My horse, Adam, is an expert eater. He may not clear most fences over 2’ 6,” or posses the willpower to maneuver his tank sized body through a dressage test, but his ability to fit any object of his choosing into his mouth remains infinite. He spends every minute of the day deciding what he can attempt to eat (almost everything), what’s best to eat (whatever tastes good, or is expensive), how to eat (grab, munch, conquer), when to eat (constantly), and why (to keep his stomach full and the grazing muzzle companies in business). Within the past nine years of owning Adam, I have decided that his only hope of slimming down involves a year of galloping over Antarctic terrain and feasting upon sparse patches of arctic grass.

Picture this: it’s the night before the horse judging at your annual county fair. Your horse’s mane hangs in braids and when your fingers -- adorned with a dozen rubber bands -- finish braiding the last tuft of mane and it’s time to pull the braids up and band them into a neat line of buttons. For every 20 seconds spent shifting the tiny rubber bands from your fingers onto the braids, the horse steps just far enough that his hair slips from your grasp.

A hamburger arrives on a styrofoam plate from a food stand down along the fairgrounds midway. From the distance between the tack box it rests on outside the stall to you, standing on a crate beside your horse’s mane, the burger’s delectable smell disperses through the air. You can almost feel the grill’s heat when its scent touches your nose, further reminding that you haven’t eaten since after your ride earlier that day. Then, as quickly as the hamburger arrived from the hands of a generous family member, the horse’s head slinks forward further than you believed the two lead ropes clipped to his halter allow. You turn to your left to catch sight of your burger lift from its plate and break underneath the force of the horse’s teeth. At least a quarter of the hamburger disappears between the horse’s lips. The rest half rolls, half falls back onto the plate’s edge and sliding back onto the tack box. The horse, gnawing on the remains of a piece of livestock not too unlike himself, stares at you as if it’s your fault he did not find an apple between the bun layers. The whites of his eyes show and you watch his nostrils exhale. Your eyes linger on the burger fragment before finishing another braid.

I sacrificed $5 for a chicken tender basket after returning my mane comb and braiding bands into my tack box. Adam lifted his muzzle toward one of the french fries I dangled in front of my mouth. I scooted my chair another foot away from his stall window.

“Did you enjoy that?” Adam blinked. “Did you really enjoy that?” Adam retreated from his stall window to itch his neck against the wall.