It's a Beautiful Day at Sweet Apple Acres and None of You Were Invited

Applejack won the staring contest by default. Her opponent—a middle-aged white-tailed deer with a big, bushy tail and a great set of antlers—didn't last more than three seconds. Its gaze wandered around the apple trees, to the scarcely falling leaves from their branches, the well-trodden ground atop their roots, and the horseshoe prints in their trunks. A breeze flitted through its short hair, and it took a moment to sniff whatever was on it.

"How'dja do it?" Applejack asked the loser, craning her head back so she wouldn't get poked in the eye by a stray antler.

The breeze weakened, and the deer brought itself back to the battle. It stared blankly at the farmer's face—dirty, worn, and creasing.

"Don't make me ask again."

A single drop of rain fell onto the deer's right eye, and it paid the farmer a wink.

She returned the wink with a snarl. "Y'know what goes into buildin' a fence?"

The deer didn't know.

"Well, I'll show ya... First, y'get a coupl'a big 'n' heavy posts... like this one!" She thrust her hoof onto the wooden log next to the deer's shoulder. "Next, y' get a coupl'a bigger and heavier planks, like these ones!" She clamped her forehooves around the two wooden boards rubbing up against the deer's back and stomach. "And then you nail 'em together!"

The wild animal raised its chin, as if proud of where it had ended up in life.

Applejack continued. "Guess how many nails go into a post. Go on, j'st guess."

The deer didn't guess.

"NINE! Nine nails that Ah'm gonna have to yank out, then haul yer bushy-tailed butt outta mah fence, and then hammer back in!"

The breeze came back, carrying the same smell it had before, but the deer didn't move. It stood transfixed on its lecturer's large, green eyes, determined to win round two. It tried to step forward, but its back knee knocked against the fence. It opened its mouth, revealed a flat, pink tongue, and slowly lurched its head forward.

"Don't—!" Applejack yelped, pulling her hat away from the deer's jaws. "I'm try'n'a help you! If ya show me how ya got stuck in there then Ah'll build so it doesn't happen again! Jiminy Bleedin' Crickets!"

"Arf!"

Applejack stamped her hoof. "It is bein' difficult. Wait—"

She whirled around to see a medium-sized dog squatting next to the deer, her solid eyes locked on her master, and her tail was wagging fast.

"What're you doin' here, Winona? I thought I told ya t'—... Wait... Don't tell me you found 'em already."

Winona nodded and panted in sync with her beating tail.

"Alright, alright, gimme a second. Ah gotta..." Applejack started, before the deer sniffing at the brim of her stetson required shoving away. She stepped back and snorted. "Y'know what? Ah'm just gonna leave ya here. Think about what you've done, y'hear?"

The deer opened its mouth again, and its teeth made a soft clamping noise in the farmer's direction.

The path to the coop was short and flat and familiar, so Applejack walked it with three hooves on the ground; the fourth pulled her hat over her face so she could grumble her cares into the leather and shield her eyes from the burnt-orange light shining through the trees.

"Seems early..." she complained to the sun.

It was a day that was almost over, but it hadn't been a day to celebrate—especially since she had to face it alone for the first time in years.

Apple Bloom was willing to help, but she was out of the question, having been thoroughly grounded for something unspeakable a week prior to the day the deer got stuck in the fence.

Big Mac was out of commission, having been sprayed by three skunks, and then sprayed by five more when trying to get away from the first three. The aromatic and monochromatic little mammals had been wily in their apple hunt this week. They may not have had pincers, but they sure knew what they looked like.

Granny Smith was out too, feeling woozy from an unknown affliction. If she had been forty years younger and been from Canterlot, she might have described it as "the vapours". But in her old age and her country roots, a swerve and a groan was enough to diagnose her with "sumthin' fierce" and put her on the couch for a few days' rest.

Applejack sucked in some air through her nose. The smell of sunkissed hay, apple tree leaves and fertilizer filtered through her hat. The fertilizer was a new brand, purchased from a kindly farm shop in town after Apple Bloom loudly proclaimed that the farm smelled like the solid part of a outhouse's natural diet. She hadn't described it that politely, of course—if she had, she wouldn't be grounded.

