Just horsing around

Since I moved into my house and began a life of living on my own, various friends have asked when I'm going to get a pet.

"How about a cat," they ask. Now, I'd love a cat. But I'd worry about it getting lost or run over or kidnapped by the Peruvian mafia while I was at work, and it wouldn't be fair to leave it in all day; the little shit would no doubt maul the sofa anyway.

"A dog?" No, don't be silly. I don't do dogs. Not since that chocolate brown labrador knocked me over when I was running in a park aged about four and proceeded to lick my face like I was a chum-flavoured ice cream.

"How about a fish?" I really don't think that's a good idea bearing in mind my track record with goldfish; I still remember the day that I woke up to find that Speedy had jumped clear out of the tank during the night and landed on the Staines Informer, which, as he began to dry out, he appeared to bond with at the molecular level. We had to flush him still attached to an advert for double-glazing in the Sunbury area.

And his replacement, Giotto, died after only a week while we were watching Dallas. The pet shop owner told us it was a heart attack (I also found the 'who shot JR?' storyline exciting, but thankfully not to the point where it induced a coronary), although even the eight year-old me figured that was a pretty precise diagnosis considering he hadn't even performed an autopsy.

So, after a traumatic history with goldfish, I think it's probably best to leave them well alone.

No, at the moment, the most promising idea looks to be a miniature horse.

Aaaah, aren't they cool?

(Although this one looks suspiciously like it's murdered its stable-mate…)

Anyway, I might have to look into the miniture horse market a little more. Mr Chunt reckons I should buy six and recreate the chariot race from Ben Hur in my living room.