Barn of the Pus Pony

Under an orange sunset, a red stallion headed back to the farmhouse at Sweet Apple Acres after a long afternoon of apple bucking in the north orchard. Big McIntosh left his last wagonload of apples by the side barns and let out a sigh as he felt the weight lifted from his yoke. Only then did he notice the skin beneath the yoke beginning to itch. Blisters, probably, he thought. As his mind shifted to his physical condition, he resumed his walk and felt a stinging sensation on his rear hooves. He stopped in front of one of the barns and raised a hind leg to take a look.

There on the bulbs of the right heel was a layer of dark red, yellow, and brown, swirled together, crusted over with an uneven surface. It looked not unlike cherry cobbler. Just above was a bare patch of raw flesh, somewhat darker than his hair and with a glossy finish. An abscess, probably from a puncture wound. Perhaps he'd stepped on a nail or something in the cellar? No telling how long it had been infected. He really needed to take better care of himself. He couldn't afford to be laid up this close to the end of harvest. There were still carts filled with apples ready to be hauled into town.

As he examined his forelegs for further injuries, the door of the barn cracked open behind him, and a pair of sad-looking eyes shone out from the darkness inside. A pony's muzzle poked out near ground level, and an oddly long blue tongue extended from its mouth to reach the farmer's infected hoof. Tired and preoccupied, Big Mac felt a slight pinprick sensation there but paid no heed. He continued on to the farmhouse, hoping supper would be ready soon.

At the farmhouse trellises he took one more look at the sore on his right rear leg. To his surprise, the infection appeared to have burst, and the dried crust and dead skin hung by one corner like toppings falling off a pizza. He supposed it must've just been ready to go. As large as it had been, there was hardly any fluid. Oh, well, it was all part of the job. Careful not to cause any further damage, he gently bit off the majority of the scab and spat it out. This triggered random thoughts of a time when he used to feed his scabs to his then-baby sister Applejack. Nickering at the fond memory, he entered the house and called out. "Granny, where do we keep the antibiotics?"

At the door of the small barn, the unseen visitor slurped up the last drops of his meal. This special sauce, tangy and pinkish-orange, was delicious. If delicacies like Big Mac's abscess were any indication, he could easily make this his new home here on the path of any ponies heading to or from the field. Evening set in and he soothed himself with a quiet song. Notes like those of a trumpet wandered out the cracked-open door and disappeared unheard into the night.

(Cue theme song and opening credits)