Once Upon A Pony

There comes a time in every girl’s life where she has, what I like to call “The Romance of the Horse.” You know, that phase where she dreams about owning a horse, longs to ride and imagines herself astride Black Beauty, golden tresses flying in the air as she gallops her trusted stead across the hinterlands. (There will also be a guy on his own horse, riding in at some point to save the day. This male will be a combination of Prince Charming and Marlboro Man; magnetic and devilish, a Rhett Butler sort of man, yet fully capable of quoting poetry and whispering tender sonnets in the young lady’s ear.) In lieu of an actual horse, any and all books and movies about a girl and her horse will have to do.

I was raised on a dairy farm where there wasn’t a remote chance of convincing my father to trade in milk cows for beef cattle. Still, I fantasized about herding cattle, seeing clearly in my little girl mind that rounding up the cows for milking could be done in half the time if done on horseback. Never mind that I had never been on the back of a horse in my lifetime—the dream was clear—and very romantic!

Whether I was munching popcorn as I watched the weekly installment of “My Friend Flicka” on TV, or curled up tight on the couch clutching a well worn copy of “Misty of Chincoteague”, I was hopelessly in love with the idea of owning my own pony.

In the field behind our house, there was a gas tank. Nestled in a structure formed by 2 x 4’s, its round galvanized form provided an excellent place for me to practice my riding skills. With a bailing twine reign and a vivid imagination, I rode that pony hard, outrunning Indians, chasing stagecoach robbers and jumping hurdles as I competed against National Velvet. When the gas tank was moved and access to the top of the barrel became too challenging, I traded in my galvanized stead for a much narrower perch – the fence that circled our back yard.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to train one of our dairy cows to let me ride her but the bony back was a deterrent, not to mention a bovine stubborn streak a mile wide.

You can imagine my giddy delight when I learned we were going to take care of my uncle’s horse while the family went on an extended vacation. I had nothing but covetousness for my cousins who had access to this pretty little Shetland pony whenever they wished. By this time I had been lucky enough to have ridden on Brownie’s back when visiting and despite the fact that my cousin led Brownie around the field while I clutched her mane with all my might,  I had been over the moon with happiness. This had also whetted my appetite for my own horse even more.

I was at school when Brownie was delivered to our farm. When I got home, I hustled to change into my faded jeans and flannel shirt, positive this was the sort of clothes Calamity Jane would wear. Lacking cowboy boots, I tied my red kerchief around my throat, grabbed a shiny red apple from the fridge drawer, and raced out back to where Brownie was tethered.

My wild dash to the padlock came to a sliding finish as my red canvas shoe made contact with a fresh pile of horse droppings. Gross! I calmed myself long enough to wipe the offensive matter off on the grass that was already looking trampled by Brownies little hooves. Brownie, whose head had been buried in a nice bundle of hay, didn’t seem nearly as excited as I was to exchange greetings. As I called her name, she raised her head up and down with snorts and whinnies, registering some displeasure over being interrupted. I tried to woo her by proffering the apple. She snorted again and shook her mane.

I didn’t know much about Shetland Ponies then but I have since learned that while most Shetlands are thought of as excellent pets for children, due to their gentle nature, they can also be opinionated, headstrong, and even ‘cheeky’. I was about to learn that Brownie the Beloved, had a mean streak.

I held the apple out and I could tell she’d glimpsed the treat by the way her eyes rolled back and her head bobbed enthusiastically. She took a step towards me but instead of stretching my arm out more I brought the apple closer to me. My thought was to get her close enough to pet her silky nose and perhaps even be able to mount her. My cousins often rode her bare back, using her mane to hang on and their knees to guide her. All that training I’d done on the gas tank and the fence was about to come into good use.

I brought the apple close to my middle and spoke soothingly. Brownie snorted again and took another step closer. Suddenly she knocked the apple out of my hand and bit me! Right through my shirt her teeth went. There was no velvety brush of her mouth against me, just painfully sharp teeth. I gasped, the pain searing through me like a bullet. I backed away instinctively and Brownie, convinced she’d conveyed her annoyance with me, snorted again, and went after the apple that had bounced to the other side of the padlock.

Sucking desperately to catch my breath, I felt the hot tears rise and my chest heaved. I stared disbelievingly at this act of betrayal and then spinning around, I ran as fast as I could back to the house. In the privacy of my bedroom with my face buried into my pillow I sobbed until all my sorrow had been released.

Later that night I looked solemnly at the purple bruise, teeth marks clearly delineated. I refused to share my unfortunate incident with anyone in my family for fear of a scolding and for the rest of Brownies visit I stayed far far way. That was the day I hung up my saddle and bridle and retired my fence riding.