I learned how to feed a horse when I was a kid. Keep the hand flat. They don’t mean to do it, usually, but if you get your finger mixed up with the carrot, goodbye finger.
I knew this when I was only six, and riding my lovely little pony across the fields of our farm. I knew enough then to watch out for “critter holes”, for plump little Misty could go down in them, and toss me which way from Sunday, not to mention what these would do to her sticky but fragile little legs.
Where has this fool been?