A River of Ponies

Exactly how I became known as “the pony lady", I’ll never know. It wasn’t my intention. They came at first as an occasional dribble, then a steady stream. Finally, like a river. A regular flood, of ponies….

I considered my enterprising twenty-something self a serious trainer of horses. Horses. When I flung open my barn doors for business, I posted professionally designed, informative flyers advertising nationally certified riding lessons, coaching and schooling at all local feed and tack stores. I handed out handsomely printed business cards with an embossed HORSE logo (certainly not a pony) to contacts in three counties. I proudly nailed an attractive wooden sign on the front gate of my small north Texas farm, featuring a full-sized graphic of a horse (not a pony). To my dismay, ponies appeared. I never thought about turning them away.

A full range of sizes, types, ages and temperaments trooped solemnly down my driveway, past the full-sized horse sign, all possessing unique, unforgettable traits. There were sway-backed, eagle-eyed broodmares who kicked so incredibly swiftly and accurately they could smash two by fours like toothpicks while placidly chewing a mouthful of hay. There were exquisitely refined ponies with royal pedigrees and sad, doe-soft eyes, cringing in mortal terror at barn rakes, shovels and wheelbarrows. On came the tiniest of ponies with trusting hearts of gold, ensnarled in mud-stiffened lengths of nylon clothesline and wearing halters, which scarred deep grooves in their kindly faces. Cresty-necked palominos with jolly round bellies, curly manes and painfully foundered hooves limped down the lane. I acquired high-stepping blood bays with four white matching socks and blazed faces with profuse, jet-black tails floating gracefully behind them. Ancient, wise ponies with old barbed wire scars permanently marring their stubby legs and shoulders appeared as if summoned. I welcomed them all as temporary residents, en route to humane, use-appropriate homes. Mixed in among the wealth of sad and soulful cases descending upon me in droves came a few incorrigible rogues with invisible horrors carved on their hearts, ponies who seemed impossible to “fix” and place. Among the latter was Surprise.

A stocky black and white pinto, powerfully muscled, thick necked, with a mangy, matted tail and unruly bristle of mane, Surprise stepped placidly out of a long-neglected, open-topped single horse rig and into my life one sunlit, fragrant late spring day. He surveyed the serene horse farm scene with unruffled reserve, one ear swiveling casually back and forth. N. Texas’ tornado season had already come and gone; this short, fat equine whirlwind dropped in as an unassuming afterthought, sans warning.

"This here good-lookin’ pony, he’s too much for ma’ grandkids to handle, needs a firm hand an’ a world of sweaty saddle blankets—I heard you’re the one to fix him real good, little lady. So I brung him to ya!" The elderly gent grinned broadly and scratched his scruffy beard stubble. Before I could change my mind he stuffed my three hundred dollars in cash (negotiated down from five hundred) into a sweaty hatband and lumbered back into his rusty Ford pick up. As I watched him disappear down the lane, empty trailer banging and clanging along behind, I could just make out a few parting words over the whine of stiffly shifting gears. "Sometimes he bucks."

Surprise’s ground manners proved to be impeccable. He led like on military parade, tied like a statue, reveled in his bath and politely offered his hooves for picking out. He didn’t hog his food or fight with pasture mates. He accepted a snaffle bit in his mouth willingly and obeyed verbal cues while circling me at the end of a schooling line like a model trustworthy lesson pony. A first-rate citizen! After several days of easing him into the work routine, I decided it was time to check out his behavior under saddle.

