There is a bow in my hair.
I hate bows.
I trod my hooves into the tough ground. Don’t ask me why some schmuck put a pony in central park.
I can hear you thinking—horses know what Central Park is? First off—I’m a pony, a miniature horse if you will (those full grown horses merrily trotting around are such pricks, but more on that later.), and secondly—working central part makes us figureheads of one of the most romantic spots ever. Yuck.
Me, I wanted to go to the Derby. But they don’t like shorties. Stupid. Very Stupid. They only like those full-grown asses. I’m telling you, standing here, hearing my knees knock together, I watch them look down with arrogant pride at everything else. They walk more elegantly than other horses. They have shinier coats than those dogs. Hell, they are taller than those trees over there.
And all I’ve got is this stupid bow and a sign. No, I can’t see it, so I have no idea what it says.
Then, I see his coat. (Human, not horse.) He’s forcing himself to glance around, drawing his eyes anywhere other than straightforward. The chick on his arm laughs away as she talks. He stops just a few feet from me. She stops laughing suddenly.
She jumps right into his arms. Something about ponies really bring out humans’ sweet sides.