A Pony called Lightning

by Linda Benson (a repost from the past - about ponies.)

Ponies in general get a bad rap, don't you think? Many of them, clever and mischievous by nature and too small for an adult to ride, never receive enough training to become solid citizens.

But years ago we had a wonderful pony who came to us by chance, when my daughter was young.

I was a single mother at the time, living on a rural property where I had a small saddle shop behind my house. I also sold a horse from time to time, to help with the rent and the groceries. We always had something to ride, but my daughter did not have a horse to call her own.

A neighbor phoned, asking if I knew anyone that was missing a little silver dappled pony that had just walked up her driveway. He was visiting with her two horses out back, and so she turned him in with them, so he wouldn't run loose all over the place.

Although a horse or pony getting loose (and other horse people catching them up) is not particularly strange, what was different about this pony is that no owner was ever found. After my friend went through the appropriate channels looking for an owner (animal control, feed stores, newspaper) she finally admitted she had no use for the pony, and did my daughter want it?

So the pony was walked down the road to our house, where my daughter tied it to a tree in the backyard and began to brush the little gelding. He stood probably only 11 hands, and after passing all the tests for gentleness, we progressed to saddling him, bridling him, leading her around, and eventually, turning over the reins to her. I expected him to be a typical little balking pony, who'd amount to nothing more than a lead-line mount. Surprise, surprise. This pony was broke to death!

This little gelding walked, trotted, and even cantered at my daughter's first cue. He stopped immediately for her, neck-reined like a pro, and the huge grin on my daughter's face as she put him through these paces was priceless. Here was a very well-trained little horse, her own size, that did exactly what she asked! She was so proud!

I can't imagine who ever took the time to train a pony like this, and why no one was missing him. A person could search and search for just such an animal, and have a desperate time finding one. To a single mother, struggling to make ends meet, this was a gift from the heavens.

To make the deal legal, I think we paid my friend $50 for this pony, which my daughter promptly named Lightning. As you can see from the pictures, we eventually trusted the little guy to ride double, bareback (no, we never had helmets back then) and my daughter gained more confidence from that priceless little pony than you can ever imagine.

Now, my daughter has grown into a beautiful woman who will soon be getting married. But neither of us will forget the little pony who simply walked up the driveway one day. LIGHTNING!

Have you had a good pony in your life? Or a bad one? One that you learned a lot from?

My Life With Horses--Part Nine

                                                            by Laura Crum

            I’ve written about my son’s pony, Toby, before—Magic…and Toby the Pony. Click on the link to find the full story of our magical little white horse. In the context of my own life with horses, the next two years were dominated by this pony. I spent most of the first year leading the pony around with my five year old son on him. I seldom actually rode myself. (Though once in awhile I did ride Toby to give him an “attitude adjustment.” Toby was a good pony, but he was a pony.)

            To those who think this sounds like an incredibly boring horse life, all I can say is that it wasn’t at all boring, from my point of view. But I’m not sure I am going to be able to explain why I loved this part of my horse life so much. However, I’ll try.

            Partly it was because I had truly come to understand that my greatest joy lay just in living with horses, and whether I rode or not wasn’t that important to me. Partly it was because having a pony of my own had been my childhood dream…and now I was making it come true. At last I had a pony (!) Toby was the first pony I ever owned and I still smile, thinking of him. And partly it was because I was just happy with my life overall.

            Another factor was that I had achieved the goals I had set myself in my life with horses. I had been a reasonably effective competitor at cowhorse, cutting and roping; I had trained some horses that I was really proud of. I’d crossed the Sierras many times on my own horses and camped with them in some amazing places. I’d worked as a cowboy on a commercial cattle ranch. There wasn’t anything that I had once been burning to do with a horse that I hadn’t yet done. And the depression I went through had freed me of the need to see my life with horses in terms of goals. I was happy just to enjoy my horses and my son. I think the fact that I was older helped, also.

