I was one of those horse girls.  I saved my money every year to go to Bar-L Ranch in Iowa, a magic place where I got to take care of a horse every day for a week - brushing, saddling, bridling, riding - ah, it was bliss.  I went every year for five years, from the time I was about eight until my parents finally gave in to my wheedling and begging and convinced my grandfather to let us use the empty pasture between our houses to put up an aging but lovable Quarter Horse named Cutter.

Before I could get the horse, I had to help my father build a fence.  This took an entire summer, and involved a post digger, a lot of wire and considerable lost time at the swimming pool.  After we built the fence, I tore up sheets and tied pieces of them to all of those wires so my new friend would not run right into them while gallivanting in the dirt. 

Cutter lived in a converted hog shed.  I covered the concrete floors with straw so they would feel softer and lovingly removed all the dirty straw each and every day after school.  My parents told me if I stopped taking care of Cutter, he would be gone, and it happened three years after I got him.  I'd joined cheerleading in high school and was no longer making it home in time to feed Cutter after school.  It was my first experience with knowing something is best but still hating every minute of it.  I knew I couldn't take care of Cutter anymore, and I knew he deserved to be with a little girl who would take care of him, but I was sad to grow up and realize it wouldn't be me anymore.

I rode Cutter bareback for a long time.  I wish I'd had a friend closer who could go riding with me, because it was kind of lonely riding him around by myself through the fields.  I admit I was a wee bit afraid sometimes when he would get feisty and want to gallop.  After all, I'd learned to ride at a camp where the horses had to be coerced to move at all, and neither my mother nor my father rode. I was never really quite sure what I was doing, but I felt it was important to fake it well enough that people would let me do what I wanted.  I still do this.  It's called "parenting" now.

I loved that horse.  I love all horses. I love them with the gusto of a little girl.  So yesterday, when I saw there were ponies - PONIES!!! - at the Prairie Village Fourth of July festival, I knew the little angel had to have a ride. She had to have a ride because I had to get to touch those lovely, lovely ponies. 

I talked them up quite a bit as we stood in line, sweating.  I saw a lot of other kids getting freaked at the last minute, and this could not happen.  She'd been riding the mechanical horse at Hy-Vee since birth, and fortunately the saddles on the ponies looked just like the one on the horse.  When we got up to the ponies, she hopped up and grabbed the saddle horn like she was ready to herd sheep, not one bit afraid.  As we walked around and around, she waved to my beloved, petted the pony's mane and laughed.  I don't think I've ever been as proud of her as I was when she was on that pony, so brave for a two-year-old.  That's my girl.