The Pony's Logic

I might have mentioned a time or two that The Pony has his own manner of doing things. Or called him an odd duck. Same difference.

Today I laid out his clothes for our trip to The Devil's Playground. I know he's getting a bit old for me to lay out his clothes. But you haven't seen the garb he adorns himself with if he is the one to choose. When time is of the essence, I play the Mr. French to his Uncle Bill. Every weekend, I lay out his camouflage shorts. He used to wear them to school, but he has other shorts that fit better. I think they look too tight. Every weekend, I ask, "Are those shorts getting too tight?" And The Pony assures me that they are not.

We went down the steps to the garage, taunting the puppy with a pat and a tousle. The Pony looked like he could hardly bend his legs. "Are those shorts too tight?"

"Kinda."

"Why didn't you say so? I ask you every week."

"I already had them on, and I didn't want to change."

When we were halfway through The Devil, I noticed that The Pony had worn his white Adidas slides with the navy blue stripes. The perfect complement to camouflage shorts and an olive green shirt. "Don't make me tell you again. Don't wear those shoes anymore. It's going to be November in two days." I meant for him not to wear them to town. I don't mind for things at home like feeding the puppy or gathering eggs.

At home, The Pony helped me carry in groceries and put them away. I told him to put on another pair of shorts so he could breathe. Then he set about his chore of gathering boxes for burning. That's how we do it here in Hillmomba. No need to clog up the landfill. Mother Nature cleanses herself. The Earth has not been asphyxiated due to lightning burning millions of acres of timber over the history of the world. Normally, he puts smaller boxes into larger boxes. But there's been a shortage of big boxes, so Farmer H tells him to put the boxes in a big black trash bag. Of course Farmer H burns it bag and all, whereas I want to do my part for the environment and bring that bag back to use for trash. Tomato, tomahto, what you gonna do?

I saw the big dogs way out by the road, jumping and biting and generally acting the canine fool. I sent The Pony to see what was up. I thought they might have stolen the puppy's new rubber chicken squeaky toy, or were perhaps in the process of killing a baby mole. The Pony set out to investigate.

With the bag stuffed full of boxes on his back.

I know ponies might be beasts of burden. But not my Pony. He's generally pretty flimsy. A normal child would have set the bag of boxes down on the porch before galloping off an eighth of a mile to check on dog shenanigans. Not The Pony. I also noted that he had ditched the slides and was now sporting shoes AND socks. Poor Pony. He would hobble through life unshod if it were socially acceptable. He came trotting back, black bag jouncing on his spine. "They were just playing. Not killing anything. I'm taking these boxes over to the barn now."

The Pony saw nothing odd about carrying that bag of boxes like Santa at a pickpocket convention. I suppose he thought I or the puppy might come out on the porch and take the fruits of his labor.