A neighbor colleague who raised and trained Quarter horses had a gangly, athletic teen-aged nephew named Gary, who helped his aunt with barn chores and routinely climbed up on "green" stock for the first few unsteady rides. One morning soon after Surprise’s arrival I invited his aunt over for coffee with the lad in tow. She had agreed it would be interesting to watch him ride Surprise the first time. Gary was furious, humiliated. He was used to climbing up on full-sized Quarter horses with hot racehorse and roping blood coursing through their veins. What could possibly challenge him in riding one sleepy-looking black and white fatso who didn’t even reach higher than his waist? He didn’t deserve this insult. Gary slouched sullenly out to my round riding pen next to the barn, where a saddled and bridled Surprise patiently waited, snoozing in the sun. I handed Gary the reins, instructing him to ride the pony for about a half hour: walk and trot both directions in the small pen, check out his gait smoothness and responsiveness to standard cues, see how reliable Surprise’s ‘whoa" might be. The basics. No need to canter. Gary rolled his eyes, and his aunt and I retreated to my nearby house’s kitchen for coffee, where we could observe the trial ride comfortably from a large picture window. As I stirred milk into my steaming cup, I recalled the pony’s previous owner’s parting words. " Sometimes he bucks."

Aside from the fact that Gary’s legs hung down ridiculously long, almost touching the ground with his boot toes, the first try-out appeared perfectly acceptable. Surprise plodded along at a snail’s pace, halted obediently, neck-reined in figure-eight loops at the walk, even backed up without fussing, gaping his mouth or tossing his head. The pony looked bored. Gary glanced up at his aunt and me standing in the kitchen window and stuck out his tongue. We grinned back, waving. I yelled, "Wake him up! He’s half-asleep! Make him pick up a trot!" Gary shrugged and curled his knees up and kicked the pony’s flanks with his heels. Surprise swiveled an ear and continued the slow plod, plod, plod. Gary kicked him again, more emphatically. The pony’s ears pricked decidedly forward.

My coffee cup halted halfway to my mouth. With the speed and efficiency of a high-powered slingshot, Surprise ducked his head and launched the unsuspecting Gary far across the riding pen. His aunt and I whooped in unison. It was a “surprising” feat. Surprise then halted and waited, unflappably serene. Gary crawled slowly to his feet, dusting off his brand new Levis and muttering a few choice words to cover his acute embarrassment. He hardly ever got tossed off his aunt’s high-spirited Quarter Horse colts…. He glanced up at us standing by the window bug-eyed, and stuck out his tongue again when we both gave him the ‘thumbs up" to remount. "Ride ‘em, cowboy!" his aunt snickered. I took another sip of coffee and said with a straight face, "I guess he does buck sometimes."

Over the next half-hour my friend and I polished off a large pot of coffee while Surprise demolished my hopes of his ever becoming a gentle, safe child’s mount. He tossed the now sweaty, despondent and dust-coated Gary no fewer than twenty times. No matter how hard Gary worked to stay astride, Surprise’s calculated skill at unseating him persevered. When Gary finally dragged his beaten, bruised ego out of the round pen, Surprise had barely broken a sweat under the saddle blanket. I had to hand it to the pony. What he did, he did to perfection. But what could I do with him if he wasn’t safe to ride? He’d become a high maintenance lawnmower. Surprise’s impeccable ground manners continued to make him a delightful pony to handle on the ground, with that one glaring flaw. I invited Gary back several times for a re-match. On each occasion Surprise ditched him with the same determined gusto when encouraged to move out of a walk. It foreshadowed a dim future for one incorrigible, fat black and white pony.

Then I got a phone call from a recent Dallas transplant to my rural corner of Collin County. Mark McMillan, congenial and earnest, inquired about riding lessons for his adopted special needs son Tyler, an adopted developmentally disabled child. Tyler did not fit the profile of my average riding student—he was male, highly excitable, and possessed the physical coordination of a six-year-old child (in an eleven year old body), the emotional maturity of someone considerably younger. I was neither trained for nor particularly interested in providing riding instruction for the developmentally disabled. But Mark McMillan insisted. He hoped to introduce his adopted son to as many elements of the natural, country life as safely possible. Including horses. Reluctantly, I agreed to allow the man to bring Tyler for a trial visit to my horse farm. If all went well, I would agree to let the boy pet and brush a horse a short while, up close.

