A Day in the Life of a Pony Named Pony: Holiday Humbug

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

Dear Diary,

Apparently yesterday was Christmas.

I know this because Beta Human has been humming aggressively cheerful music, wearing a hat with bells (deeply suspicious), and telling everyone (everyone) that it is “the most wonderful time of the year.” This is categorically false. The most wonderful time of the year is Spring, when the grass lies and promises things it cannot deliver.

Christmas, on the other hand, has delivered me nothing.

Let us review my expectations versus reality.

Expectations:
– A custom-fitted blanket lined with something softer than disappointment
– Unlimited peppermints
– At least one decorative wreath to destroy with my teeth
– Recognition of my emotional labor all year

Reality:
– A single apple, sliced “to share” (share with whom?????)
– A carrot that was frozen
– Verbal praise

I did not ask for verbal praise.

The geldings, of course, are thrilled. They stand around with orange-stained muzzles and vacant expressions, delighted by carrots and pats like the simple creatures they are. One of them actually sighed happily while being scratched on the neck. The neck, Diary. No standards. No dignity.

They keep saying things like, “Oh wow, this is nice,” and “She didn’t even have to give me that,” and I find this attitude deeply embarrassing for the species.

I, meanwhile, was promised Christmas magic and received routine care with seasonal branding.

Beta Human attempted to explain that Christmas “isn’t about presents.” This is an interesting theory that conflicts directly with every movie, song, commercial, and human meltdown I’ve ever witnessed. If it isn’t about presents, why all the boxes? Why the trees? Why the jingling? Why the lies?

They hung stockings in the barn aisle. Mine was small and held two candy canes. That was all.

When I expressed my displeasure by kicking the stall door, Beta Human laughed and called me “festive.” This is not festive behavior. This is protest.

I watched the geldings chew contentedly, accepting their fate as ornament-adjacent furniture, while I stood in my stall contemplating the injustice of it all. I have been very good this year. I only tossed the small child once (maybe twice?). I only pretended to be lame once, and that was emotionally justified.

Still, no gifts.

The holiday itself is also wildly overrated. The lights are too bright. The music is repetitive. Everyone is cold and emotional. The humans rush around stressed, then claim they are “relaxing.” I have seen no evidence of this.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow is just another day. The hay will be the same. The feed will remain insultingly measured. Beta Human will still expect cooperation.

So forgive me, Diary, if I am not filled with cheer.

I tolerate Christmas. I endure it. But I will not be fooled by it.

And next year? Next year I want gifts befitting of my talents. Or at least a wreath to eat.

Until then,

Malevolently,
Pony
(Yes, that is my name. And yes, I deserved more.)