The goat looked up at the ceiling and said, “My mother would’ve been quite proud of this, I think. She would’ve called me her very smart boy. I want you to know that she played the piano. She used to let me into the house. Only me, and she would play the piano for me and sing. She was going to do it again at the talent competition. I am never going to get that back.” He picked up the hammer, and he whispered, “You’re a good boy, my sweet little Pony. You’re a good, smart boy.” He gave the stick a very tiny little tap. Crack.
