Taming Strange. Or: How I learned to stop worrying and make love in public

"I do so love cider. It slows the mental faculties so that one can really ponder a thought. To observe it from all sides like." He exhaled a puff of smoke to complete the metaphor. "A puff of smoke in still air." The fillysopher mused to himself as he always did before his evening reflections. This litany put his mind in the proper mode for focused contemplation on a single idea.

The chairpony of the Fillysophy department at Royal Canterlot University sat in his study, pleasantly buzzed, long stemmed churchwarden pipe burning his favorite tobacco, a mug of his favorite cider, perfectly chilled, a cello sonata, written and performed by the apple of his eye Octavia, playing softly in the background. Had this been a musical episode of a certain Canadian American children's television program he would have burst out into a non copyright infringing version of "pleasant is the life I lead" from Mary Poppins.

The fillysopher pondered on the Apple of his eye. His little Octavia. The only one who could beat him in chess. The only one who would play him in chess. All grown up and attending the Royal Canterlot Orchestral Conservatory in complete contravention of his wishes that she obtain a classical education.

When he had stated emphatically that he would not pay for Octavia to limit herself to her profession, and not have a well rounded grasp on the world around her, the cellist had retorted. "Father you simply don't understand. That conservatory is the beating heart of the Orchestral world! The place where great music is born. The Alma Mater of Buck, Beethoofen, and Oatzart. The place where good musicians go to become great musicians, and where great musicians go to become legends. It's all I've ever dreamed of doing. It's all I've ever wanted, and I will attend with or without your financial support!"

"That's exactly why you shouldn't go. You are not a cello, you are a mare! There is more to life than the inside of a concert hall." He roared in one of his trademark fits.

Without batting an eye Octavia retorted. "You are not a fillysophy textbook, you are a stallion, and there is more to life than the inside of a lecture hall. Yet you seemed to have enough time to spare to handle the rest of life." She gestured at her mother who was apathetically plucking at her harp with both hooves and wing tips. The harpist wiggled her eyebrow suggestively. The cellist knew her mother was her father's weakness and she exploited it whenever possible.

Octavia's mother, a light tan Pegasus, never intervened in these heated debates as this was how the two bonded. Their mental sparring was how they showed affection. Even with the most divisive issues never was any malice exchanged. If anything it was the healthiest father daughter relationship she had ever witnessed.

Her father blushed slightly. "Octavia, fillysophy was one of many studies I pursued. That's why I was able to obtain a career in such a field. As for the rest of life." A feather whistled as it flew through the air, and embedded itself up to the plumage deep into the hardwood of the bookshelf less than an inch from her father's muzzle. "That is another matter."

In Octavia's household there was only one subject that was absolutely taboo. That of Octavia's conception. The entire history was shrouded in mystery. So neither combatant mentioned the missile. The fillysopher knew he had lost. He sighed heavily. "How then will you pay for this education?"

Octavia had never actually considered the question. "I suppose I'll have to try to find work when I'm not at school." The cellist shrugged.

"And just where will the burgeoning cellist find work?" He had asked incredulously.

The next day, without a second thought Octavia tried out for, and obtained, the single highest possible position for her profession to pay for her education. First chair cellist in the Royal Canterlot Fillyharmonic. The irony was completely lost on her that she was working at the place where most of her classmates dreamed of working to pay to go there with them.

Octavia had never heard the term "Bass Ackwards" and he was pondering whether that was good for her or not.