            But mainly, of course, I was happy to spend my time this way because I loved my little boy so much. As I said in the last post, I would have done absolutely anything to give him a happy life, and I thought, and still think, that raising a child around and aboard horses (if you can do it without injuring or scaring them) is a fine way to create a happy life. Lest you suppose this is just my own prejudice, you may consider the fact that the number one therapy for handicapped kids is “horse therapy.” People pay big bucks to let their handicapped child get led around on a gentle horse. If it can actually “cure” handicapped kids, how good must horseback riding be for kids who are not handicapped?

            So I took much delight in spending my horse time leading my child around on our steady pony, feeling that I was giving my son a huge gift. And I really believe this from the bottom of my heart, in the same way and to the same degree that I believe in attachment parenting. It doesn’t matter if my son grows up to be a horseman or not. That isn’t the point. The point, to me, is that riding and interacting with horses throughout your childhood helps you to feel strong and comfortable within yourself, and to connect in a positive way with the natural world. That is, if it’s a positive experience.

            I took this part of it very seriously. As a young child I had many very “scary” moments on a horse. Because I was passionate about horses, these moments had never deterred me. But I knew many others who had been scared, or injured, or both, and who never again had any interest in horses. So I resolved to do everything I knew how to do (and I knew quite a bit about horses at this point in my life) to give my son a positive experience.

            To this end I bought Toby, a very steady 20 year old pony. To this same end, I led my son around for a year on the pony before I let him ride independently. I took the stirrups off the saddle for this whole year, in order that my kid should develop a good seat. I cannot count to you the miles I jogged, leading Toby as my son learned to trot on the critter. My long legged husband ran alongside the pony, as my son learned to lope. Once our child was pretty confident at all three gaits, I began lunging Toby with my kid aboard. And only when my little boy seemed absolutely solid, did I let him begin riding Toby independently—in our small riding ring. When we rode in larger spaces, I ponied Toby from my own horse, Plumber.

            This may sound overprotective to some, perhaps. But a lifetime of experience with horses had taught me to be careful, and my whole aim was to create a positive, rewarding experience for my son. And it worked. My little boy became a confident, happy rider. By the time he was seven years old, he could walk, trot, and lope Toby independently, and control the sometimes strong minded pony competently. And he began asking me to take him out on trail rides.

            Here is where I had a problem. Because Toby just wasn’t the right horse to take a seven year old out on the trails. He had a tendency to be “forward” outside, and I knew perfectly well that riding outside was very different to riding in an arena. Many more variables, a much less controlled situation. And so I hemmed and hawed about the trail rides. We took a couple of short ones (around my uncle’s ranch) with me ponying Toby from Plumber. And then life, once again, intervened. Toby got sick.

            The story of Toby’s death is described in “Magic…and Toby the Pony.” I will just say that it was very hard on my son when we lost his pony to cancer just after my little boy turned seven. Toby is buried here and at least once a month my son talks about how he misses him. Toby truly was a very special and important part of my life with horses and I will always be grateful to him. He was the first forever horse that came to me for my son.

Fortunately Toby was followed by another great horse. I have always believed that Toby sent us a gift in his passing and brought us another forever horse to take care of his little boy. Because of losing Toby, Henry came into our lives. (To be continued.)

            Toby is featured in my 10th mystery, Chasing Cans. Click on the title to find the Kindle edition of this book. (I have to add, I just read the Amazon reviews of Chasing Cans, and there is a group who absolutely hates this book, due to the fact that it is about a mother with a new baby. Yes, it is also an exciting mystery with lots of horses and a dastardly barrel racing trainer and plenty of action, and also includes the wonderful Toby. Most people, even the haters, point out that it is as well written as the previous books. However, fair warning: if reading about the "mama" experience turns you off, don't bother with this one. And if anyone who has enjoyed this book would post a review on Amazon, I'd be really grateful. This is one of my favorite novels in the series. I have to admit that it makes me sad that the non-mothers who hate reading about a career woman turning mom are the ones who seem mostly inclined to review it. I have no problem with anyone else's path, but since my own path became motherhood, I wanted to write about the experience. I tried to be faithful to the reality--joys and trials--while still crafting an exciting mystery. See what you think.)

 

            This saga begins here.  

