The Pony Who Chose Me

A mischievous Welsh pony, a girl who needed a friend, and the bond no one else could ride.

Down the dirt road from our house in McKenna, Washington lived a little Welsh pony with the swagger of a stand-up comedian. At that time in my life, I didn’t quite fit in with other kids. People were confusing, unpredictable, sometimes cruel. But this pony was steady, hilarious, and very possibly my best friend.

Every day after school, I brought him an apple. The second he spotted me, his ears would shoot up and he would trot straight over as if to say, Well, it’s about time you showed up with the snacks. He chomped the apple loudly, juice spraying, while I scratched his ears and whispered secrets I couldn’t tell anyone else. He wasn’t just a pony. He was my confidant, my partner in crime, and my audience of one.

This little guy had a reputation. No one could ride him without getting launched. He was the pony equivalent of a mechanical bull, except with a sense of humor. Still, I felt our bond was different. One day, I asked his owner if I could give it a try. The man snorted, muttered something about broken bones, and gave me the go-ahead.

Bareback, with just a halter and reins, I climbed on. The pony flicked an ear back at me as if to say, Well, look who finally trusts me. About time, kid. Then off we went. No bucking, no tricks, just pure joy. He trotted, cantered, even gave me a playful little gallop as if to say, See? I can behave when I like you. From then on, he was mine in spirit, and together we roamed fields and laughed at the world.

Of course, the other kids couldn’t resist. And that’s when the comedy really started.

One neighbor girl climbed aboard, clutching the reins like her life depended on it. The pony started polite with a walk, then a trot, then a gallop. Then came his signature move. Dead stop. Head down. Rider sliding like a sack of potatoes over the neck and straight into the dirt. He snorted, tossing his mane, as if to say, Nice try, rookie.

She huffed, brushed herself off, and climbed back on. Off they went again. Gallop, stop, slide, splat. The pony sighed, Really? You thought it would work the second time?

Every kid who tried got the same treatment. Some went flying sideways, others forward like they had been shot from a slingshot. The pony always stood there calm afterward, chewing the grass as if to say, Don’t look at me. I warned them.

But when I climbed on, there was never a problem. He trotted and galloped without incident. His sarcasm never touched me. With me, it was all loyalty and play. With everyone else, it was slapstick gold.

It became clear. This pony wasn’t mean. He was choosy. He had picked me. And anyone else who dared sit on his back was just signing up for free flying lessons.

No matter what my day looked like, I knew I could count on him. The misfit girl and the mischievous pony, partners in laughter, racing the wind, and writing our own kind of comedy.