I have numerous alternative titles to this post:
- You May Have Won the Battle, But You're Going to Lose the War
- Why I Hate Running
- Curse Words and Other Ungodly Thoughts
- Top Ten Reasons to Never Own a Pony
- Lessons Learned the Hard Way
- Where's a Lasso When You Need One?
I think you can see where this is going.
But first let me say - to all of you who have children, will have children, know children, or have grandchildren:
Never EVER get them a pony. I don't care how much they whine, complain, beg, plead, manipulate, blackmail you, or give you sad puppy eyes. Don't give in.
Case in point:
I have a pony. A rather woolly Shetland Pony named Rosebud, Bud for short. I got her when I was probably 9 or 10 years old. I didn't know any better at that point that I would still be paying the price for this cantankerous little beast nearly 16 years later. I'm fairly confident she'll live to be 40 just for spite. She's not a mean-spirited little pony, she just has her moments.
She had one last night.
I brought her in from the pasture, put her in her stall, gave her grain, grabbed her water bucket and walked off. I didn't think much of it, I grab her water as usual. By the time I come back to her stall, I see the door swinging open and she's already halfway down the field. This is when I start swearing, which I am not prone to doing. I grab a handful of grain and the lead rope and take off into the field after her, begging and pleading with her in my head to not make it through the few openings in the field that we have, which lead directly to the road and basically open fields with no fences. Thankfully, she didn't. She just decided to high-tail it to the back forty of the farm. I was ready to murder her.
I get close to her on a couple of occasions, but then she would spook and take off again. After we had made it to the farthest corners of the field, I manage to work her back to the barn, tasting victory because if I can just get her to the barn she'll walk into the stall.
No such luck.
She turns around and bolts off again. At this point, I'm yelling at my friend, Andrea, who, bless her heart, was visiting from Missouri for the weekend and had no idea what she was in for. She goes and gets my dad, tells him to get his Gator out.
By this point, we're back in the back of the field again and I'm still swearing at her. (We're talking roughly 8 acres that I have now sprinted across to get this little beast.) I know, not one of my finer moments. So, here comes my dad on the Gator and I'm waving at him to back off as I was within reach of her again and I didn't want her to spook. Somehow or another, I reach for her, miss the halter, but get a chunk of mane and I am hanging on for dear life while she is dragging me along. I can't keep up and she bolts to the side and I go flying in the other direction, taking a tumble in the freshly plowed fields. Hardly a graceful exit. Not only am I swearing by now, I really just want to burst into tears.
We eventually corner her again and I thought, "Blast you, you little snot. I'll be hanged if I'm going to let you go again." Now I'm just angry and ready to spit nails. Two can play this game of stubbornness and I guarantee I'm not going to be the one to lose this time around. I've got a handful of grass and grain still. I creep up to her, she nibbles a bit, I lunge for her halter, and miss yet again. I have no idea how I did it, but I again managed to get fistfuls of mane. And let me tell you, I was not letting go this time. I'm trying everything I can to get her to stop to no avail. I'm digging my heels into the ground, I'm running alongside her, practically laying across her back, half-tempted to just hop her on back. By now she's flat out galloping and I'm thinking I'm about to get a lesson in vaulting. Somehow or another, I reach around to the right side of her head and grab her halter and yank her head around. She finally grinds to a halt, but considering I dropped the lead rope about 200 feet back, it took everything I had just to get her to stand there and not start dragging me all over again.
My dad brings over the lead rope, clips it on her and then holds onto her for a minute. I'm panting so hard and my legs are so weak I can barely stand up. I felt like I had just finished running the 200 yard dash, having flashbacks when my legs would just feel like jell-o, unsure of how to take another step. I was reminded of why I hate running in those moments of pause. I'm still swearing.
We walk her over to the Gator, I get in to drive, Dad gets in the passenger seat while he's holding on to her lead and we make the long and slow trek back to the barn. She walks quietly as can be into her stall, while I'm still clutching my sides, wondering if my heart rate is ever going to return to normal. By the time I get inside, I can't decide whether to pass out or throw up from the exertion.
I find the story extremely funny now. I didn't last night. I was ready to turn that pony into glue. But now I've managed to laugh so hard about the entire thing - because it really is quite funny. When was the last time you heard somebody talk about having to chase down their runaway pony?
If only I had it all on video. I guarantee it would have gone viral. Andrea didn't know she was getting free tickets to the rodeo for the weekend.
So, remember:
Don't ever buy a pony.
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