After a brief hiatus in which Pony decided to teach some other small children the ways of stubborn ponies every where, she’s back. That’s right. The pony named Pony is back home where she belongs, as sassy as ever.
If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like in the mind of a pony, wonder no more. Here are the hilarious inner workings of a sassy and opinionated pony named Pony.
Well, it’s been a minute. I’ve been moved from one containment center to another, and now I’m back to my original location of imprisonment. I would tell the story of the time I was gone, but it’s of no importance. Suffice to say, I successfully convinced at least one child of my superiority. Thus I was shipped back to my first locale.
Under normal circumstances, this would be no less intolerable than any other form of existence under the humans, but things have changed. Instead of a simple containment center in which I could at least entertain myself by tormenting the other horses, convincing some not to eat and boxing others, the prison has transformed. It seems to have taken the form of a Solzhenitsyn-esque Gulag. That’s right. It’s gone from simple containment to a work camp.
Gone are the days carefree — albeit unacceptable — frolicking in the field and running from the small humans as they chase after me with a halter. Gone are the days of laying down mid-ride just to let everyone know who’s boss (me, in case you were wondering).
Now I am forced into consistent work. From lessons to parades to mounted shooting competitions to local “fun” shows (fun for whom, I would like to know?), a pony can’t catch a break. The small humans seem to have morphed from the lightweight pushovers they once were into focused little work machines. They insist that they can ride and try to make me engage in horrendous drills such as trot circles, ground poles and cantering. **shudder** I loathe cantering.
I’ve even heard Alpha Human (who used to be Beta Human, but seems to have received some sort of promotion — I don’t even want to know what she had to do to arrange that) refer to me as “the hardest working horse in the barn.” I don’t know what she means by that, but it must be some form of deranged torture, designed just to torment me.
It appears I will have ample fodder to full these diary pages. Sigh.
‘Til next time, Diary.