view you get always.
HORSE BOOKS ARE DANGEROUS FOR YOUNG GIRLS TO READ. They teach them about sex, and how to sit hard on an animal that sooner or later is going to whinny. And here is a horse book that goes even further, and teaches a lesson deeper and darker: that all of us one day will be spread in the fields. The foal stares at us, youthful as we are not youthful, her back legs as yet the legs of a ballerina who has mated with a drumstick. The reader alone is a crap, and it knows: the teeth and the chew they will come for her too.