Nacho, a beloved miniature horse, was so small he was able to walk underneath your table. This was almost unbearably cute. People fainted from the cuteness. They came from all around the world to faint from the cuteness. Sadly, Nacho was attacked, under cover of a snowstorm, by a cougar about 400 meters from the barn where the ridiculously cute miniature horse lived at a ranch outside of Calgary, Alberta. Unfortunately, Nacho did not survive the encounter. This passing was made even more heartbreaking when Nacho’s list of New Year’s resolutions was recently made public, and The Toast has agreed to share them, but with the understanding that they only wish to celebrate Nacho’s life and the dreams of all small horses to be more than nature made them:

In 2014 I am going to try to be the very best miniature horse that I can be. I no longer want to be defined by others, investing my sense of self and well-being in how they respond to me, but rather define myself and lead a life that is true to who I am as a miniature horse.

1. Learn to deal with stress better.

2. I am going to radically cut back on the number of apples I eat. More grass and hay, fewer carbs. The Glycemic Index of apples is very high and this is causing me some pretty dramatic mood swings, where I find myself acting in ways that are not reflective of the real Nacho.

3. Make SINCERE effort to reconnect with my brother. I have to acknowledge that some of the difficulties I’ve had with Rumbler over the years are due to my own insecurities. It’s not his fault that he had a successful rodeo career and is now a prized stud, just as it’s not my fault that I’m a cute, little miniature horse.

4. Do something new and daring with mane, add a little edge to my persona.

5. Stop using the word little so much. It’s a product of my insecurity and self-consciousness and it eats away at my self-esteem.

The anglerfish swims. She spends her life in the deep darkness of the sea. She notices little outside of herself, only the glow of the occasional passing edible fish and the movement in water created by those too big to be seen in the darkness. Encounters with other creatures happen so far in between that, most of the time, she believes herself to be the only one. She forgets that her swimming is a purposeful search for food; in time, she forgets everything but herself. The majority of her life is spent in darkness, alone. Her interactions with the males of the species are cut short-she notices them briefly as the find her, but then they bite and merge and lose themselves in the worship of her, and she no longer remembers their existence. She does not acknowledge the others who were when she lays eggs, because by the time she is ready, they no longer exist; they are a part of her. They are a tail, a fin, a reproductive organ hanging off of her magnificent surface. The anglerfish requires nothing but the intermittent fish meal: a sacrifice to her altar. Knowing herself to be a god, the anglerfish swims as a prayer to the only creature in the void.

I have been accused, sometimes on this very site, of having an excessively morbid cast of mind, but you must admit that it is not my fault that this world is a breathing, pulsing carnival of roiling horrors. I did not invent ants. I am not responsible for them, nor for the fact that they occasionally join up in a twitching ball by seizing one another in their respective, wretched jaws and take to the sea as a horrid cannibal ship.

Previously: The Hunger of the Caterpillar and The Giving Tree.

A mother bird sat on her egg. The egg jumped.

“Oh, oh!” said the mother bird. “My baby will be here. He will want to eat. I must get something for my baby bird to eat,” she said.

“I will be back!” So away she went.

The egg jumped. It jumped and jumped and jumped. Out came the baby bird.

“Where is my mother?” he said. He looked for her. He looked up. He did not see her. He looked down. He did not see her.

“I will go and look for her,” he said. So away he went.