Magic...and Toby the Pony

                                                by Laura Crum

            I can’t count how many times my son has asked me if there is real magic in the world. Of course, he was mostly thinking of Harry Potter and flying broomsticks and the like. But each time he’s asked, I have told him seriously that I do believe there is magic in the world, magic that is every bit as wildly improbable and delightful as a flying broomstick. We just don’t (mostly) notice. And nowhere is this more true than when it comes to horses.

            Has anybody else ever noticed that when you are open to being led, the right horse comes along? The horse that takes you where you really want to go. Sometimes the horse looks not at all as you thought he would be, but he is the right one nonetheless. This has happened to me many times. But today I want to talk about one particular special horse that came to me when I needed him—Toby the pony, the magical little white horse that taught my son to ride. Toby died in October, five years ago, and I think of him a lot this time of year.

            I didn’t envision buying my kid a pony. To tell the truth, I had a very common horseman’s prejudice against ponies. I thought they were all ill-broke and ill-mannered, the result of being too small to be ridden by anyone but children. I had never owned a pony myself, and my limited acquaintance with the ponies of others only reinforced my belief about ill-broke and ill-mannered. So I wasn’t thinking about buying my kid a pony.

            But my five year old son was getting too big to ride with me on my horse, Plumber. See my September post “The Story of a Good Horse”. At the same time my young son felt very unsure up on the horse without me, and truthfully, Plumber had too much spook in him to be an appropriate leadline pony. He was also 15.1. “I need something smaller and quieter,” I told my husband.

            Well, be careful what you ask for. The very next day the neighbor came over to say her kid’s pony was for sale. My emotions were mixed. Yes, this was just what I was looking for. I had seen this pony packing the neighbor girl for years, sometimes packing her and two of her friends—bareback and wearing only a halter. I was pretty sure he was a reliable pony. But…well, quite frankly I was prejudiced against ponies and by my standards this was a really ugly pony. He was white, with blue eyes. He did not have a cute little head. He was a coarse, solid made critter and looked tough and strong. But white. With blue eyes. Yuck.

            Still, I swallowed my reluctance and tried the pony. He was thirteen and a half hands high, and strongly made, one big point in his favor. I am five foot two, and this pony was quite big enough for me to ride. The neighbor girl’s mother often rode him. They were selling the pony because they could only afford one horse and the girl wanted to buy a mare she could show. At sixteen she’d outgrown Toby, who was twenty, and no show horse. But it was clear that they were very fond of Toby and wanted to be sure he went to a good home.

            I rode the pony, asked a lot of questions and decided he would work. I tried to ignore how homely he was. He seemed completely sound. He’d had one run-in with cancer—tumor on his sheath—but it had been removed and he was doing fine. I decided to take a chance on him. He had come my way the very week I had asked for such a thing. I bought Toby and we brought him home. And that very day my son, who had been afraid to be up on the horses alone, demanded that I lead him all around the property on Toby. Which I did. Toby was great. We were off to a good start.

            Once I got used to Toby, I began to get over how homely he was. In fact, I began to think he was cute…isn’t it funny how this happens? Toby wasn’t really white, he was a medicine hat paint—mostly white with a sorrel “cap” and a big sorrel patch on his left flank and some sorrel in his tail. I learned that medicine hat paints were considered good fortune. And Toby certainly was good fortune for us.

            Now I am going to make a confession. I feel really dumb about this, but its true. Nobody I knew put a helmet on their kid when they rode (I ran with a bunch of cowboys and team ropers—and if you don’t believe me, ask anyone you know that runs with such a crowd), so I just never thought of doing it. When my son was riding in front of me on Plumber I was perfectly confident Plumber wouldn’t dump me—and that I could hang on to my kid. This proved absolutely true, so the no-helmet wasn’t the huge mistake it might have been.

            When I started leading my kid around on Toby I didn’t stop to think how much easier my child could come off. When we went faster than a walk my husband used to jog next to my son, holding him with one hand. But time passed and my kid grew more confident. He trotted and eventually loped along on Toby, sometimes being ponied by me from my own horse. And, yes, no helmet. I was dumb.

