Like many little girls, I’d wanted a pony. Let me rephrase that: I longed for a pony like a heroin addict longs for a fix. If I didn’t have that pony, everyone was going to hear about it.

I named her Bambi, after the Disney movie that came out around the same time. We’ve clarified, repeatedly, in this blog that I’m not a creative person. Sorry to validate that it went all the way back to childhood. Bambi was an awesome pony. Caramel colored with a buttery mane, she was everything I wanted and more, but I was scared to death of her.

My family tells stories of a time that she knocked me off and my grandfather made her sorry. I don’t remember it at all. What I do remember is that Bambi didn’t live long. She was out to pasture one day and then suddenly, she was gone. I didn’t have her long enough to learn how to ride her properly. I never found out exactly what happened. I believe there was a problem with the grass she’d eaten. Either too much grass or something on the grass, etc., but the thing about it is that adults don’t tell children why pets die, just that they do.

At the time, my mother was dating a rather insensitive person who thought it would be funny to joke about the death of my pony while telling me about it. There are parts of me that would still like to whomp him in the face for that.

My time with my pony was short, but the scent of horses takes me back. For a small amount of time, I lived every 6 year old’s dream. I had a pony and a large pasture to ride her in.

It doesn’t get better than that.