//------------------------------// // Chapter 4: Day 4 // Story: Whooves, Doctor of Psychology // by nowego //------------------------------// Day 4 New information! On with it. I woke up early enough today, giving myself time to wash up before breakfast. Which, of course, was muffins–with a certain mailmare. Ditzy arrived about when expected (to be honest, there’s quite some variability in her delivery times), with her usual mail satchel. She carefully removed my mail, which, besides the usual Equestria Daily, contained what I knew was a reply to my inquisition regarding Ditzy’s condition. My colleague had, per my request, used his personal return address instead of his office address. I’ll get to the contents of that letter later. She returned to my small kitchen table, where we indulged in Pinkie’s muffins. Then I decided it was time to get her to talk. “What should I call you?” I asked, in complete seriousness. I knew her name, but if I had a name like that, well, I would probably have a nickname. She lifted her mail satchel, pointing toward the worn name tag. “Ditzy Doo?” She nodded. Dangnabit. I needed a more direct approach, something that required her to have an answer besides a nod or shake of the head. But where to begin? Then I remembered what day it was. Thursday. I didn’t have dinner arrangements for tonight. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” The question caught her off-guard. She paused mid-bite, before setting the muffin down and blinking me into focus. “What?” I asked. “Um... nothing,” she said, quietly but clearly. Yes! She was talking; that was the first step. Now for answers. “And?” “And what?” “What’s you’re answer?” “That was my answer.” “Oh...” Mental sharpness as well. There were a few more moments of silence, these a bit awkward. Suddenly she stood up, backing away, wings flared. “Something wrong?” “Why?” she demanded with force, and perhaps a hint of worry. “I... don’t follow.” “Since when does the slick, hoofsome stallion move into town and ask the retarded mailmare out knowing nothing but her name?” “Retarded? As far as I can tell, you’re in perfect mental health.” “They ca-” She stopped, mid-reply. “Wait, what?” “Being a doctor, of any kind, comes with its perks. And you could say my special talent is not judging books by their covers. Or ponies by their physique.” “I... I... have to go.” She stumbled backwards, out the door, taking to the air. She swooped out of sight, barely missing a gutter. My eyes fell. ...and landed on a mail satchel. Knowing I only had a few seconds, I snatched some junk mail and ripped off a blank corner. Snagging a pencil, I hurriedly scribbled on the shred, glancing up to keep an eye on the corner Ditzy had just disappeared around. I finished the note and stuffed it down to the bottom of the bag, retracting my hoof just as she reappeared around the corner. “Forget something?” I asked, hoofing the satchel to her. She accepted it silently, avoiding eye contact, and flew away again. This will be interesting to see play out, I thought. I idled over to the counter on which my mail had been deposited, whereupon I sifted out the junkmail. I glanced at the headlines of Equestria Daily, snagged a few quarterly journals for looking at later, and lastly, came upon the letter from my colleague. This last article I opened and read on the spot, sliding a curtain out of my way for light. I’ll stow the original letter in its entirety along with this disc, so it should be accessible. *** Whooves! Wasn’t expectin’ to hear from you. Cleared out of Canterlot they say. Lot of rumors going around as to why. Most of your competition have given their egos an overdose and say you ran out cause you couldn’t take the heat. Honestly, most of ‘em were sweating ball bearings while you were around and are glad to have you gone. But, you said you can’t tell me, and though I’d give my grandpa’s left horseshoe to know why, well, I reckon you got a good enough reason fer what you do. Anyway, to business! What you described to me is not the technical definition of a lazy eye, but I’m not sure exactly what to call it, if your observations are correct. It seems to be some kind of hybrid between hypertopia and hypotropia, and yet in combination with esotropia at the same time. This is something that I’ve never seen before, and likely nopony in my field has had a chance to see this phenomenon. Seeing divergence on one, let alone both of the visual axis is strange enough, let alone throwing in a double case of inward convergence. As for treatment, I can’t really say without seeing this case myself and taking some tests. Also, I’m not sure how far it is impeding her vision and depth perception at the moment. Typically, vision impairments of this sort can be corrected in early foalhood, through use of eye patches to set a dominant eye, or adjusting glasses. But with her case, I doubt traditional methods would help much, mainly because both eyes suffer from these conditions. The good news is, chances are her brain has at least somewhat compensated already, judging by the fact that she can fly at all. Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you. If she can function in her current state, and doesn’t want to come in for test and risk some extensive surgery, I’d say live and let live. This case really doesn’t give me much to go on, has little or no research in the specific area of its type, and is more or less an unknown. Tell her, if she’s ever in Canterlot to drop by. I’d be ecstatic to get a few tests, if for no other reason than documentation. Best of luck. *** After reading and re-reading, the letter, I locked it away in my desk for the time, and then proceeded to load up my saddlebags for a day out. It was time to get on with my mission, and start observing Twilight Sparkle’s behavior. But I wasn’t about to walk up to her with a stethoscope and magnifying glass. Naturalistic observation requires stealth, social skills, and charm. It was time to talk to Rarity. The Carousel Boutique was in its usual splendid condition when I arrived. I entered, and I heard the white unicorn remark “Just a moment!” from the other room, and hurry my way. She turned the corner, starting her catch phrase. But she never got close to finishing it. “Oh, Doctor Whooves. Can I... help you today?” “We need to talk.” Rarity put on tea, and then we moved into the living room. “So? You had something to discuss?” “Yes. But it is essential that it remain under wraps, as it were; even from your friends, and especially from Twilight.” The look that crossed her face told me clearly that she was uncomfortable with the idea, but her slice of society is particularly vulnerable to anything the requires secrecy and drama. Or in other words, gossip. “Very well then, continue.” I took a breath. “I am in Ponyville on a mission from Princess Celestia to observe Twilight Sparkle’s mental health.” I neglected to tell her that she and the other Bearers were included in that equation. A standard two-bird, one-stone scenario. I could simultaneously use Rarity to get closer to Twilight, while also obtaining a more accurate picture of the fashion designer. Rarity’s face went from stoic, to shock and awe, then to confusion, and last to doubt. “That’s quite an interesting tale...” I produced the paperwork which confirmed my quest from my saddlebags, and rolled out the scroll in front of her. She began reading, and the farther she moved down the scroll, the wider her eyes expanded. At last, finished, she sat back and reexamined me. I knew she was now trying to figure out the angle for every action she had seen me take in Ponyville. “I am still a doctor, I do still have a practice, and I will provide the best care possible to all ponies I can help, patients or otherwise.” A brief look of annoyance past over her face, obviously irritated that I could anticipate her reaction. After composing herself, she thought for a moment and asked, “This is all most interesting, but what does it have to do with me?” “I need you to help me observe Twilight.” “I am not the type of mare that engages in intentional eavesdropping and spying!” she exclaimed. “But, I have something else in mind that you might find useful.” She proceeded to tell me her plan, which was exceedingly bold and risked my cover, but would be extremely productive should it succeed. We made the final arrangements, pinpointed some dates, and with that I left her to her work. I purchased some supplies at the market before returning home and fixing myself lunch. Probably my first uninterrupted meal at my new residence in Ponyville. The rest of the afternoon I spent catching up on my journals and quarterlies, additionally pulling out a few books on emotional damage, pressure to succeed, and various other topics that might apply. When four o’clock struck, I put down my work and dug out my finer wear. My full suit was probably still at some cleaners in Canterlot, but I had managed to save a black bow-tie from the chaos of my move. I donned it with no little amount of trouble (it becomes clear why most fashion designers are unicorns if, as an earth pony, you are forced or choose to wear one of these accursed inventions). When I went to head out the door, it struck me that the air seemed cooler than it had at lunch. Opening the door, more than a thought struck me. A sheet of rain tore in, wetting the carpet slightly. I yelped and slammed the door, only returning to open it again once I had procured a dusty umbrella. The streets were relatively empty now. The few ponies still out galloped back and forth between cover, trying to make their way back to their dwellings. I trotted at a more leisurely pace, keeping my hooves out of puddles and the growing amount of mud. Eventually, however, I