The residents of the Hillbilly Mansion do not live in a democracy. There is a certain pecking order from which orders are issued, and The Pony is at the bottom, making the best of the dregs of personal freedom allotted to him.
The #1 son fancies himself the oligarch of the familial society. At times, he can get away with it. Friday, for instance, when he commanded The Pony to make him a piece of toast. It makes no difference whether The Pony is standing within a fetlock's distance from the bread and toaster, or if #1 is right beside them and The Pony is down in the basement happily typing away on his laptop. When #1 summons, The Pony appears like a cartoon character leaving a swirl of motion lines in his wake, without the drumbeat of flailing feet trying to get traction.
Of course, The Pony's efforts are never quite good enough. "Hey! You put the bread in the wrong side of the toaster!"
"What do you mean? I put it in the toaster."
"The side with the arrows is for one slice. Get in here! Look at it, so you'll know next time."
"Oh. I didn't know that's what it meant."
"Hey! You gave me the heel!"
"No I didn't. It was the piece NEXT to the heel."
"That's a crappy piece. I can't believe you gave me that. It's just like the heel."
"Can't you ever do anything right?"
"I guess not." The Pony gave me an evil grin. He knows exactly what he's doing.