            So Toby helped me out. My son was riding the pony independently now, and starting to trot and lope him on his own. And Toby, though a good pony, was a pony. As his previous owner said, “Every pony is a little Napolean. Give them an inch and they want world domination.” Toby would sometimes to decide to go where HE wanted to go, rather than where my son wanted him to go.

            The other thing about Toby that was a little disconcerting is that sometime in his checkered past (he’d been rescued from an abusive home by the owner previous to the neighbor, and no one really knew where he came from), he’d clearly been a gymkhana pony. This showed itself in various ways. Several times I watched him “pole bend” the oak trees in his corral—at a dead run and just for fun. And I noticed that though he started out quiet (his basic nature) when my son loped him, about the fourth time he was kicked up to the lope, he began to find another gear. Like he was getting ready to run a pattern.

            So one day when my then six year old son was riding Toby in the paddock, walking him down the hill and loping him back up, Toby gave me a wake-up call. The pony had loped up the hill quietly and obediently two or three times, and about the fourth time he was asked to do it, Toby took off on a route of his own, jumping a small ditch and weaving at the high lope (like a good pole bending pony) between some tightly spaced oak trees—with low hanging, solid limbs. My heart was in my throat, but my kid stayed on and ducked in all the right places. When he pulled Toby up next to me, though, he gave me a look. “Mama, I need a helmet,” he said.

            “You’re right,” I said. And we went and got one that afternoon—he hasn’t ridden without a helmet since. Thank you, Toby.

           Yes, Toby could be stubborn. I had to ride him from time to time and "straighten him out." But Toby never once dumped my son. Never hurt him, never even scared him. He did teach him to ride. And I was several times treated to examples of how hard the pony tried to take care of his young rider. One summer we’d returned from a month long trip, during which Toby was not ridden by anyone. Our pens are big and he had room to run, but still…

            The very first thing my son wanted to do when we got home was ride his pony. I had misgivings, but I pulled the pony out and saddled him up and off they went. I could tell Toby was feeling good, but he never did one thing wrong. When my son was done riding I decided to lunge the pony a bit…and you should have seen that critter buck. But despite how good he was obviously feeling, he had managed to hold it together for half an hour of gentle riding with his little kid. Toby had a good heart.

             Toby was always very affectionate and loved petting, and we lavished a lot of attention on him. My son rode him almost every day during the years we owned him. Never hard enough to even crack much of a sweat, but lots of rides. We had a good life together.

             Sadly, a year after I bought Toby, his cancer reoccurred. I had another tumor on his sheath removed and we put him on some (very expensive) supplements that were supposed to reduce the risk of cancer reoccurring. We had another year in which Toby was sound and perfectly happy and my kid rode him a lot. And then one day the pony was off his feed.

            He wasn’t colicked, but he wasn’t right. He had a slight temperature. The vet came out and prescribed antibiotics. But a couple of weeks went by and Toby still wasn’t right. Not cleaning up his food. One day I noticed blood in his urine. The next day I hauled him to the equine center to have his urethra scoped.

            The scoping revealed he was bleeding from one of his kidneys. The blood work showed markers indicative of a tumor. The guess was that he had a tumor in his kidney. It was consistent with his history and symptoms.

            The surgeon was willing to operate, but had never removed a kidney on a horse before. It would be complicated with an uncertain prognosis; my twenty-two year old pony would go through a lot of grief and perhaps it would all be for naught. It would be very expensive. And this was the third time his cancer had reoccurred. I decided against it. (A year and a half later, faced with colic surgery to save my son’s twenty year old horse—and the same surgeon—I opted to go for the surgery—because the surgeon had done this procedure MANY times and the prognosis was good. I’d make the same two choices, if asked to do it again.)

            Having elected not to do the surgery, the likelihood was that Toby did not have much longer to live. The vet asked if I wanted to put him down. Toby, loaded up on Banamine, was happily cropping grass and looked at me bright-eyed, his expression clearly asking, “When do we go home?”

            I thought about my son and how worried he’d been when we hauled Toby away. I looked at the bright-eyed little guy. In some ways it would have been easier just to give the word and drive away—remembering the pony happily cropping grass. But I couldn’t do it. And again, it is a choice I would make the same way a thousand times over. I brought Toby home.

