Ms. Fluffster, in cowboy hat and Western gear, riding her pony at a Southern Ontario horse show
The year I turned 13, I fulfilled my dream of owning a pony. I’d longed for one ever since I met the girl with a pony who’d moved into a neighbouring farm a year earlier.
She became my best friend and as teenagers we spent long hours together on horseback. She still rides horses. I now have a lower-maintenance bicycle. No carrots or petting required.
My family knew I wanted a pony more than anything. I’d started saving up, but it would have taken me years to collect enough money. So my mother decided to surprise me when I got back from a visit to relatives in Montreal.
The afternoon I got home, my two brothers gleefully announced that they’d bought me some ducks. I was suspicious, since I’d never expressed any interest in ducks, but played along when they steered me to the “duck coop,” a little-used shed with a window at floor level, through which I spotted brown hooves.
Inside was a five-year-old pony named Lightning. Beside myself with delight, I begged to ride him right away. For months, I’d been riding my friend’s pony bareback, so I knew I was ready.
Minutes later, we trotted off. Lightning broke into a gallop as we neared a fence where we’d have to go through a gate. I tried to slow him down but failed. Charging towards the gate, he made a sudden U-turn. Over the gate I sailed, landing hard on the other side of the fence while he trotted back to his shed (and dinner). I limped home, only my pride seriously injured.
Too late to do me any good, I remembered being warned that some ponies use stunts like these to throw their riders.
We negotiated a truce after that first misadventure. I discovered that food was the best way to manage him. If I let him stop to eat grass regularly, he’d let me stay on his back.
I never liked riding fast, preferring an easy gallop at best. When my friends raced, Lightning and I would fall behind. He didn’t mind being a little behind, but if the others got too far ahead, he’d take the bit between his teeth and defy my efforts to slow him down.
Still, whoever named him was being hopeful. He sped up only if he got hungry or fell too far behind the pack. His usual slow-as-molasses pace suited me just fine.
When hungry or bored, he’d sometimes lie down and roll over mid-ride, forcing me to scramble off his back and out of the way, a trick he once played as we rode down Main Street in the Santa Claus parade. The spectators found it funny. I didn’t.
Despite his quirks, he was an affectionate companion who greeted me with a friendly nuzzle every morning. For nearly four years, we spent most of our waking hours together. As I got to know him, I learned how to pick up on his warning signals — and avoid being thrown.
In our second summer together, we started winning ribbons at local horse shows. We were at our best in trail class, which involves manoeuvres like jumping low rails, backing up between posts (see below), and negotiating a gate (opening, passing through, and closing). One summer we got the season trophy in this category, winning enough ribbons/points to beat out all competitors.
I have one unhappy memory from our time together. Lightning got hit by a car one foggy evening while my mother and I were out for dinner. When we got home, my brother said that a stranger reeking of alcohol had banged at the door, complaining that a herd of horses had charged at his car right in front of our farm. My brother went to show him that our two ponies (Lightning and my sister’s pony, Misty) were standing in their field. In the near-dark, they couldn’t see the new break in the fence. The man staggered back to his car and drove away.
The next morning I found that break and confirmed that our ponies had indeed escaped, encountered the car, and returned. Further evidence? Lightning’s mutilated and still bleeding muzzle, which required veterinary care. The wound was too ragged to stitch, so all we could do was apply salve and hope it would heal. He was left with an unsightly hole above one nostril that whistled whenever he exerted himself (admittedly not often). Nursing him back to health took several months.
When I was 16, we sold the farm and moved to a small town near Toronto, so we had to sell Lightning. I was heartbroken, but thankful that the new owners of our farm decided to buy him along with the property. He got to stay home and keep eating grass.
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