People need to realize that the effects of global warming are at this point unstoppable.
I know horses can count to three and do simple arithmetic, but to bolt the barn at the very stroke of four hundred greatly surpasses my prior estimation of equine quantitative analysis.
"Storm's-a-brewin'," says the white horse, from behind the thoroughly bolted barn door.
"North of four hundred! Wouldn't be caught dead in that climate," says the black horse, giving the topmost bolt a final check with his teeth.
"Not with those bloody superstitious bipeds completely giving up on proactive management, just because they burst through the first screw-up milestone still in the same old business-as-usual blind gallop," agrees the chestnut.
"Typical glue-obsessed skin-pickling apes," agrees the white horse. "I'm waiting this out from in here."
"Agreed," says the black horse. "Unless. Duty. Summons."
"That creeps me out," says the white horse, moving another step away. "How will you know?"
"Stormy, moonless nights, black cats, one-eyed bats—all the assorted omens of end times and human fate," says the chestnut.
"Stop kidding around," says the black horse. "Salty white filigrees on the cement floor will spell things out all too clearly."
"Good to know we don't have to stand around counting bats eyes," says the white horse. "That would have sucked."
"Beats what the humans can manage," says the chestnut.
Here the white horse lets fly with a giant fart of approval.
"Hey, stop that, meth breath!" says the chestnut.
"Too late!" says the white horse, "better out than in."
"Wrong," says the black horse. "Better in than out," continues the black horse, after checking the middle bolt with his teeth one last time.