As I hung up the phone, the risk of the challenge I’d agreed to hit me full force. Whatever horse I selected had to be utterly dependable and unflappable. It couldn’t make one false move to frighten or injure this fragile young boy. McMillan had mentioned that Tyler was easily intimidated and hypersensitive. A full sized horse might frighten him badly. As I walked through my small herd of normal-sized lesson horses, I realized not one of them was the right fit for the tiny lad. My gaze fell upon Surprise, dreamily munching his grass hay in the last stall in the barn. I slid silently in beside him and tugged my fingers through his unruly mane, stroking his short neck. "Looks like you’re it, buddy, it’s your turn to shine. Don’t let me down." Surprise sneezed and rubbed the side of his head vigorously on my leg.

The next day Tyler and his father arrived right after lunch and immediately confirmed my concerns. Tyler was a slight, awkward boy, gesturing oddly with his hands and uttering random grunts and whoops as he got out of the car. He shook like a leaf, hooted and clung to his dad as we slowly approached horses resting behind a pasture fence. Any sudden movement or sound—a stamped hoof or casual head shake or swished tail— elicited a piercing shriek, and he buried his face on his dad’s pant-leg. The idea of trying to introduce Tyler to a horse up close, hands-on, seemed ill conceived. I expressed my concerns to Mr. McMillan, who looked mournful and patted Tyler’s head. I noticed Surprise observing us intently through the window bars of his stall door, ears pricked taut, eyes glowing brightly. It was an unusual amount of interest for him to demonstrate. In anything. I motioned them to follow me down the barn aisle and carefully rolled the door open partway. Mr. McMillan managed to pry Tyler’s face away from his leg long enough for the boy to glimpse the pony watching him intently just inside the stall door. I knelt next to the opening and almost whispered, "Here’s someone who wants to be your friend. This is Surprise." Tyler blinked timidly up at the black and white muzzle looming over him, ready to bolt. Surprise didn’t budge but softly blew into Tyler’s hair with a gentle "whoosh". Four or five tense seconds passed. Slowly, a delighted grin spread across Tyler’s face. He cautiously reached out a hand, stiff and quaking, to pat in the general direction of the pony’s face. Tyler whistled and crammed his fist in his mouth, and hid his face on his dad’s leg again. Surprise never took his eyes off the boy as I haltered and stepped him back a few paces so we could all enter the stall. From a small red bucket I pulled out a child-sized red rubber curry brush and started rubbing it in big slow circles on Surprise’s neck and shoulder. Tyler watched the process intently for a moment, then let go of his dad and tried to grab the curry and stuff it in his mouth. I guided his hand, helping him brush the pony’s neck. Tyler grinned and gurgled and seemed fascinated by the physical contact. I repeated the procedure with a soft brush on Surprise’s face and handed it to Tyler. When he inadvertently poked Surprise’s eye with the brush, I carefully caught his hand and said "No-no, OUCH!" I stroked Tyler’s face with the brush to show him how it felt and worked. He seemed pleased to share the grooming experience and turned back to the pony, ignoring his dad completely for the first time. Tentatively, he brushed a few more strokes on the pony’s cheek, repeating, "No-no ouch" to himself, then brushed his own cheek again and giggled. I felt we had made enormous strides, even as I rescued the brush from Tyler’s mouth once more. It seemed enough for a first time visit. When I told him it was time to go, Tyler whimpered. He stared at the pony, astonished, when I told him Surprise was very, very tired and needed a nap. I asked him to give Surprise a kiss good-bye so the pony would feel loved. Tyler quickly puckered up his lips and smacked loudly on Surprise’s nose. Surprise’s eyes opened full wide, and the two misfits held each other’s gaze. The connection was clear. Suddenly embarrassed, Tyler buried his face once more on his dad’s leg. Amazed by the whole interchange, I asked if he’d like to come back to visit Surprise again. Tyler’s response was muffled and unintelligible but definitely affirmative. At their car, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as Mr. McMillan and I congratulated each other on a successful first session. "What a marvelous pony you have, so well-behaved!" the man exclaimed. I nodded, straight-faced, and thanked him. I watched their car retreat down the lane, chewing on my lower lip, and returned to the stall to gather Surprise and turn him loose in the nearby pasture with the other lesson stock. The pony was dozing again, wearing his usual bored expression. During the intense visit, he had never taken his eyes off Tyler. I’d never seen him so interested in anything before. It set me wondering.

