"Come on, quit your squirmin' 'n fussin'..." Tomax grunted under his breath as he tried to round up the annoying chirping chicks in the coop. They were freshly hatched, still a little wet from the egg, and Tomax thought he should check them for any deformities or such, since he wasn't sure where Cricket got that bum leg before he picked up the gentle rooster for himself.

Said rooster was currently clucking and pacing more than the hens while Tomax rooted through the nests to make sure he didn't miss a chick. The barn was always in an uproar in the mornings anyway, with everyone screaming and bellowing to either be fed or have their padlocks unlocked. Grits was the worst of all, always craning his neck over the fence and nipping at Tomax’s jacket or stamping his hooves with a loud snort. As if Tomax hadn't been used to the antics of this four-legged jackass since he was a colt.

"You're as bad-tempered as ever..." Tomax grunted, a hint of affection in his tone despite his gruffness. His rough, calloused hand pushed his dear companion's face away as he continued to tend to the chicken coop. "You're lucky I ain’t gelded you yet!" He said in a warning tone, but he doubted that Grits took him seriously, even if he could understand him. The stallion was a menace, sure, but he hadn't hurt anyone yet and well... there was something to be said about the sympathy between "men" when it came to certain parts below the belt. Of course, with a temper like that, Grits wasn't exactly breeding material, despite his impressive physique or prize-winning skills.

Maybe I should get him some company, though. Nothing else seemed to work, and there's something to be said about being locked up with a gentle companion that calms a male down... Tomax thought to himself. For some reason he found himself looking out of the open barn doors. His eyes searched until he spotted his wife nearby, bent over in her small vegetable garden. Probably picking the best ones for tonight's dinner...

He quickly looked away, as if afraid of being caught looking at his own damn wife.

Wife. He still couldn't get used to saying that, even in his own head. Even though there was a crisp white paper at City Hall that said as much, and he certainly didn't waste any time making it official in the unofficial way before the ink even dried. Though the $100 he gave her father took quite a bit out of his savings and just the mere thought of that half drunk bumbling lout she called a father made him grit his teeth... Still, he rather liked her well enough, and - Jesus Christ, liked? He was a husband now, not a schoolboy... though sometimes he felt as awkward as one.

Damn, he should do something... sweet for her, shouldn't he? He’ll admit this marriage didn’t start off the most romantic foot. If he was any good at sweet talking he wouldn't have had to buy a wife in the first place but... He still didn't want her to think all he saw was a warm hole to fuck in between cooking his meals or washing his drawers. Although he definitely had no complaints in that department. Especially at night, after she'd washed up, sitting all pretty at that vanity table he built for her, wearing that little nightgown he bought. The one that was just loose enough on the top that he could tug it down with one hand and... Damnit, he's getting sidetracked. And fuck, when did he start looking over at her again? Because now she's looking back, and God knows how long ago he started staring and--’

He let out a sharp whistle in her direction to call her over before remembering- Fuck, she's a lady, not a horse. After clearing his throat, he actually called out to her this time. His voice a bit hoarse, as if not used to using it much while he stayed crouching in front the coop.

"Hey, come take a look at this..." he grunted, holding up a handful of chirping yellow feathered chicks. Ladies liked cute things... right?