Gorda and the Beans

'Bichos Raros'.^† I think this several times a day. They are guiris, Ingleses. They are all a bit odd. We Andalucians like to 'call bread, “bread” and wine, “wine”', I admit. Don't think I'm complaining! No, no, no. Listen, months at a time with no roof over your head and damned little to eat or drink – well, after that, a few foreigners' peculiarities are no bother at all. Besides, they took two of us. That's generous in the scheme of things, so what if they're not Queens of the South like us?

I'm not sure I like my new name much. 'Fatty!' You should have seen me before. Maybe it was a joke, the famous 'Humor Ingles'? Well, it's stuck now, like such names always do. There are two adults and some little ones. I like them best on the whole, although they were a little frightened of us at first.

I don't remember much about where we were before. Nice enough, at the top of a hill. Different people every day, mostly, and I don't think either of us was very well when we arrived there. But we were fed, and no matter how boring the fare, as we say here in the south, there is no hard bread after a week of hunger.

Still, we like it here, my compañero and I. Deep in the countryside. We can join the evening choir, when others start to sing at neighbouring fincas. No-one can sing like we Andalucians. ¡Anda!

Anyway, the other day, I went over to the house. The little ones were feeding on the terrace. They were – sitting, I think they call it – at one of those flat troughs. You know, they put their food on top of it! Well, I have to tell you, they eat some strange things, these Guiris. It was red, with little round things that could have been beans except for the strange colour. It (they?) smelt wonderful.

I leaned over the little girl's shoulder. Hayley, I think the big ones call her. The boy calls her other things, but I don't think she likes them.

I finished them off, Hayley didn't protest too much about not getting her breakfast. Delicious. No mistake. But the consequences! I was tethered down the bottom end of the big field. Alone. Needless to say my fellow guest remained near the house. The smell was so bad I wished I could escape myself. No, this guiri food is not for us Andalucians, but I think I'll stick around all the same. “A caballo regalado no se le mira el diente.*”

† Rare Mini-Beasts (but queer fish in the sense of being an oddball or weirdo)

*Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Andalucian Rescue Centre for Horses