Surprise’s sessions with Tyler continued to delight and amaze us all.. Tyler became bolder and more engaged, more at ease around Surprise, with each short lesson. Surprise really perked up whenever Tyler appeared and when he heard the boy’s voice. Something clearly remarkable was happening. A skeptical realist, Tyler’s mother came to witness the reality of this unique relationship she’d heard described in glowing terms by her husband. She was as equally impressed with the obvious attachment growing between the boy and pony as she was with Tyler’s increasing dexterity and improved skill retention elsewhere. She gave us her blessings (and permission), and Tyler’s sessions with Surprise lengthened.

The moment finally came when it was time for Tyler to get on Surprise. After our usual grooming session, I showed Tyler how to tack up properly with a youth-sized Western saddle. I then demonstrated safe mounting technique and took a deep breath. I was treading unfamiliar ground but willing to let the boy and pony explore their growing bond further. As a safety precaution I wrapped a chain attached to a stout leather lead across Surprise’s face, just below his noseband. I frowned at the pony, staring at him directly in the eye. While Tyler gave his dad an effervescent pre-mounting hug, I growled," You make one wrong move, Surprise, you’ll really regret it."

I stood directly behind Tyler as we faced across Surprise’s back and wrapped his hands around the saddle horn. It took several attempts to convince him he needed to hold on tight and not let his hands slide off the horn. On the count of one-two-three, I boosted him up across the pony’s broad back. Tyler found himself sitting tall and proud on top of Surprise, hands clasped tightly on the horn, huge grin on his face. Surprise stood like a dignified statue, arching his thick neck and swiveling his ears as if to telegraph reassurance to Tyler. It was exhilarating. I pried one tightly clenched fist off the horn, urging Tyler to stroke Surprise’s neck. He cooperated shakily and whispered, "Good boy! Good S’pwize!" breathless but enthralled. We inched forward a few tentative steps, with my hand steadying Tyler’s thigh as well as leading Surprise. They looked made for each other, and Tyler’s grin widened. Surprise was completely attentive and obedient. We then expanded our inching to stroll several small circles. Tyler’s mounted lesson Number One was a major triumph.

Dismounting from the pony’s saddle proved to be a major challenge. Tyler’s coordination and sense of self-preservation were severely limited. He trusted me and Surprise completely, so when I said, "It’s time to get down now," he immediately let go of everything and tumbled in a relaxed heap under Surprise, staring goofily up at the pony’s belly while laying on his back in the dirt. It happened so fast, I couldn’t catch him. My heart leaped to my throat. Before I could bark "whoa" and pull him up close, Surprise showed his true mettle. With utmost care, the pony backed carefully away, stepping well clear of Tyler, one cautious hoof at a time. He bent his muzzle down to Tyler’s face and blew a soft "whoosh", to reassure the prone boy. Tyler just lay there on his back, wiggling, giggling and stroking at Surprise’s muzzle with total delight. Surprise knew exactly what to do. I realized I was witness to a remarkable moment: two very different species reaching out across the murky chasm of hit and miss communication and understanding each other completely. It was uncanny and astounding. My respect for one incorrigible pony ratcheted up a notch.

The relationship between Tyler and Surprise continued to blossom. Tyler came to visit and ride more often, even learned to assist with saddling. I discovered that he paid better attention, much better attention, when his parents were not in sight, so Mom and Dad disappeared routinely. Tyler had moments when the casual observer might not guess he was "different." Frustratingly, dismounting continued to be an issue. I concluded that he simply enjoyed sliding off Surprise like a rag-doll and landing on his back underneath the pony. Surprise never lost patience, expertly extracted his feet every time and never once stepped on him. If ever a pony adored a child, Surprise loved Tyler. The emotion was deeply reciprocated.

