Chubs, the Little Horse

A suspicious investigation by Chubs, Pony of Interest

Hello again, dear readers.
It is I—Chubs the Curious. Chubs the Brave. Chubs the Eternally Hungry. And today, I come to you not with a heartwarming tale or a sentimental message, but with a warning. A public service announcement. A conspiracy, if you will. Because I’ve been watching. I’ve been listening. And I’ve put the pieces together.

The feed room is a trap.

Now before you call me dramatic (which, frankly, is rude), let me lay out the evidence. First of all, the door. It’s alwaysclosed. Not just casually closed, but locked. Latched. Barred like there’s treasure behind it. And as it turns out, there is. Bags of grain. Buckets of supplements. Treats. Molasses. Magic. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes—or at least caught a glimpse before being shooed away like some kind of wild animal. Which, for the record, I am not. I am a domesticated gentleman with refined taste.

Second, the smell. Oh, the smell. It wafts out whenever the door creaks open, filling the air with promises of oats and sweet feed and mysterious crinkly things that definitely aren’t carrots but smell like they could be. It’s enough to make a pony weak in the knees. I’ve tried everything to get inside—strategic nudging, a bold nose-dive when the hoomans are distracted, even the ol’ “look how cute I am” routine. Nothing works. I’m always caught. Always led away like some kind of criminal.

But here’s the part that really gets me. If the feed room isn’t a trap, why do the hoomans only go in alone? Hmm? Why do they close the door behind them every single time, like they’re entering some kind of high-security vault? And what are they doing in there for so long? Measuring. Mixing. Whispering. I’m not saying they’re plotting against me, but I’m also not not saying that.

I’ve considered the possibility that they think it’s for my own good. That maybe they think I’ll help myself to too much. To that I say: have a little faith. I am very capable of self-regulation. I promise I’d leave some for the others. Probably.

In conclusion, I remain extremely suspicious. The feed room is not what it seems. It is a forbidden fortress. A den of delicious deceit. And until the day they let me in, I will continue my noble quest to uncover the truth.

Or at least find a way to open the latch when no one’s looking.

Vigilantly yours,