Silly me, I thought I was getting a pony for my kids. I'm sure my mother, the psychologist, could have told me otherwise. In actual fact, I was putting the finishing touch on my recreation of the happiest aspect of my childhood. Hey, most people helplessly recreate the worst aspects, right? I'm ahead of the game.
After I dropped the children off at school this morning, I rushed back to spend time with Rosie. Mostly I just sat on a bucket in the stall with her, patting her shoulder and her neck, whispering baby-talk-like nonsense, and enjoying a lot of wonderful memories of Bonnie Pony, the gorgeous red-gold palomino shetland-welsh cross I grew up with. I remembered lying down with her in the big field in summer, my back against the warm bulk of her ribs, reading a book. I remembered leaning on the fence at her favorite place under the tree and scratching her back. Trying to barrel-race. Trying to jump. Walking her down to the bottom of the hill, then turning her around and galloping back up as fast as we could go. The time we were cantering across the field and I saw a garter snake, and just threw myself off her back onto the ground to catch it (my brother and I had a running contest that summer). Getting bucked off, over and over again, until I could land on my feet with the reins in my hands. Crying and crying when we moved and had to give her away. I know I was too big for her by then, but it was still so hard.
Okay, I had to take a minute there. I really miss that horse, even now. I wish I had a picture of her, she was so beautiful. Really, much prettier than Rosie, who is a very ordinary little pony. But that doesn't matter. She can still become a little girl's best friend.
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