Holding the reins, Grigory watched the old man and was surprised at how easily he hurled his old, bony body into the saddle.
“Follow me!” the general ordered abruptly, his gloved hand gently pulling the reins.
Holding his head like a rooster, the four-year-old stallion surged under Grigory and started walking sideways. He was not shoed on his back legs, and when he stepped on the smooth ice, he slipped, squatted, and spurted on all his legs. In a slouchy, but stable position, old Master lulled on Krepysha’s back.
“Where are we going?” asked Grigory.
“To the Olshansky gully,” Master responded in a thick bass.
The horses walked harmoniously. The stallion pulled at the reins, bending his neck like a swan, squinting his convex eye towards his rider and attempting to bite his knee. We climbed the hill and Master let Krepysha trot. The dogs ran behind Grigory spreading out in a small arc. The old black bitch was running and sweeping the end of the horse’s tale with her humped muzzle. The stallion squatted, heated up, wanting to kick the intrusive bitch, but she just lagged, catching the eye of Grigory with a yearning anile gaze.
Russian literature — RT