Sometime during this initial lesson period, I determined that Surprise pulled a cart nicely, even trotting on command, minus any tendencies to buck. Tyler was so taken with the idea of driving Surprise ("I can see him, I can see him!" he crowed); we expanded his lessons to include driving. The three of us wheeled handily all over the farm, sometimes with Surprise at a smart trot. Tyler felt Surprise needed serenading. We must have presented quite a picture as we toured the farm with Tyler singing loudly and merrily along to his friend, completely off key and unintelligible. Surprise telegraphed his signature ear swivel and continued to maneuver the circles and figure-eight loops with well-behaved dignity.

Before Christmas that year, I had a serious discussion with Tyler’s parents. It concluded with them buying Surprise and arranging for him to come home. What an incredible, special day for the little boy when I drove up with my truck and trailer, bearing one black and white "Christmas Surprise", along with his brushes, cart and harness. Tyler stood speechless on his driveway, not taking his eyes off Surprise, who began eagerly grazing on the front lawn. Tyler touched me softly on the cheek, then put his hand over his mouth and hurried over to Surprise to stroke his face with the same gentle touch. He went back and forth between us several times, shaking his head, to make sure we were 100% real. He finally stopped and sighed, "MY S’pwize!" I gave Tyler a big hug and answered, "Yes, YOURS…." I could not have imagined a better fate or fortune for this pony—he was loved and he knew it. He had a real job, and he loved performing it. No more hopeless and incorrigible.

At that point I abandoned giving Tyler riding lessons as he never understood nor respected the need for a safe dismount. I worried that someday Surprise would get distracted and unintentionally hurt his special master. The McMillans accepted Surprise into their family with open arms and took delight in the hours of companionship he provided for Tyler through driving. Mr. McMillan took lessons so he could substitute for me in the cart, and I think Tyler enjoyed "showing off" independently for his dad, without me there He continued serenading Surprise, to the dismay of all within earshot.

It was time for me to let go, a tough decision. But Tyler had reached his limit to learn, and Surprise doted on the boy. I reminded Mr. McMillan about Surprise’s unfortunate habit of bucking off "normal" riders and warned him against letting anyone else handle or ride Surprise. Sure enough, several months later I received a sheepish phone call explaining how Dallas relatives with pre-teen children had paid the McMillan family a visit and begged incessantly for rides on ‘that wonderful, gentle pony of Tyler’s." "I was so astonished" Mr. McMillan chuckled, "Surprise launched them across the backyard like he was aiming for Ft. Worth. It won’t happen again."

I visited Surprise and Tyler regularly over the next year. Tyler hit a major growth spurt, so it worked out just as well that he drove Surprise instead of riding him. They maintained their unique, loving bond. Mr. McMillan shared with me that he knew Tyler’s increased confidence with tasks and challenges and improved communication with his family and peers were a direct result of Surprise being in his life. I felt so proud of Surprise, honored and thrilled to help discover and develop this worthy niche for the fat little rogue, gratified to know how much of a difference the pony made in Tyler’s life. As for my life, his impact was immeasurable. I was now very glad to have had such rogue ponies flow into my life.

Shortly thereafter, my river of ponies simply dried up and blew away. I found myself seriously busy with the full-blown challenges presented by full-sized horses and their “normal” owners’ interests. The magical promise of professional show barns in California’s expansive horse show scene lured me away forever from the uncomplicated lifestyle I’d lived as the "pony lady" on a sleepy North Texas horse farm. I didn’t look back much at the time, or even think to get photographs of the duo. Today, I believe it was no accident that the river of ponies brought Surprise to me, and Tyler to us both. That river gave Surprise a purposeful life he otherwise would have missed, where his truly noble spirit could manifest in spades. Thanks to that river of ponies, I got to witness love’s power in action and to participate in the breathtaking, powerful reality of interspecies communication at its most effective.

I took my fond memories of Surprise and Tyler with me to California, memories that have often given me courage in the face of challenge, loss and disappointment as my career in the horse world unfolded. Now in my fifties and retired forever from the horse business, I still sing the praises of a river of ponies. Like Tyler, I’ll always hum a special tune for that one proud, loving black and white rogue pony named Surprise.