did arrive at my destination. The restaurant was not as high-profile as I would have preferred, but it was the best Ponyville had to offer. I entered, folding my umbrella (another real art for an earth pony). “Your name, sir?” “Whooves.” “Of course. This way sir...” The stallion led me to a nice table for two on a corner with windows seats, which at the moment wasn’t any brighter than the rest of the place, the overcast weather sending the day into a premature dusk. My gaze switched between the elaborate clock that hung on the woodwork and out the windows. Relax, it’s still a few minutes to five. She’ll show, I told myself. I’m not sure why I was nervous, or worried. I suppose I don’t like being put into a position where others can stand me up. I waited. I got bored, too, in spite of my unnatural anxiety. When I had degenerated to the point of breathing on the window next to me and drawing on it, I glimpsed a lone figure trotting awkwardly, cantering as she tried to avoid puddles and a streamlet that had spawned from the weather, holding her wings above her for makeshift cover. Catching sight of the restaurant, she broke into a gallop, aiming for the door... ...only to smack gracelessly into the window next to it. I went to the door and opened it, looking down at her. “Need a hoof?” I pulled her inside, where she stood dripping, covered in mud in multiple areas. The server stallion gave us an irritated glance as he passed. I swiped a tablecloth off a nearby table as soon as he’d left, and offered it to the wet mare. She lifted a muddy hoof. “Uh... could you...?” I gingerly ran the cloth over her back and mane, a difficult procedure to do (for an earth pony) without putting one’s weight on what you’re front hooves are on. What I wouldn’t have given for a horn then. She handled it pretty well, and after wiping her hooves on the mat we proceeded to my table. “You found my note, then?” I know, obvious, but I needed a conversation starter. She nodded. Buck me and my yes or no questions. I am a psychologist; I should know better than to ask those by now. The waiter returned, deposited our menus and left, mood apparently sullied by my guest. I already knew what I wanted, as usual, but I picked it up anyway, keeping an eye on Ditzy across from me. She would blink, stare intensively at the menu as she read a few lines, and shake her head vigorously as her eyes involuntarily drifted. Eventually, she reluctantly asked me if there was anything that I recommended, to which I responded in the affirmative; it was obviously her first time here. We placed our orders, which arrived quickly (note to self: order non-cooked entrees for quick results). After the course of the meal ran its way, any sense of urgency was drowned out by the pitter-patter of the rain, the low light, and the full stomachs. Feeling relaxed and confident, I leaned back in my chair. Time for my favorite question. “Why are you here?” “Because... you invited me, remember?” Despite her slight sarcasm, I could see past the misaligned eyes and see her brain working, trying to decipher my real meaning. She’s really just like any other pony in that respect... if you get to know them, you can see them think, know what they’re going to do or say, and why. “Ah, but why did you accept?” She stared at me, eyes focusing in sync with her thoughts. “Do you want to know something, Mister Whooves?” “Doctor Whooves. And yes, I’d like to hear whatever you have to say.” “I wasn’t late because of the rain,” she said, “I was late because... I almost didn’t come.” “What changed your mind?” “I never got an answer to my question this morning.” “I told you, I don’t make a habit of acting on surface judgements of-” She cut me off, waving a hoof. “That doesn’t explain why you choose to remain in contact with me, eat breakfast with me, take me out to... what are we calling this?” “A colloquy?” I suggested. Her eyes drifted again as she processed the word. “Point is, your time is valuable. I’m not. What’s the connection?” I reached up and brushed her mane out of her face, grabbing her attention and eye contact again. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that. Everypony has a gift, a purpose. Even mailmares. Especially mailmares.” “What’s mine?” I looked at her cutie mark, and her eyes followed my gaze. “You tell me.” She sighed. “A story for another day.” She stood. “I should leave.” I looked out the window. “Why not wait out the storm?” “Dinky’s expecting me.” “Who?” She looked at me. “My filly, Dinky Doo.” And she left. Dun dun dun... The plot thickens. And no, I’m not talking about that plot. I had low-fat salad dressing. After I recovered from my slight shock, I returned home, not particularly noticing puddles or mud. Then I took a looong, cooold shower. And now I’m here, and I don’t know what to think. I’ll sleep on it. Or rather, won’t sleep on it. Goodnight.