From the Desk of the Enumclaw Horse

I, the Enumclaw horse, regret fucking Kenneth Pinyan to death on that warm summer night in July. It was not my intention to kill the poor man, but he-he-he kept asking for more and more of me. To the best of my ability, I informed the men who were helping me fuck (having sex with a human requires teamwork) that I was deep enough already, but Pinyan told us that he-he-he could handle it—he-he-he wanted all of me in him. And I gave him all of me, and it wasn’t like he-he-he screamed or anything. He-he-he just said, “Big Dick”—that’s the name he-he-he gave me—”Big Dick, I think something popped.” I pulled out, and he-he-he stood up, and at that moment all of us in the barn knew from the look on his face that the worst had happened. We passed the living limit that stands between a man and a horse like myself, he-he-he was soon to meet the maker of all things—the maker of this farm, the maker of grass, the maker of Mount Rainier, which I stare at when I’m not eating grass. The next day, I learned from other animals on the farm that by the time he-he-he was dumped at the hospital, he-he-he was, he-he-he was, he-he-he was dead for sure. Pinyan. I will always remember the happy times we had in the barn. I love carrots.