            It turned out he had a week to live. During this week I explained to my seven year old son that Toby did not have long to live. We let the pony roam around the garden, grazing. We left his pen open and he would go in and out as he pleased. He went in every night and shut his gate behind him—something my son remembers with a smile to this day. I kept Toby loaded up on Banamine and he wouldn’t eat hay, but he would graze and clearly enjoyed carrots and attention.

            I will never forget one October afternoon, in the long, low golden light—my son and I were hanging out with Toby while he dozed under the oak trees, occasionally grazing. My son stepped up to his pony many times to pet him. Finally my little boy looked at me and said, “Can you see how much I love him?”

            I said that I did see—and I know Toby did, too.

            The end of this story involves a bittersweet magic—and I truly believe it was magic. You may call me naïve—and that’s OK. I’ll believe in the magic until the day I die.

            Toby was getting near his end. He no longer wanted to graze much, one morning he wasn’t interested in carrots. He had begun grinding his teeth, which is a sign of pain. I made an appointment for the afternoon and tried to prepare my son. That afternoon, an hour before the vet was due, I noticed a strange cast to the light. Looking up, I realized it was smoke. Smoke, in October, in the brushy hills where we live, is nothing to take lightly. My husband scrambled to the top of our ridge and called me on the cell phone. “Hitch up the trailer,” he said. “The fire’s right next door and it’s coming our way fast.”

            While my husband stayed up on the ridge fighting the fire with neighbors, I rather desperately hitched up the trailer and collected the dogs. I had at the time four horses—one of which was a dying pony—and a three-horse trailer. I had no idea what I should do, but I got ready to roll. Smoke was billowing over the ridge. I had not yet heard one siren, though my husband had called 911.

            And then, in an instant, it seemed, everything changed. With a roar of engines several airplanes appeared and dumped fire retardant on the ridge (drenching my husband). In the next five minutes, helicopters followed, dumping buckets of water. My husband called me back. “Forget it,” he said. “They’ve got it.”

            And so it proved. We went from catastrophe to no big deal in the blink of an eye. Half an hour later, when the vet arrived to put Toby down, all seemed normal. Except that it wasn’t. Those who have been through a potentially life threatening emergency will know what I mean. My senses were over the top. And I knew, I absolutely knew, that the dying Toby had used his power to save us.

            I know perfectly well that there is a rational explanation for that massive so-quick response to our little local brush fire. I can explain it in logical terms..etc. But I know in my heart that the rational explanations don’t matter.

            You can all laugh at me—I don’t mind. I have seen this before in animals, and once with a person. Those with a pure heart are granted the power to do something special with their energy when they die. Create a truly magical moment, save a life. Toby saved us. He died quickly not an hour after the fire was put out—our magical little white horse.

            We still love Toby and remember him. He is buried here on our property. And I truly believe he still takes care of my son.

The Feather Fund

Many of us are acquainted with the wonderful Marguerite Henry books, including Misty of Chincoteague, about the yearly round up of ponies from Assateague Island. And I imagine many of you dreamed of owning a pony like Misty at one point in your lives.

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I'd like to introduce you to The Feather Fund, an organization that makes such dreams possible for deserving young girls and boys that might not otherwise be able to afford one.

Pony-penning still takes place each year, with the herds being rounded up and swam across the channel by a group of volunteer firemen/cowboys. The resulting auction of the foals serves two purposes, to keep the herds at a reasonable number and to finance the Chincoteague Volunteer Fire Department. The Chincoteague ponies are now so popular, and the auction has become so famous that prices often rise into the thousands of dollars for each foal, more than even a hardworking youngster could save on her own.





Enter The Feather Fund - a charitable organization whose fundraising activities help a child or youngster with the cost of acquiring a pony. Formed to carry on the work of Carollynn Suplee, whose original good deed started the whole process in 1995, each year a committee helps several children bid on, and obtain a colt or filly of their dreams.

