I remember as a yearling I surveyed my pasture andthe jagged gray mountains beyond the ence.“I you dare, just try to beat me!” I called. I racedpast every mare grazing in the summer grasses, and Idashed by every oal standing in the rocky feld. Thecolts and the fllies gave chase, but I crested the hill frst,many lengths ahead o them all.When the astest flly caught up, she head-buttedme, slamming into my shoulder with all her strength,but it wasn’t enough to move me. I stood on the tip o agreat boulder jutting out rom the ground, and, like thestone beneath me, I would not be moved — not by thewind and not by the flly.I nickered or her to come at me again. “One moretry,” I urged her.She spun around, pawed at the ground, and made abig show o snorting. She backed up and charged. Thistime, I dodged her battery, and the flly ell down intothe tall grass.“I’m king o the hill!” I proclaimed. “Bow down toserve me.”A cabbage buttery o silken cream, unconcernedwith my victory over the flly, lit across the white clo-ver blossoms. She circled my cannon and itted downmy hoo. She anned her wings, came sotly to rest onthe grass, and tickled my oot with her legs. Butterykisses.