One day, Jake reveals that he has a friend named Ally who lives at the end of 80th Street who has horses and boards a pony. The pony is getting fat and isn’t getting enough exercise. I could go a couple of times a week to ride her, as long as I stay on the back streets.
Let’s do it! I couldn’t be more enthusiastic. Jake’s friend shows me where the harness is kept. There is no saddle. The pony is named Desi. She’s tallish for a pony, and piebald. Ally gets the harness onto Desi’s head, no help from the pony. I’m too excited to see that this pony is a little on the ornery side.
I mount Desi, nudge her a little with my heels and she reluctantly moves forward and out of the gate. I’ve had some horse riding lessons so I think I know what to do.
Pretty soon it’s clear this pony is not bringing the zeal to the ride that I am. Nevertheless, I feel like I’m riding The Black Stallion. Well, almost. Desi plods along at a slow walk, burping into a shambling trot from time to time with no direction from me. Occasionally, she emits a slow, languid fart. My fantasy of the Black Stallion is getting harder and harder to maintain.
There's not enough day dreaming to turn Desi into the Black Stallion.
I ride Desi down Arden Street to where my friend Sandy lives. She’s not home, but little children flock around us as if they’ve never seen a pony before. I’m not clear on Desi’s tendencies to bite and kick so I tell them not to get too close.
It’s amazing how poorly kids take direction.
After a half hour or so, I turn Desi back toward home. She immediately perks up and we have a nice walk/trot back to her place. I take the harness off and hang it up. Desi heads down into the pasture without a look back.
Over a couple of rides with Desi, the limitations of this deal are clear. By sticking only to back roads, I am significantly limited in where we can go, so we go the same places each time. Desi is less and less cooperative and will sometimes simply stop. Once stopped, it can take 10 minutes to get her started again. She’ll turn her head slightly to the side to cast a look at me as if she’s thinking, “You moron!”
No wonder this pony is so fat.
On our final ride, it’s hot. It has rained the night before and there are a few deep puddles in the road. Desi indicates that she’s thirsty by straining toward a puddle and shaking her head from side to side. I loosen the reins so she can get some water.
Desi promptly throws me onto the paved road.
The sad reality.
Even though my breath has been knocked out of me, I can see that Desi is wearing a self-satisfied expression. It’s five minutes before I’m sitting up and gathering myself to stand and grab the reins. As I walk toward her, she jogs a few feet away.
Grrrrrr.
Every time I’m close enough to seize the harness or reins, Desi moves away too quickly for me to act. After a few minutes, I hear laughter.
I look over my shoulder and see an elderly couple standing in their front yard, laughing uncontrollably at the kid and pony show. This is the best thing they’ve seen since Milton Berle. The Moron’s Messiah, according to radio show star Fred Allen. They are wiping their eyes, leaning on each other, struggling for control, then collapsing all over again into giggles.
This ridicule strengthens my resolve. At least Desi hasn’t kicked up her heels and skedaddled completely. Yet.
Desi is standing in the shade about 10 feet away from me. I decide to change my tactics. Instead of always approaching from behind, I’ll get ahead of her. I walk nonchalantly in Desi’s general direction, but pass her, walking down the street a bit. I carefully look back. She is clearly wondering what the hell is up.
I stop for a couple of minutes, cursing myself that I don’t have any carrots or sugar cubes on me. I begin to walk away very slowly again. When I sneak a peek, Desi is definitely confused. I’m hoping she’ll follow me, but she doesn’t. Naturally.
Then I spin on my heel and jog very quickly back to Desi and grab the harness before she can figure out what’s going on. She shakes her head violently, but I don’t let go. In fact, I give her head a shake of my own, looking into her eyes.
High jinks are over, you fat. . .
It’s another 10 minutes before I can mount Desi, but I refuse to let her get the better of me again or to go back on foot in shame. Once I’m on her, I grab a hank of her mane in with the reins for a little added security. On the way back, she’s dragging her hooves to extend my misery. By the time we’re at the gate to her pasture, Desi is in a thoroughly surly mood and so am I. I rip the harness off her and hang it up. She moves languidly toward the pasture but not before shooting a look that says, “Screw you! I win,” and sending a loquacious fart my way.
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