Hello, everyone. It is I, Fia, writing to you from what can only be described as utter exile.
While the rest of you are surely enjoying normal ranch life (and hopefully nothing major is happening that I should be aware of), I have been leased out—yes, leased, like some common plow horse—to a local riding stable for something called Kids’ Week. This is, apparently, a time when small, wobbly humans are placed on my back so they can learn how to “ride.”
Now, let’s be clear—I do not care about “teaching” anyone anything. I walk when they tell me to walk. I stop when they tell me to stop. It’s not difficult. Yet somehow, these tiny creatures make it chaotic.
They bounce like sacks of potatoes that learned how to scream. They pull my reins with the subtlety of a panicked fisherman reeling in a whale. One child insisted on telling me her entire life story while riding, despite the fact that I did not ask. Another kept saying, “Go faster!” as if I had any interest in doing so. And then there was the one who started crying because my ears “looked mad.” (They were.)
But the real indignity? The makeover sessions.
I have been braided within an inch of my life. My mane? Knotted up with ribbons. My tail? Tied with a bow so large it could double as a windsock. And worst of all—worst of all—yesterday, they strapped a fake unicorn horn to my head. A pink one. With glitter.
I swear, if I ever see another bow again, I am going to scream.
Look, I don’t expect much out of life. A quiet place to nap. Regular meals. Minimal interference. But this? This is too much.
And yet… I tolerate it. The tiny hands brushing my coat. The way some of them cheer when I so much as take a step forward. The oddly satisfying feeling of watching them cling to the saddle like baby birds during a slow trot. I could walk away (probably), but I don’t.
Still… something doesn’t sit right with me. I wish I knew what was happening at home. I have a really bad feeling that things are about to change—and not in a way I’m going to like.
—Fia