Carrie Olson and Chincoteague Sweetie

What a wonderful idea! Because the responsibility of owning and caring for a horse or pony is good for the soul and character of any young human, agreed? To learn more about The Feather Fund or the round-up of Chincoteague Ponies, here are some sites to visit:

The Feather Fund http://featherfund.org/

Official Pony Penning page and Auction info http://www.chincoteaguechamber.com/pony-events/ev-pony.html

History of the Chincoteague Pony Swim http://www.chincoteague.com/pony/ponies.html

How many of you grew up with Marguerite Henry's books, or dreamed of owning a Chincoteague pony of your own?

The One That Got Away

By Laura Crum


How many of us can think of a horse like that? One we wish we had bought, or worse yet, wish we hadn’t sold. A horse that, if we had it to do over again, we would still own. Or have kept until he/she died. Fugly has created a website where horse owners can find these horses, and I would be using it myself, except that the horse that got away from me is certainly dead. She was my riding horse when I was fourteen, and she was in her teens then. I’m fifty two now. I think we can all do the math.

Ramona was her name—a little pinto pony mare. She stood somewhere shy of fourteen hands, a big pony/small horse. She had the sturdy pony build and the slightly fuzzy pony mane. She also had the wide flat back and smooth gaits so essential for riding bareback. It wasn’t until I bought another similar pony for my son and started riding him, that I realized these traits were common in ponies. Like Ramona, I could sit Toby very comfortably bareback at the trot, something that has not been true of very many horses I’ve owned.

Ramona was always ridden bareback. She didn’t even have a saddle. She belonged to my friend Kristie, who kept her at a small barn that was walking distance from my house. At fourteen, I was a horse crazy girl who desperately wanted a horse of my own. I was allowed to ride my uncle’s horses out at the family ranch, but since I couldn’t drive, I only got out to the ranch when my parents would take me. And that was once a week. Not enough.

Kristie came to the rescue. She had recently bought a fancy QH gelding that she intended to run barrels on. She wasn’t interested in Ramona any more and offered to let me use her if I would pay for Ramona’s feed. I took the little mare for a few rides and found her to be an absolutely reliable trail horse. She would go anywhere you asked her. She was sure-footed, with smooth gaits, including a sweet little rocking chair lope. She had the slightly stubborn pony personality, but no vices. She was perfect. I accepted Kristie’s offer.

For the next year I rode Ramona everywhere—through the neighborhood, on solitary trails through the mountains, across the river where we had to swim, down to the local pool to show off to the other kids. You name it, I did it. Mostly by myself. Kristie had moved her fancy gelding to a proper training barn with an arena and didn’t ride with me any more. Ramona never put a foot wrong.

And then, when I was fifteen, my parents decided to let me buy a horse of my own. Of course, I thought of buying Ramona. I figured Kristie would sell her to me if I asked. However, my advisor was my uncle, a team roper who raised Quarter Horses. My uncle was not willing to give me one of his horses, no. I was buying a horse with my own hard-earned money. But my uncle thought I should buy a proper QH type horse that he, Todd, could potentially use as a practice team roping horse. A useful horse. Useful to my uncle Todd that is. My uncle did not think much of the humble pinto pony, good only for trail riding. And a mare besides. He advised against buying her and said he would help me find a better horse.

I listened. Why wouldn’t I? My uncle was my hero. I continued to ride Ramona while we shopped for a horse I could afford and my uncle approved of. And eventually my uncle picked out Jackson, a fifteen-three bay gelding who was priced cheap, seemed reasonably gentle, and did, indeed, look like a team roping horse. I bought him.

Unfortunately, Jackson was not the kid’s horse Ramona was. Though superficially gentle, he was a lazy, uncooperative beast who was quite willing to rear in a vertical manner when he didn’t care for the look of a trail and also willing to kick hard enough that the horseshoer, another tough old cowboy, refused to put back shoes on him.

Jackson kicked me in the head one day when I was saddling him—knocked me out cold. I was finding it impossible to take him out for trail rides, he simply stopped and reared when he didn’t want to go. Ramona was still at the stable where I kept Jackson, and I took to riding her instead. It was a lot more fun.

