Doggone it! Woof is wrong with you? I very clearly barked at you to *not* look the gift horse in the mouth because it is prone to being startlish and, now, you have broken bones that are no use to me because they cannot be buried—yet. If you were expecting some aperçu in horsey’s muzzle, I can assure you that the only news below the nose is that mares eat oats, but never at night. For both protection and pleonasm, I have taped equine’s lips sealed shut, so do not expect an apology for suffering; just be thankful Mr. Ed was not wearing any shoes. And, as well, set aside any thoughts of revenge. You can look into those blues—and forget about types of glues. You brought me a note from a doctor? Why? All I see is chicken scratch. It says I am supposed to give you a paw-massage three times daily? Hmmm. Well, as I unfetter my hay-mate, my response to your relay is quite succinct: “Quack.” ; )