The memory of meeting the old as crotchety man wearing tattered clothes and seemingly was angered by the kicking of that scruffy little dog meant you were a bully, as then he said something more. It is what the man said that bothers the mind, as it is some instance you cannot fully recall.
No matter as from the sounds and noises around you, you know someone is coming to offer a cool refreshing drink to a thirsty..., who, what, as determining and decide then what the man did to you...?
The clanking sound of metal pans, the shuff sound of a scooper shoved into a sack of tasty food before it is delivered, placed inside a square box made of wood and nailed to the wall of you personal cell. The water poured into a bucket and it hung as well on a hook screwed into the cell wall for you to use to drink, it all seems proper and yet wrong at the same time!
Outside the cell people talk, as inside you cell you listen but the words fail to own much meaning, only a rare few words seem to have your mind realize what was said... this too causes a sense of worry.
Munching breakfast, the uncivilized way the keeper forces you to dip the face to the box and use your tongue to lap-lick up the tasty food from that wooden box. When the food is gone and licked out of every corner of that crude musty scented box, a slurped drinking of the clean water quells the sense of frustration and anger for being jailed.
Soon then they will come and as the keeper did every morning, he entering you cell and without so much as a friendly word said, he clips a rope to that thing someone draped and latched snug about the head, as use it to make you move, to lead, and join then with other prisoners to do as shown, day after new day, boringly repetitious!
A spin-turn and while having to stand as not sit, reaching the head high and straining the neck to stretch, the lips reaching grab at the other other possible food available, that being strands of long, freshly cut grasses.
Coarse kernel grains, fresh cut grasses, a bucket of water to slurp and drink from, totally inhumane treatment and all this because you kicked that dirty little dog?
"Here, stall number nine, the stallion, the boss said to make use of him to breed the mares feeling their time of estrus." A man said, and some of what he said, the mind knew and rational thinking processed, adding new knowledge to a situation cloaked by a forgetful brain.
The sounds then of other prisoners walking past the cell on their way to work a monotonous job of making a machine revolve.
"Lucky boy today fella, Mister Jacobs wants you to perform the way a good pony stallion should, you get to breed-mate four mares today, more tomorrow if you do each a good deed."
The two new words, those being "Good and Deed," they ring a bell in the mind, as you recall the old man and what he said, you needing to do a hundred good deeds before you can become your truer self....wow !
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