Where the Heart Is

by Pascoite

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, Sad, Applejack, Drama, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Winona
Length: 2466

Dogs act like they love their families, but nopony will ever know for sure. More importantly, Winona's family loves her. She couldn't ask for more. But she does love them. She really does.

Dogs act like they love their families, but nopony will ever know for sure. More importantly, Winona's family loves her. She couldn't ask for more. But she does love them. She really does.

Second-place winner in the /fic/ write-off "Long Way Home."

Featured on Equestria Daily!

Published 2014-11-06 05:50:05 UTC
Last updated 2014-11-06 05:50:05 UTC

Where the Heart Is

I think I hear hoofsteps outside…

Just in case, I perk up my ears. No use actually picking my head up off my pillow if I don’t have to. But now I know I hear voices, and my tail starts wagging.

They sure are taking their time, though. Over the years, I’ve worn a few grooves in the floorboards, and my noseprints cover the window beside the front door. If only it’d open! I try barking at it, but nothing. And finally the knob turns!

“Winona!” Applejack says on her way through the door with a load of groceries. “C’mere, girl!” She bends down and rubs a hoof along my back. I’ve got an itch near there, so I roll a shoulder into it, and… that’s the spot! I close my eyes and point my snout straight up toward the ceiling.

When she stands again, I hop up on her and try to lick her face. But she holds a hoof in my way. Doesn’t she know how long she was gone? When she left, the sun was… I don’t know. I don’t know how long, but it was long, and she’s home now!

“Down, girl!” she says, giving me a little shove away. She wipes off her cheek where I got a kiss through her defenses, but she doesn’t lose her grin. “Down, or no treat.”

I learned that word long ago. It means she’ll love me if I sit still. So I hold as steady as I can and gaze up at her, but I can smell it. In her saddlebag there, and I can’t decide whether to stare at it or her. All those smells, not mashed together, like I think Applejack gets them. All separate, sorted: Flour, the cheap kind, but I like it better, since it has the bits of bran in it. Sugar, eggs. Not from Fluttershy’s chickens. They eat marigolds, and it makes their eggs smell a little different. And a strong scent of mint over it all. Probably one of those breath-freshening biscuits they sell over at Sugarcube Corner.

I didn’t think my breath was that bad. It only smells like a few of the bits from the compost heap that I gnawed on this morning. And whatever that thing was out by the road. I chewed on that one a long time—as soon as I woke up this morning, there it was, all leathery-smelling, and I growled at the door until Big Macintosh let me out. When I got there—soft and strong, and it just filled my nose. I would’ve rolled around in it first, but then I’d get a bath for sure.

Baths. Yuck. They ruin my scent. Then I have to build it back up again.

Still Applejack watches me. I shuffle back and forth on my front paws and let out a little whine. Behind her, a moth flits around, and I follow it for a second before her ear twitches—my eyes snap to the motion.

No bath today, though. Applejack reaches out with a hoof and scratches behind my ears, which feels so good. I could stay like this forever—I lean into it, a rear leg kicking like mad, and my mind goes fuzzy. It… it… Ahhhhh. Where’d I hide that… thing? That… squeaky ball. I need to find it and find where it’s hidden so I can—

Applejack stopped. I blink and lick my nose.

“Now, Winona,” she says, waggling a hoof. “Did you get into the compost today?”

I cock my head and give my tail a tentative swish. Did I mess with the compost? Oh. Yeah, I guess I did. I lick my chops and find a little scrap of potato peel stuck in the corner of my mouth. It tastes even better now.

Letting out a snort, Applejack purses her lips and shakes her head. “Goofy dog. ’S alright. You didn’t hurt nothin’, but you know how Big Mac don’t like it. Careful you don’t spread it ’round. So behave yourself, y’hear?”