Finally my uncle decided that he’d better help me sort Jackson out. He came up to the little barn where I kept Jackson and went for a ride with me. I rode Ramona. When Jackson balked and reared, Uncle Todd pulled him around and beat the crap out of him. Jackson was a smart beast. He gave up the rearing pronto. Todd put me on Jackson to be sure I could convince the horse that I was now in charge. I got it done. And Todd and I went for a ride. We loped up the little hills, Todd riding Ramona bareback, me on Jackson. And when we got back to the barn, Todd slid off Ramona and said, “This is a pretty nice horse.”

I think that’s when it dawned on me. I should have bought Ramona. Ramona was the perfect horse for what I wanted to do. Ramona fit me. I had allowed my uncle to convince me to buy a horse that fit him. Not me.

But I was young and I wanted to please my cowboy uncle, who remained my hero. I kept Jackson. When I was sixteen and could drive, I moved Jackson out to the family ranch and my uncle turned him into a practice team roping horse. Jackson remained a stubborn, uncooperative horse, prone to rearing. And I never knew what became of Ramona.

Kristie was fond of her and said she would retire her. But I didn’t keep track of her. I wish I had. I can still see her little pinto pony face in my mind. I remember the fun I had with her and how safe I felt on her. When I bought Toby for my son and began riding him, it all came back to me. Toby was very like Ramona.

To this day I wish I had bought Ramona and kept her until she died. I did keep Toby until his death, and I feel he was a great gift both to me and my son. And now I have Sunny, my little trail horse, who looks something like a pony crossed on a Quarter Horse. He has that pony personality, and the surefooted, go anywhere pony ability. I love riding him on the trail. Sometimes I ride him bareback (he has the wide flat back, too). It takes me right back to my youth, and Ramona—the one that got away.

Horse Crazy

It's Monday morning and I am recovering from horse show hangover--not the same as a drinking hangover, but it does feel similiar. The body aches, and I feel fatigued--but no headache or stomach issues to go with it. LOL. And, I didn't even show! But I was the water girl.

I was supposed to ride in the show--would have been my first dressage test as Krissy has done her job as a jumper and now it's time to do some low level dressage work, which I am enjoying. I'm not sure that my mare agrees because I still jump her once a week and that's when her ears prick up and she gets a little energy in her step. Anyway, we dind't get to do our test yesterday because Krissy has a puncture wound on her scapula! I swear this horse will hurt herself or get sick if the opportunity presents itself. I believe I will be putting my vet's children through college if we keep this up.

Anyway, sans the disappointment of not being able to ride, my little girl and her pony Mister Monty did have a great show. She also showed our trainer's pony--Tahoe, and did quite well. This was my daughter's first walk, trot, canter test. Let me start off by saying that I am just a little tiny bit proud of this kid who is only 8 years old. We started the day by helping our trainer feed at 5:30 in the morning and we had horses on the trailer by 6:45. My daughter's first test was at 8:12 with Monty and she wound up getting second place. The second test she did with both ponies and out of 15 in the class she took 5th and 6th places. Not too mention it was 95 degress out. She is a trooper. She helped water horses all day, check the feed bags, and hose them down when needed. I only heard a couple of complaints and that was at the end of the day.

Both of our instructors were there with their horses and their tests weren't until later in the day, so we didn't wind up back home until about 5:00. I mused at the end of the day seeing all of the riders and their horses--this sport to the common man probably makes no sense. We work our butts off, provide the best care for our animals, our lives essentially revolve around the horses. People who aren't around horses often are usually surprised when I talk about how each one has a distinct personality and can show all sorts of emotion ranging from jealousy, grief, anger, joy, and love. What equestrians are all about is the passion they have for their animals. Horses give us so much pleasure. They are truly our friends and companions. I feel blessed to have them in my life and will continue to get up at the crack of dawn to feed, clean up after and take care of them in return for all these gracious animals give back. I am happy to say that I think my youngest child agrees with me. My sons think we're crazy and I'm sure my husband feels the same way but would never voice it. However, I will be horse crazy until my last day!

Have a great week and hug a horse.

Michele

Toby the Pony

By Laura Crum


In my latest mystery novel, Chasing Cans, just out this spring, my protagonist, equine veterinarian Gail McCarthy, acquires a pony for her child. Toby, the pony in that story, is based on our own Toby, a pony I bought two and a half years ago, when my son was five. Toby the pony single-handedly taught my little boy to ride.

