Last year, we embarked on a journey to find a pony that would be a suitable therapy partner for my nine-year-old autistic daughter. I came across an ad for a cute trail pony – 11 years old and great with kids. After extensive conversations with the owners, it was decided that this pony was likely the one for Emma. So, with my mother and daughter in tow, we made the long trek to visit the enchanting creature.
My first thought when I saw the pony was something akin to horror. In no way did she resemble the pictures I had seen. What was tied to the interior wall of an open barn (which I later learned was her stall) was a mangy coat and skeleton of a pony. She stood fetlock-deep in her own feces and urine, which had made the dirt floor soggy and muddy – there was no bedding. Picking up her feet resulted in a rancid odour of rot and her dropping to her knees. Her face, flecked with gray, was the backdrop to sunken terror-filled eyes. When I attempted to look at her teeth, my fingers were smeared with blood.
I wanted to run. This pony clearly was not what I had been led to believe. Aside from the obvious neglect, she was a flight risk, attempting to bolt at the earliest opportunity. In my mind, she was not suitable for my daughter, but, as I was about to reiterate this, my mother quite clearly asked if they’d ship her to our farm. Pardon? Did I hear that correctly? I stared, open-mouthed, at my mother and wondered if she’d lost her marbles. Perhaps the rotting smell had eliminated her good sense. Or perhaps her eye sight had failed so much on the drive here that she was unable to see the pony as I did. No, this was not the case. Instead, she looked at me and said, “That pony has kind eyes. You’d be a fool not to take her.” I obviously was living in a different dimension, but, if there is one thing I have learned in life, it’s that it is next to impossible to argue successfully with your mother. After much discussion, pleading and “Are you out of your mind?” statements, I handed over the meager sum and made arrangements for the poor pathetic creature to be delivered.