That horse says no to you. The horse is the man of the house. You are the horse.
Clop clop! Trot about to your dingy office, little horsey.
Your wife kisses her husband-horse when you can't see. And then again when you can.
She buys it shoes, finer than any you'll own. Its metal feet crush your soul.
"This horse is now man!" it exclaims. "I am defeated!" you cry.
The horse has beat you. Soon you'll be in the stall, eating dry, bland grasses, while the majestic Horse band ferries your wife about town.
"Oh!" the city folk shall say as they drop to their knees as their muscles fail them at the sight of such a couple. "The horse is such a man!" they weep as they tear out their eyes, knowing they'll never see such beauty again.
Your wife and the Horse God shall laugh and eat gold together. Ha ha! And your tears shall be blood as you shrivel and turn to dust, forgotten in that stall outside the city where the HORSE is now Emperor Of All and Lover of One.
The citizens will genuflect before the great beast, paying whatever tithe the Hoofed One demands, be it of coin or flesh. The people will rejoice to do so, as their Great and Benevolent Equine shall make their crops plenty, and their lives ever long.
The rotten stall shall collapse on your worm-eaten bones, and none shall remember a whit about you. Except the Ur Horse, the original horse, who shall shed no tear, but blink in bitter recollection of that brief time he had to endure you.
Do not let this come to be. Shoot that horse. With your Glock. Eat its meat. Make a horse stew. Turn its bones into glue, and use it to glue the skull to your wall. Use its hooves to make a tasteless gelatin to encase its eyes in. Do it.
Be the man of the house, not the man of the horse.