Chubs, the Little Horse

Hey friends, it’s Chubs again.

So… I’ve been thinking.

I must have committed some kind of crime. Not a big one. Just, like, minor mischief. Maybe I snuck one too many bites of Emmalynn’s sandwich when she wasn’t looking. Maybe I glared at Finnick too dramatically. I don’t know. But whatever it was, the punishment is clear:

I’ve been sentenced to Hay Prison.

Okay, okay, it’s not really prison. It’s the arena. But it’s a dry, dusty arena with no grass. No clover. No soft green nibbles waving in the breeze. Just hay. Good hay, don’t get me wrong—but still. Only hay.

You see, my hoof started hurting again. My little girl says I have a “stone bruise,” which sounds cooler than it is. Basically, a sneaky little rock poked my foot the wrong way and made everything sore. She says summer makes me extra sensitive because the grass has more sugar in it, which apparently is bad for ponies like me.

So now, instead of running free across endless pasture like a majestic creature of strength and glory, I get… a fenced-in dirt patch.

I do get to go out in the early mornings. Just for a bit. They let me graze a small patch of grass while the sun is still sleepy and the sugar is low. I soak up every bite like it’s the last leaf on Earth. I try to savor it, but honestly, it’s hard not to inhale it.

Then, just as I’m getting into a rhythm—back to the dirt I go.

At first, I didn’t understand. I kept staring longingly at the pasture gate like it might open by sheer willpower. It didn’t. But then my little girl came with hay and said, “I know it’s not the same, Chubs, but it’ll keep your feet from hurting.”

And that? That helped.

Because I may love grass with my whole pony soul, but I love her more. And if eating hay for a while means no ouchy hooves and more trail rides later… I guess I’ll take it.

So here I am—slightly pouty, mostly okay, and chewing my way through yet another flake of hay. The good news? No trailer rides. The bad news? Finnick keeps bragging about how he still gets the big pasture. Whatever, Finnick.

Until next time, friends—watch your step, eat your hay, and if you’re lucky enough to get pasture time… eat like it’s the last blade of grass on Earth.