My tongue lolls out of my mouth, and I give a short bark. I even wag my tail a little. What were we talking about? Oh, the… Yeah, I shouldn’t have messed around in the trash, but it smelled so good, and I just couldn’t help myself! I-I’ve got these little switches in my head, and I don’t know why. One second, no, I can’t do that, because Applejack said not to, and the next second, I’m just… there.

She understands, I think. She knows I try. Applejack forgives me, though. She always does. Even quicker than they would Apple Bloom. I’ll notice her peeking around the corner to see if Applejack’s watching, then sneak off to her clubhouse when she has chores. Or swipe a snack before dinner.

They might shout at me or tell me I’m in trouble. Then I hang my head and tuck my tail. It kind of does that on its own, but it makes them happier to see it, and they let it go at that. Not Apple Bloom, though—they send her to her room or have a quiet talk with her. Then she cries, and I wonder how that’s worse than getting shouted at. She should know better, or so they say. I don’t understand, and I don’t like it when Apple Bloom cries. Seems like Applejack always starts next, and I never know which one to follow up to their room and listen to until they fall asleep.

Speaking of Apple Bloom… Here she comes with the rest of the groceries packed in her saddlebag. I dash over to greet her, but she doesn’t pay me any attention. She wants to go to the kitchen, but I decide that she should head toward the closet. The only things in there are some coats, boots… I think that piece that makes the dinner table longer, too. I need her to head that way, so I lean my shoulder into her and shove her along, route her past the couch, over by the stairs. She stops a few times and tries to turn or step over me, but I keep guiding her there. I don’t even know why—I just have to.

“Winona!” Apple Bloom says, squinting down. It wasn’t so long ago that she used to look up at me. “I’m not a sheep!”

A sharp whistle, and I jerk my head around. “Forget something, girl?” Applejack pats her saddlebag.

Treat! I did forget. I freeze for a moment and… I don’t know what I was doing. So I run to Applejack and wedge my nose under the canvas flap of her saddlebag. She crouches down a bit and smiles. One of those minty biscuits from Sugarcube Corner, alright.

I grab it, and Applejack chuckles as I dash off to the braided rug where my food and water bowls sit. Not right now, though—I’m actually not in the mood for mint, so I stash it under the edge of the rug for later. When I check, Applejack’s looking the other way, so she didn’t see. It’ll stay safe there.

Then Big Macintosh comes in from the back door! He walks over and pats me on the head. “Who’s a good girl?” I am! I… Applejack smiles a little bigger, but she doesn’t tell him about the compost.

So I sniff at his back leg. One particular spot—I press my nose in. I can smell the tree that has seven squirrels in it on him. And the one with four squirrels. Plus the one most birds like to perch in. He must have worked over near the woods today. And a little—it’s faint, but still there—a fox! On my territory! A fox brushed up against that tree. I’ll have to keep an eye out. It’d better not show itself around here again. How could Big Mac have missed that smell?

My turn to forgive. I roll over against his legs, and he gives me a belly scratch. Only Applejack knows just where to go to get my leg kicking, but it feels good anyway. This is what I wanted: my family all together. Well, Granny Smith must still have her body sprawled across her chair, by the snoring I can hear, but I don’t mind. I can appreciate a good nap as much as anyone.

But I’ve seen them all now, at least the awake ones, and they’ll start cooking dinner soon. So I go back to my rug, pick up my treat and a mouthful of food, and hurry toward the pet door. All home safe, so I can leave them for a minute.

“Why’s she do that?” Apple Bloom asks.

Big Mac only shrugs. “You know dogs. Gotta eat in their particular places. Has her corner o’ the couch, food bowl, spot for her toys. And heaven help you if you move any of ’em.”

Not like they’re any better. They all have their chairs at the table, their rooms upstairs.

Anyway, I push through the pet door and take an easy pace toward the barn. The sun’s gone down, but it hasn’t gotten that dark yet. And the moon is shining bright already. It happens so fast most nights—by the time I reach the barn, only the moon’s soft glow is left.

