Bad Tail Day

"Heeey...!" she intoned whilst gracefully shoving herself between handler and pony. "What's the haps, mate?"

He scowled down at her like at a talking rodent.

"Look, there's a little something I have to take care of real quick. Barn assistant stuff. So why don't you bro out a couple more minutes, and I do my thing?"

Miraculously he wasn't taking a shine to Émilie's suggestion. Looking around her he noticed the tail she was trying to hide behind her back. His findings triggered further investigations, now at Cinnamon's rear area.

"You little minion had one job!"

"Just let me switch them, and she's hot to trot in no time!"

"What are you waiting for, then? Boy, the boss sure was right about you."

Exhaling in relief, Émilie turned to rectify her little faux pas.

"About whom was I right?"

The handler startled. Émilie froze. The female voice cutting from behind seemed not to expect an answer. Instead, the slim wooden shaft of something ouchy petted her right cheek.

"Turn around."

Émilie obeyed. Miss Vahrenfeld, dressed in a stern riding outfit and having her crop substituted for a Victorian driving whip to subject Absinth to yet another demanding stint, took the scene in as her glacier-blue eyes wandered from Émilie's hand to Cinnamon's bottom.

"Is this matter represented correctly by what I see, or is there some wild explanation I, like, totally must hear?"

"I can explain!" Émilie confirmed.

"Pray do."

"I got distracted because Cinnamon struck, and---"

"Why did Cinnamon strike?"

Vahrenfeld's gaze was unnerving. Beside her, the handler had shrunk to 50% of his size.

"Because I... I don't know..."

Meanwhile the other chaps had carefully approached to watch the drumhead court-martial that was unfolding itself at the toned backside of a ponygirl.

"Earlier this morning I asked you whether you want to be part of this stable, did I not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And what did you answer?"

Émilie swallowed hard. Her boss would not let this one go.

"That I wanted to, ma'am."

"Tell me," the woman addressed Cinnamon's handler for theatrical reasons, "what two kinds of beings is this stable made of?"

"Uhm," the burly man strove towards deeper insight, "staff and ponies?"

"Assuming we were in need for yet another proof, here it is that you are obviously not staff material," Vahrenfeld starred Émilie down again. "Therefore, you must be a pony."

Émilie's eyes widened at the ramifications of this deduction.

"Whoa! Wait, wait, wait, Miss V!"

The owner of the Vahrenfeld Stables turned back to the handler, tapping his broad chest with her whip.

"Take her to the tack room and buckle her up for the day. See if you can find something spiky for her impertinent mouth. If she resists, you have my explicit permission to use the bullwhip."

Another icy glance aimed at a thunderstruck Émilie, whose face was now completely drained from blood.

"And since you are obviously colour-blind, I will take it upon myself to choose a fitting tail for you."