My son had been horseback since he was six months old, sitting in front of me in the saddle, but still did not like to be on the big horses by himself. Not to mention that none of the horses I had at that time were suitable as a mount for a young child. When a neighbor mentioned that she wanted to sell Toby—her teenage daughter had outgrown him and moved on to a horse—I jumped at the chance.

I’d watched Toby quite a bit over the years. A largish (about thirteen hands) mostly white pinto pony, with blue eyes, Toby was homely and phlegmatic in appearance. I had seen him packing various little neighbor girls around, bareback, double and once triple (!) Nothing seemed to bother him. He looked sturdy, solid, and reliable (and 100% sound), and I figured he was just what I needed.

My neighbor explained that Toby had some health problems (Cushings disease and a run-in with cancer) and he was twenty years old. I bought him anyway, and the very first day I brought him home, my little boy demanded to get on him. Leading my kid around the property on Toby, who never twitched an ear at anything, I knew I’d made a good decision.

In the ensuing years I learned a lot. I’d never owned a pony before, though I’d longed for one as a small child, and Toby was a real education. Ponies are not a smaller version of horses, I found. No, ponies are much smarter and tougher minded than any horse I’d ever owned. At least Toby was. Oh, and did I mention stubborn? But most of all, endearing.

Toby continued to take care of my little boy, who never once fell off of his beloved pony. We did have some minor setbacks, as when Toby tried to convince me he had no idea how to longe, despite the fact that the former owner had assured me she’d longed him often. When I called her for advice, she suggested the whip. “Every pony is a little Napoleon,” she said.

Sure enough, upon one application of said whip, Toby miraculously remembered how to longe. And this testing behavior persisted throughout our relationship, though it certainly lessened as he and I grew to understand one another.

And Toby’s version of taking care of my child wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined. As my little boy progressed from the leadline to the longe line to riding independently, Toby showed us that he had plenty of life. Indeed, at a thump from my kid’s heels, Toby was quite willing to take off at the high lope, as we found out. I still remember my son coming up the hill at a hand gallop on a route chosen not by him but by Toby, which involved leaping a ditch and ducking under a very solid oak tree limb. (After this I proceeded to give Toby a few training rides—fortunately the pony was big enough that I could also ride him. As always, it didn’t take him long to decide it was in his best interests to revert to obedient behavior.)

Still, Toby seemed to have a sixth sense about what a rider could handle; nobody ever came off of him. It didn’t hurt that he had very smooth gaits. My son was eventually able to trot and lope the pony independently, and remain in good control of him (to my kid’s great delight). Through it all, Toby remained sound and apparently healthy; he got his meds for the Cushings, shed out, looked great, bucked and played in his corral…etc. He was ridden four or five days a week on average, rarely hard enough to crack a sweat, and seemed to be enjoying life thoroughly.

We all loved Toby, most of all my son; the pony became a member of our family. He’d be with us today, but unfortunately his cancer reoccurred. We operated on him once to remove a tumor and he recovered nicely to give us another year of companionship. But when the cancer reoccurred yet again, this time in his kidneys, we made the decision to let him go. (Kidney cancer in a horse requires the removal of a kidney, a difficult operation that would put the horse through much suffering. We didn’t think this was appropriate, given Toby’s age and the fact that this was the fourth time his tumor had come back.)

Toby’s last days were spent on painkillers which kept him comfortable, and he wandered around our small horse ranch, grazing wherever he wanted, and shutting himself in his own pen every evening. My son and I said good-bye to him and told him we loved him (and if you’ve ever helped a little boy to say goodbye to a beloved animal, you know how sad this was). Nonetheless, in the green grass and sunshine, Toby dozed near us contentedly and rested his head against us; I swear our pony said goodbye and told us he loved us, too.

Toby is buried in his corral, with a stone to mark his grave. That corral is now occupied by Henry, the sorrel Quarter Horse gelding who is my son’s new mount. But Toby will never lose his place in our hearts—the magical little white horse who taught my boy to ride.

Cheers—to Toby

Laura Crum