Coco, the chocolate brown fluffy pony, stared out the van window, her heart a tangled knot of apprehension and relief. The city, a cacophony of honking horns and flashing lights, receded into the distance. Soon, it would be just them, the endless green fields, and the promise of a new life – on a peanut farm.
The farm, aptly named “Nutty Acres,” belonged to Wanda Miller and her husband, a kind but slightly eccentric man. She’d heard their curbside pitch while going into town for fertilizer: “Bestest Fluffy Ponies Seeking Loving Daddeh (Toysies Optional).” Wanda Miller told them she didn’t have any toys but she could keep them busy. Coco looked apprehensive.
After an hour the van finally rumbled to a stop, kicking up a swirl of red dust. Pip, Coco’s milk chocolate foal, peeked out from behind her legs, his eyes wide with curiosity. A weathered wooden barn with a faded “Nutty Acres” sign loomed ahead.
A tall, lanky man with a sun-creased face and a straw hat greeted them. This was Farmer Miller. His smile was genuine, but Coco couldn’t miss the twinkle in his eye. “Well, howdy there, little ones! Welcome to Nutty Acres!”
The farm was a far cry from the concrete jungle. Here, the sky stretched wide open, painted with shades of orange and purple by the setting sun. Fields of peanut plants rustled in the gentle breeze. Pip, forgetting his city caution, pranced around, his tiny hooves barely leaving a mark on the soft earth.
Coco, however, couldn’t shake off a sense of unease. As Farmer Miller led them into the barn, the air grew thick with a nutty aroma. Inside, a large trough overflowing with a gooey, brown substance awaited them. “This here’s peanut butter,” Farmer Miller said, his voice booming in the enclosed space. “Made with the finest peanuts Nutty Acres has to offer!”
Pip, intrigued, dipped his muzzle into the trough. Coco watched, her stomach churning. The thought of eating anything other than rotten apple cores or licking clean sketti cans in the dumpster felt… wrong. Yet, Pip emerged from the trough, his face smeared with peanut butter, a look of pure bliss on his face. “Yummeh!” he exclaimed.
Coco hesitated. Farmer Miller, sensing her reluctance, crouched down to her level. “Don’t worry, Coco,” he said gently. “Hay’s on its way, if you’d prefer. But peanuts are good for you. Full of protein and healthy fats – keeps your coat shiny and strong!”
Coco, still hesitant, took a tentative lick. The peanut butter was surprisingly sweet and nutty. It wasn’t hay, by any stretch, but it wasn’t bad either. Slowly, she started to nibble, the texture strangely comforting.
Over the next few days, Coco discovered the joys of farm life. She and Pip spent their days frolicking in the fields, chasing butterflies and rolling in the cool grass. Coco learned to appreciate the calming rhythm of farm life – the crowing of roosters at dawn, the mooing of cows in the distance, the comforting scent of freshly turned earth.
One afternoon, while Coco grazed on a patch of clover (a treat Farmer Miller had found for her), Pip trotted up to her, his face smeared with peanut butter again. “Mummah,” he said, “wan heaw bestest peany singie nieuw daddeh taught me?”
Coco smiled. “Suwe, honey. Mummah wub singing babbeh.”
Pip puffed up his tiny chest and sang, in a voice both enthusiastic and slightly sticky, “Peany, peany good fowe eat! Soft shiny fwuff no can be beat! Awways mowe, nebba hungwy, one mowe trough for cowt an mummy”
Coco watched him, a warmth spreading through her chest. Maybe, just maybe, this new life, with its peanut butter song and endless fields, wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Farmer Miller’s cheer turned to dread as the next day’s morning sun revealed Coco and Pip lying motionless in their stall. Wanda, his wife, rushed to his side, tears welling in her eyes. The half-empty trough of peanut butter sat beside them, a sickening reminder of the devil’s bargain deal Miller made with a shady supplier at the county fair. Genetically modified peanuts with sugarcane characteristics seemed perfect for revitalizing a lagging business, if only they hadn’t had the tendency to also grow ribbons of strychnine throughout. “Ah well, I’m going down to Walmart later anyhow,” Wanda said, “I’ll find us some new Fuzzies or whatever the heck they’re called.”
