Earth Pony Woes

It cannot be overstated just how many times a day you think to yourself

"How vibrant life would be were I born somepony else"

Sure, the distinct distaste for oneself is not an uncommon plight, every stallion, colt, mare, and filly has hazarded the thoughts of escaping their physical bonds at least once or twice. Who could blame them? Being the Princess herself would be transcendent, how pleasant would it be to cast the radiance of the sun upon equestria at your will and be worshipped by the ponies who feel its warmth? Even being an aristocrat in the heady heights of canterlot alone would be excellent, having ponies tense up in equal parts fear and respect.

But for you? Every day, you think about this - not being a princess, a countess, or even a manager of a Donut Joe's.

You fantasize about being born a unicorn. Not even one of high status. Just having that magical focus growing naturally from one's head would give you something that every earth pony covets.

As these cyclical thoughts run through your head, you slip on a set of slippers - a clumsy affair assuaged only by the customized design created solely to allow earth ponies to slip them on without stooping and using your only remotely dexterous tool in your repertoire - your mouth.

Your filthy, sopping, mouths

You shudder thinking about it

Handles. Knobs. Bags. Clothes.

Ev. Ry. Thing.

You lick your teeth, making sure the scum of the hayburger you ate for lunch is off the only thing you have to approximate gripping digits. You then part your lips slightly and begin to exhale through your mouth - a practice you utilize to dry your teeth and prevent anything from sticking as you work.

As you blearily insert and settle your last hoof into your slippers, the reason for your dysphoria makes itself known through a gentle meow in the kitchen.

"I know, I know, Milkshake - You'll eat after I clean up your box"

In the morning sunlight, you gaze upon her - your pet, your muse, your dear friend and rampant pate devourer. Your responsibilities and sacrifices in relation to this fine mewling creature rifle through your head.

Does knowing what you must do have any bearing on the suffering of the event? You're almost certain some pony philosopher (Neightzche maybe?) had some insight on the matter, but you think about it and in your opinon -

No, it doesn't.

You yawn reflexively - your own body fighting desperately to make me go back to bed instead of engage with the regular discomfort that accompanies the care of another creature.

But cognition wins once more, and you open the pantry. Inside, past the generic cleaning supplies that reek of pine and bleach, rests 'the kit.'

You believe pet ownership is about 20% affection, 80% maintenance.

You open the shoddy P.Mart plastic bag that hasn't been replaced in years and inside is your burden.

Your shackle.

You gingerly use your teeth, the same teeth you've been using your breath to dry, and grab the handle of today's dire tool - a simple slotted scooper.

Your tongue folds back, further than it needs to, as if to protest the trial we are about to endure.

The smell of the litter, feces, and urine this scoop has touched fills your nose and throat tightens. You beg your salivary glands to simply cease production and to ignore the quickly drying membranes of your mouth.

With the scoop clenched between your teeth, the rubber gripping as well as it could, you trot to Milkshake's litterbox and stare upon it. You're still mentally steeling yourself and thinking about doing anything to distance yourself from the situation. You wonder uselessly, how many kernels of blue litter are there on the top layer? You could count them.

A gentle mew echoes from your kitchen, snapping me back to reality.

You sigh. This is what you signed up for when you took that cat in. That sad, wet, cat in a cardboard box one morning after Winter Wrap Up.

If only you knew what fate had in store for you.

Nevertheless, you readjust your position and crane your neck to the side and savor the last breath of relatively unsullied air in your vicinity. You hold that breath in your chest as a mother holds her stillborn child - desperately and stricken with grief.

But you persist, and you dip your head down with the scoop in hand. To perform half measures is to double the effort of an already difficult job. You can hear the scraping and scuffing of the litter filling the scoop as you get a large load, taking extra care not to allow any of it to touch your nose.

You aren't breathing, but the litter is merely inches away, and you feel yourself tensing too much. A twitch of your jaw could send a cascade of animal refuse infused substrate.

It is at this moment, you feel something brush the inside of your leg
A spider? A tarantula even? Are you about to die?
Your prey coded primal brain fires on all cylinders, exploding neurons and synapses driving the urge to live, to survive, jolting through your body like voltage arcing through a rat transposed on a set of powerlines.

You try to bolt, but your higher brain functions remind you that there is indeed a safe fuzzy thing in your home, and your muscles contract and prevent your body from taking off in the direction of open fields.

However, the initial shock does cause you to twitch, and your horrors are made manifest. The world slows down as you see a burst of litter and desiccated feces rebound off the cheap plastic scoop purchased years before and fly absolutely everywhere.

You wince and tear up as you feel every bit bounce off your exposed nose. You feel litter sticking to your bottom lip, a nugget of Milkshake's making resting upon your nostril, caught by your flared top lip.

You shake. You whine. You want to stamp your hooves in pure, unfettered rage.

But you sigh.

This is simply what earth ponies like yourself have to bear.

This is your shackle.
This is your burden.