Okay, continuing the thread hijack: I confess that my opinion on horses mirrors those above -- i.e., best appreciated in a nice gravy with a bottle of Bordeaux.

My DW finds my opinions appalling/barbaric. But I earned them honestly: when I was six, old Duke (miserable old bugger, a draft horse, could open any gate with his teeth) stood on my foot as I was moving his picket and refused to move. Oh, I can taste that gravy.

P.S., Glad the hunter got out alive. Anybody who can pop a dislocated shoulder back into place is one tough bird.