Chubs, the Little Horse

A personal investigation by Chubs, long-suffering pony and part-time detective

Hello again, fellow freedom-seekers.
It’s me, Chubs. And today I come to you with a grave concern—something deeply unsettling that returns every spring like clockwork, no matter how much I protest. I am, of course, talking about the fly mask. Or as I like to call it: the face prison.

Now, I’m told—by the hoomans who supposedly “love” me—that this thing is for my comfort. That it “keeps the flies away,” “protects my eyes,” and “makes me look handsome.” Lies. All of it. First of all, no piece of mesh strapped to your face should ever be described as comfortable. If it were comfortable, I wouldn’t try to rub it off on every fencepost, tree, and unfortunate goat that walks by.

Let’s talk about the design. I have two of them. Two. One is black and almost makes me look like a mysterious outlaw. I could maybe get behind that. But the other? Pink. Bright. Bubblegum. Pink.
Am I a stallion or am I a walking Easter bonnet?
Every time they put that one on, I swear the barn cat snickers behind the hay bales.

They say it’s to keep the bugs away.
But I’ve seen bugs. I’ve chased bugs. I’ve eaten bugs (by accident, of course). And I can tell you right now, they’re not scared of mesh. They’re little flying maniacs with no respect for personal space. A fly mask is like hanging a screen door in front of a hurricane and calling it a fortress.

Also—and I feel this point is often overlooked—have you ever tried expressing yourself with half your face covered? I am a creature of drama. A master of facial expressions. You take away my ears and my eyes, and what’s left? How am I supposed to scowl meaningfully at the new horse in the paddock? How will the hoomans know I’m bored, unimpressed, or silently judging their outfit choices? I ask you: How?

I’m not saying I don’t appreciate their concern. I know they mean well. But there has to be a better solution. A stylish sunhat, perhaps. One of those tiny parasols. A full-time fly-swatting intern. Literally anything else.

Until then, I will continue to remove my mask every chance I get.
Rub it off. Hide it. Launch it into the water trough.
Because I may be short, but I am mighty. And I will not be silenced.
Not by Velcro. Not by mesh.
Not by the tyranny of fashion-forward insect defense.

Stay strong, friends. Summer is coming.
So are the bugs.
And so is Chubs… plotting his next great escape.

With resistance and a strong head shake,