She couldn't complain about the new brand. It permeated the air with a flash of tart orange, mulled peach, and even persimmon. Applejack didn't know what persimmon smelled like, but the farm's new aroma was so full of flavour that it might have had some in it. Besides, she liked the way the word 'persimmon' sounded, and the way its smell could cloud up her worries and whisk them away. She even spread a little under the hen's nests and a little more within the living room just to make it a touch more present. A brief highlight in an otherwise dim lit week.

Actually, that wasn't quite true, Applejack realized, as a few raindrops plonked onto her hat. Because those raindrops didn't fall from a natural weather system. It was a favour she'd asked of Rainbow Dash. Just a slight drizzle, lasting the day, that never gets too hard but never quite goes away. Enough to give the trees a steady drink flow, but let the pony work in peace. It was the least Rainbow Dash could do, considering the new word she had taught Apple Bloom.

"Alright..."

Applejack stopped before the steps to the chicken coop and exhaled from beneath her hat. She straightened it back up and faced the row of off-white birds—clucking and jittering at each other in a language only they understood.

"Pard'n me, ladies," Applejack said, but only Winona listened.

The dog barked from the end of the line-up in a language that everyone present understood. The bustling chickens snapped to attention and sat down in the dirt.

Applejack cleared her throat. "Good to see y'all home safe and sound... Ah'll make this quick."

She scanned the chickens one-by-one, taking note of them each by name. There was Betsy, Francine, and Winnifred—inseparable. Sally and Darlene, and Agatha and Brittany, all slowly falling asleep. And at Winona's side was Margarita—cross-eyed and open-beaked as always.

Applejack rubbed her temples. "I thought y'said y'got all of 'em."

Winona tilted her head. She peered down her lineup and scanned the chickens herself—her furry brown brow fully furrowed.

"Y'missed Priscilla."

The chicken dead-center in the lineup stood up and clucked a mighty cluck, throwing a wing up in salute.

Applejack blinked. "...Oh. There y'are, Prissy. Sorry, I meant... Margarita? Hang on..."

The gangly chicken next to Winona sprung to attention and gave a resounding squawk of its own, before losing balance and falling back into its seat.

"...Huh. Any, uh... injuries?"

The chickens gave themselves and each other quick once-overs. None of them spoke up.

"Well, Ah'll be. You really did find all of 'em. Great job, Winona!"

Winona saluted with a muddy paw, and the rest of the chickens followed.

"Sorry 'bout that, y'all... S'just been one o' those days. Get on back inside... the hole's been fixed."

In a storm of clucks and feathers, the cluster of white birds stuffed themselves into the chicken coop. Once Margarita had waddled her careful way inside behind them, Winona sprinted to the steps and flicked them upright, closing the egg-layers in for the night.

Applejack massaged her eyes as her helper waltzed past her towards home. She teetered forward. Her hat slid down.

"Ah'm gonna go free that stupid animal... and if... there ain't no objections... Ah think Ah'm done for the day."

She listened.

She heard the pitter and patter of rain falling on the dirt. A few drops tapped her face. But nothing objected, for a moment.

"Arf!"

She crumpled. "Oh, what is it now...?"

Winona was sat in a patch of grass, her shadow casting all the way back the chicken coop's shut door. her back made an almost vertical line as she stared intently at the elevated horizon over the mountains. Her head tilted, and her tail started to wag.

"...What's wrong, girl?"

The dog didn’t answer.

Pushing the sweaty mane out of her eyes, Applejack tried her best to follow the dog’s line of sight.

She started at the fenced-in apple trees, but didn't see anything of note. Not anything new, anyways.

She raised her head and traced the river—bubbling in from the Ponyville Reservoir at the base of the nearby mountain range. Nothing was out of place.

Finally, she picked her head up far enough to see the top of the dam itself—where the sun was setting between the artificial rainclouds and the dam on that busy Autumn day.

And she realized that it really was setting too early. Just by a few minutes, or however long it took for the sun to depart from the final few inches above the horizon.

She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a dusty wheeze. "Oh… c'mon, now…" Her hind legs buckled and she let the rest of the fall happen—landing chin-first in the dirt and growling, "This week ain't never gonna end..."

She took another peek through her dirty mane to the obstruction on top of the dam. It stared right back at her.

"What in the... tar-nation... even is that?"

Winona barked and ran past her fallen master back to the chicken coop. Applejack groaned, finding it hard to focus—her eyes or her mind. She heard Winona’s soft paws trot back towards her, and cringed when her trusted rope thumped loosely into the dirt.

"Arf!"

"Somethin' tells me that ain’t gonna cut it."