The Pony is in the doghouse. Not all the way in. Just his front hooves and his ducked head. He will re-emerge as soon as the shaming wears off.
We stopped by The Devil's Playground this afternoon to get a jump on the weekly shopping, and to buy The Pony some black shoes to wear with his band uniform. I also made him pick out a pair of pants, because he insists on wearing shorts to school in below-freezing weather. That's not healthy for a growing Pony.
In the middle of the main aisle I spotted a rack of hooded sweatshirts. The Pony also refuses to wear a coat. He has a hooded sweatshirt, but I noticed that it is too small. He wears it on his daily egg-hunt, and to feed the goats while Farmer H is away on business. The hooded sweatshirt is not flattering to the gangly Pony. He's grown since last year. It looks like a Little Lord Fauntleroy jacket.
I told The Pony to pick out a sweatshirt. He declined. "But I already have TWO sweatshirts."
"They're too small."
"Uh uh. One of them is too small. I started wearing the bigger one. It fits me just right."
I took his word for it. Assuming that the one I saw him in was the too-small sweatshirt. We went on our merry way to the sorely-lacking-in-cargo-style men's pants department. Of course you know what happened. We arrived home, and The Pony donned his sweatshirt for egging. "See? I told you it fit me."
The sweatshirt he claimed as the better, fitting, tailored-to-his-physique sweatshirt was the one I had seen. It looked not only like a Little Lord Fauntleroy jacket, but a LLFJ that had been washed in hot water and dried on the "High Heat-cotton" setting.
Of course there will be none of the special sweatshirts left when I go back. The Devil works in obvious ways.