A Day in the Life of a Pony Named Pony: Gratitude

Pony reflects on everything she’s truly thankful for — chaos, mud, and keeping humans in their rightful place.

Illustration by Jenny Kammerer. You can find her on Instagram at @jennykammart.

Dear Diary,

It is American Thanksgiving — a human holiday allegedly centered around gratitude, overeating, and pretending they aren’t the reason every gate latch on this farm is crooked.

Naturally, I’ve decided to participate. After all, I am a generous soul… when it suits me.

So here is what I, Pony (capital P, capital attitude), am thankful for this year:

First and foremost: the other horses.

Big, small, fancy, forgettable — I am thankful for every last one of them. Not because I like them (don’t be absurd), but because they provide endless opportunities for torment, chase, and general chaos. What is life without a daily game of “Let’s Pretend I’m a Velociraptor?” If they didn’t scream and run, I’d simply perish from boredom.

Second: the small humans.

Ah yes… the lawn darts.

I am particularly grateful that I was blessed with the athleticism, creativity, and well-timed side-spooks required to launch them gently-yet-enthusiastically into low orbit. They bounce surprisingly well. And the noise they make — somewhere between a squeak toy and a startled baby bird — is pure art.

Third: mud.

Mud is everything.

Mud is camouflage.

Mud is a weapon.

Mud is a lifestyle.

I can slip into the muck like a woodland ninja and re-emerge looking like a creature summoned from the deepest swamp. The best part? Watching the humans’ faces when they see their freshly groomed “perfect pony” transformed into a mud-encrusted cryptid. Perfection.

Fourth: my seven-acre kingdom.

Some call it a pasture. I call it a tactical evasion zone. Seven whole acres in which to create distance between me and any human carrying a halter, lead rope, or — worst of all — motivation. They jog, they wheeze, they bargain, they plead… and still, I dance away like a ghost in the mist. Truly, I am an artist of the chase.

Fifth: my bombastic side-eye.

It is my most valuable asset. A weapon sharper than any tooth, more effective than any kick. With a single prolonged glare, I can communicate:

“Back up.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“I saw that, and I will remember.”

or my personal favorite…
“Try me, mortal.”

And so, Diary, on this Thanksgiving day, I bask in all that I have: power, freedom, mud, terrified children, annoyed humans, and a gaze that could curdle milk.

Life is good.

Malevolently grateful,
Pony