A Day in the Life of a Pony Named Pony: The Enforcer

Someone’s gotta do it…

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like in the mind of a pony, wonder no more. Here are the hilarious inner workings of a sassy and opinionated pony named Pony.

Illustration by Jenny Kammerer. You can find her on Instagram at @jennykammart.

Dear Diary,

There are some jobs you can be trained to do, and there are some jobs you are born to do. Horses can be trained to ground drive, carry a rider, move off leg, give to the bit and all sorts of tedious things that please the humans (I always ask the question why when it comes to any of those jobs, but that’s another story).

And then there are the jobs we were born to do. The more docile creatures are the victims of such roles as being the first to meet new horses or raise the heathenish foals. But those of us who have some sense and innate leadership skills get to move up in the pecking order.

The job I was born to do? The enforcer. That’s right, I keep order in the field. Even at the confinement center, where my goal generally has been to disrupt the order the humans try to impose, someone still has to keep order in the pasture. After all, what would happen if all these mares got the impression that they were in charge or had the right to tell me what to do? It would be chaos.

So, I take my job seriously. I have to allow some freedom of choice, of course (or at least allow them to think they have some freedom of choice). For instance, at feeding time, it would not be worth my time to try to convince the — ahem — more ample mares not to go in for their grain. So, I let them think that they are free to do that. However, for the less food-motivated in my pasture, they don’t go in until I allow them in.

Making sure Tequila knows that she must remain in the field with me and not succumb to the call of Beta Human. Also letting Beta Human know who’s in charge. Photos by DeAnn Long Sloan.

Some of the other responsibilities included in fulfilling my role as the enforcer include telling the other mares when they can and can’t get a drink, moving the other mares out of my space at my whim and staring down the too-big-for-their-britches yearlings who need a good talking to.

Yes, I was born to be the enforcer. It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.

‘Til next time, Diary.

Malevolently,
Pony