I go around back, away from the house, and drop my food there. If my family saw that I didn’t want it, they’d worry. Especially if they knew how long I’ve been doing this. I don’t want them to worry. It’s my job to protect them. Even if I… if…

My head hurts.

I take a second to breathe. Just breathe. I didn’t mean to get into the compost. But like I said, if I misbehave, they love me just the same, even more unconditionally than they do with each other. Why? I’m not one of them. Why would they love me more? These ponies are weird.

Here come a few regulars from the woods. An opossum and a couple of raccoons, who are always happy to eat my food for me. They love me, too. Surprising they could get used to me, but they have, over the years.

The memories come slowly sometimes, and—like now, trying to dig deeper than instinct, impression. It feels like walking through thick mud. It’s time.

I let go, like relaxing a muscle, and my body shines black in the moonlight. The animals don’t run away; they’ve seen this enough times before.

It’s a nice gig I have going here: pretty much unlimited love. While the rest wasted their time impersonating ponies, I found the sweet life. I wandered out of the woods one day, onto some farm. Their herding dog had birthed a litter, and those ponies fawned all over the little things. A few of the neighbors would stop by and focus on one or another. Call in old favors, negotiate a price, whatever. Day by day, I watched.

Then when those same neighbors started taking puppies home with them, the numbers went down, all within a few days. Seven to six to five to four. To five. Nobody noticed.

Applejack chose me. For her fourteenth birthday. I think… I think that made the difference. I didn’t replace anyone. She didn’t love me thinking I was someone else. Most others do that, but not me. By luck, I guess, but I never stole love meant for another. She loves me. It’s different. It changes everything.

No way I’ll tell the others, even if they find a way back. If I did, they’d all want in on it, blow my cover, ruin what I have going here. But so far from home, and staying in that form so long…

Every two or three days, I have to revert, so I can keep my mind together enough to know… to hide that I don’t eat. I don’t want them to worry. I also need to think, to plan ahead. About time I added a few gray hairs around the muzzle and eyes.

I don’t like where that leads. When I cough, the opossum looks at me, but I’m fine. I just hate thinking about it.

At some point, I’ll have to lie still one morning, as still as I can, while I listen to Applejack’s heart break. One last meal for Winona, but that kind always tastes so sour. I love her. I really do. But what choice do I have? I get to be the selfish one, since I know I’ll see her again.

Then a mole will burrow up from the earth, and a week later, a young dog will show up at the edge of the farm, with similar coloring to Winona’s. One that nobody claims as lost, and one just standoffish enough that nobody else takes an interest in her, except for the ones with apples on their flanks, for whom she shows unusual affection. Whenever they mention Winona, her eyes will brighten undeniably and she’ll bark, so they might decide to call her that. If they refuse, they refuse. It won’t hurt to try.

But that’ll come later. It’s good to have long-term plans. Long-term, though…

I’ve heard stories—stories about others who lost their identity. “Your face will stay like that,” we’d always hear in class when we didn’t rest or kept picking the same form. If only pony mothers knew where that phrase came from. At some point, one of us saw a pony child making faces, and it brought that image to mind. An admonition, though, a warning, not a lie told to gain obedience. Somehow, the expression spread.

But it’s not only the shape. Every day lately, it gets harder and harder to think. I’ll wonder if I shouldn’t conveniently walk past the small bridge over the stream right when Fluttershy gets home from the market. I really like her, and I don’t know why. She always gets the tangles out of my fur really well. Sometimes she looks at me funny, though, like she sees.

Anyway, I’ll have it all planned out to meet her, and before I know it, my mind has gone blank, and I’ve spent an hour biting on my itchy foot. I have to keep my focus. I might need to reset my form every night for a while, at least until I feel more like myself. Until I feel like I can do my job and watch out for my family. I… I just want to be a good girl and curl up next to them, snuggle in, get a pat on the head.

I’m hungry.

My tail wags on its own, and as my fuzzy ears flap with each bound, I run. I run back to the house. To my home.