The little shetland pony stretched his tiny legs on the dirt path. THUD-THUD-THUD. Big horses roared past and a wall of dust puffed over his nose. He blinked. His ears went flat against his mane.
The dust settled and the hum faded. He lowered his head. Near the wooden fence, something small trembled on the cool ground. A corgi. Very, very lost.
He nuzzled the corgi's nose. The corgi let out a tiny 'arf!' and tugged forward, paws scraping pebbles — tick-tick-tick. The pony backed up, then trotted ahead to lead the way.
The alpacas stared wide and unblinking. They trotted beneath those long, woolly necks. The trail narrowed and narrowed. The big horses couldn't squeeze through. But the little pony could.
The corgi slipped under the wooden fence into a gap only two hooves wide. The pony lowered his head, pressed his belly to the rough planks, and scooted through. Creak. Creak. Creak.
He popped out the other side, wet grass clinging to his flanks. He poked his nose back through the gap. 'C'mon.' The corgi wriggled through and tumbled out in one muddy roll.
The corgi dashed to its owner, who gasped and scooped it up. Then the whole herd burst from the meadow — stamping, snorting, circling wide around the little pony. The biggest horse lowered its long neck until its nose barely touched his tiny one.
That afternoon, the pony trotted the dirt path with the corgi at his heels. He didn't stretch. He didn't catch up. He just went, steady and sure, and the corgi went too.