There was no school in Durple Village. The most even the luckiest can get is a workbook. That's it. No education, only work. But I didn't care about learning, when there was so much housework to be done. Everyday, I would get up at dawn, put on my saddle, and run to Capitol Hall. I was one of the lucky ones to find work- most of kids my age panhandled in Cat City.

    "Poni!" Abbey called.

    I ran to her chamber, my saddle lugging behind supplies. It filled to the rim with bandages, antiseptic, you name it, for the sick. The whole working process depended more on whether you had hooves or claws than the need for a salary, and that's why so many were unemployed.

    "What took you so long?" Abbey was meddling with a mess of papers on the governor's desk.

    "Sorry, they had these warm biscuits in the office and I couldn't resist."

    Abbey laughed, sticking a red stamp to the corner of a Manila envelope. "You and your food, Poni. Eat one more and you'll be in a cart."

    "Haha, very funny. Any news from Uncle Tim?" We're really close to the governor.

    Abbey shrugged, needling her hoof through the opening to stick the sides together. "He's having his Rebecca coming in."

    My eyebrows shot upwards. "Really? I thought Tim hates her coming to our village."

    "Apparently he wants her to see how we work hard. Mum says she's a daddy's girl."

    "Ohhhh..." I imagined the governor's daughter as this smart, cleant up girl, whose dream is to run a charity for helping animals with chicken pox.

    "I hope she's nice," Abbey said, nearly folding the letter in two and placing it into the envelope.

    "She's Tim's of course she'll be nice." I trotted out of the office and slinked through the hallways. The creak creak of the wheels made me stop every three seconds to check if the fastening was loose.

    "Umm, do you mind?"

    I looked up as I was fixing the fastener. Beady ink blots met my gaze. A red ribbon of paint was swirled across her eyelid as if she drew a knife across her eye. She was a raccoon, just like Tim.

    She scraped something out of her pocket, and held it on the roof of her palm. "How much for you to cook me a continental?"

    I looked at her with confusion. "I'm not a cook..." I mumbled. Even if I was, the last time I checked, continents aren't exactly delicacies.

    She pulled her gold-laden paw away. "Then who are ya?" She spoke in a heavy Greenberg accent. "You look like a peasant."

    I wasn't hurt at all by her words. I was a peasant. "Well, I help out over here. My name is Poni." I suspected being genuine was a mistake, but sincerity was one of my best traits.

    "I didn't ask for ya name!" She shrieked, flinging her money back into her purse. "Ew ewwww... you're getting mud all ovah the floah! Clean it up!" She scoffed, and sashayed away as if the broken down carpet was a catwalk.

    I was warned about people like her, always telling others off and sleeping on a pillow filled with money. I scoffed, dragging the cart towards the kitchen. A familiar aroma was lingering in the air, a smell mixed of bacon and pancakes. Too bad it was staff only. The best I can get for breakfast is an airtight carton of cold oatmeal from the soup kitchen.

    When I went up to the big black doors, I heard a whisper of voices behind a door. I bit my snout to resist, but the temptation got the best of me. I carefully opened the door, a faint creak slipping from the hinges.

    "Aren't ya a cute little thang!" The same raccoon squealed. Fear ran up me. Only god knows what would happen if she found Tim's pet grasshopper. He kept that thing locked up only to himself.

    "Can you just leave me alone!" Another voice roared. It was a male voice.

    "Come on! Wait... don't leave wait! Stop it!" There was scratching on the door, and a russet angry dog emerged.

    "Out of my way," he growled, pawing past the hinges.

    I stepped aside, and he briskly padded away, faintly grumbling about not getting apple pie. I never quite understood why people did that, just walk away from a conversation instead of finishing them. It leaves each word incomplete, or a message misunderstood. That's what momma told me anyway. I shrugged, dragging the cart towards the kitchen doors. I unhooked the fastener from the handle, and set it beside a whistling air conditioner. The plates jingled in place like frisky ducks in a row.

    "Pon, Poni!" A voice sang.

    I instinctively twirled around, and saw a bob haired weasel running up to me. Perspiration dotted her forehead, creating small rivers that dropped to her rose red lips. She stopped in front of my knees, bending over to catch her breath. She stuck her little finger in the air, turning her face up. Mascara lines her eyes heavily, as if she took the pen and swiped once, feeling it wasn't good enough, and swiped to the point of no return.

    "Now are you going to listen to me?" She panted.

    I nodded, my eyebrows shooting upwards.

    "Good, good. Have you seen a lovely little raccoon girl run around here? She's wearing a designer-"

    "I saw her!" I interrupted. Mrs. Pickett liked to do that to me a lot. stalk me and question why I did it.

    "You did?" She gasped, reaching for her pink handkerchief embedded in her front coat pocket.

    I was never able to corner her. "Yes." I scrunched my forehead, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.

    "Where'd she run off to? Oh, I hope nothing harrible happened to her! Was she in the kitchen? Tim's office? Where where where?" She was near at the edge of a cliff.

    Mrs. Pickett applauded at the idea of making everyone's lives hard. Always at morning breakfast while I'm polishing silverware, she's always complaining about how laborious her tasks are, even though her only job is getting coffee for Tim. He never asked for much of an assistant, but Pickett has to make a big deal out of nothing in hopes that Tim will give her a raise.

    "All in vain, all in vain!" She cried, blowing her nose into her handkerchief.

    I was close to punching the emotion out of her. "Mrs. Pickett hello!" I wailed, thwipping my hair in her face. "Rebecca is in Tim's office."

    "Oh thank goat! I thought I would be fired for sure. Thank you Polina!"

    Have I mentioned she isn't the one for names? Or people in general? I smiled and nodded. I was out of luck to correct my name. She is a train that'll run off the rails any second, but never really does. She just sort of rattles and teases to scare everyone. Mrs. Pickett skittered away like a bug, squirming her beady eyes around. That's work.