Confidence

The first time she met me, she threw a chair at me. 

I was not her preferred person, you see. 

I was just a random visitor in her yard at the time, not her mother who gave her treats on the daily. 

It was a lawn chair, and I was sitting with my back to her. 

In HER back yard, of all places. 

She had nosed it up into the air with her muzzle and launched it so that it soared the distance it needed to so that it landed squarely on top of me. 

Of course, I yelled.

Of course, she meant it.

Of course, she enjoyed it.

Mini ponies are smart. 

And sassy. Oh, so sassy. 

Her name is Cookie. 

But everyone calls her Pony. Because she's the only pony on the property, so of course she deserves the name Pony. 

Somehow, Pony is my hero. 

And somehow, Pony has managed to beat me up and sass me more than any sentient creature I've met. 

But I respect her.

And admire her?

And I do not understand why?

Pony gets what she wants, when she wants, how she wants.

If she wants her hay early in the day before she's supposed to get it, and if I happen to leave the gate to the hay enclosure open.... well. Once she sneaks in, come hell or high water, that girl ain't budging. 

Oh, I can get behind her and direct her with my arms out to the side like I'm a goofy airplane, leaning and pointing which way to go. But she is one rebellious gal, and honestly this method really doesn't work with her. 

She thinks it's hilarious, and she just goes the opposite way.

She leads me on a merry chase round the garden, stopping to browse with infinite patience on delectable garden plants along the way.

But by the time I've lost all patience and she hears it in my voice, she immediately picks up a burst of speed with her short little stubby legs and zooms towards the gate with a merry toss of her mane and a low throated nickering laugh. She's so delighted with herself.  

Pony gives not one damn about social norms, social pressure, nor social media.

She could care less.

She could care less what the world, what you, and what I think of her. 

She just wants her food when she wants it, and she wants to be violent and sassy, like a big toddler throwing a temper tantrum when she can't get her way. 

If she was tiny and cute, we would all laugh. 

If she was a baby, we would all laugh.

If she was a Pomeranian puppy, we would all laugh.

The thing is, though... she is cute. 

Pony has the biggest, darkest, softest, most expressive eyes as she peers at you from under her long eyelashes. She has shortest little legs that she gets the zoomies on, running super fast down the length of our driveway to greet us. Stopping on a dime right in front of you. 

She has the softest, most velvety muzzle that wrinkles up gently as she nickers, that she reaches out towards you whenever you reach out to her. She grows the wildest, thickest coat in the winter. She does this little bucking bronco stamp when she gets excited. She follows us like a dog, and nuzzles our pockets and us. 

And, she's small as well. For a horse, that is. Seeing as she is a mini pony.

But that being said, she weighs several hundred pounds, and her tantrums, though cute.... can be, ummm. How can I say this without offending her?

Well, they can be dangerous. 

Maybe it's best if I just share the story of the day Pony Went Wild for the Chicken's Corn. 

It was a morning just like any other morning.

I walked up to feed our chickens in their serene, one acre south pasture which Pony used to share with them last spring. I had just let Pony out of her own little Prima Donna stall area, and she had followed me up there. 

At the time, I had assumed that Pony followed me up there just for my company, and that she was feeling a little nostalgic about the south pasture, seeing as how she had lived there at one time. 

It is true... if I was her, I would have loved spending my days up there, too. It was full of madrone trees, evergreens, dappled shade, stretches of sunny patches, and mazes of intersecting shrubs. It was also quite private and spacious. 

I was reflecting on this while I started feeding the chickens, when suddenly, something large bumped into my back. 

I turned around and there was Pony. I had forgotten to latch the chicken gate closed behind me, and she had ambled right on in. 

And she had one thing on her mind.  

Corn.

Now, if there is one thing that is bad for horses, it is the sugar in corn. 

And if there is one thing that Pony is addicted to, it is the chicken's corn. 

Suddenly, it clicked. 

No wonder Pony liked the chicken yard. 

And just as suddenly, I went into motion.

"Pony! You stop eating that corn!" I yelled.

But I was too late.

Of course, she did not look up.

She had started inhaling the corn the instant she zoomed into the pasture, and she hadn't come up for air since. 

Determined to get her out of there as soon as possible, I pushed back on either side of her neck, hoping I could push her back out the still open gate.

She wouldn't budge. 

She just kept chewing and masticating blissfully.

So I pushed even harder with my two hands against both sides of her neck.

But I guess I got too close to Her Majesty when she was eating her crack. 

Because Pony decided she was going to teach me a Thing or Two about getting too close to her when she was having the most delightful snack of her entire life.

Pony lifted her powerful neck up right between my legs, scooped me up into the air, and shook her mane. 

So there I was, suddenly sitting on Pony's neck, my legs straddling her body, facing her rear end, swatting at her with my palms.

I feel like a helpless toddler, kicking my legs helplessly, swatting at her sides helplessly, crying helplessly.

I AM a helpless toddler, throwing a tantrum! 

I am incredulous that she had the literal nerve to do that to me. 

I am full of rage that I have no power of my own to get down.

I am full of laughter because I feel exactly like a helpless child. 

I am shocked that I honestly have no ability to get down.

I am terrified that she is going to get very sick from eating all that corn while she holds me prisoner. 

"Pony, let me down!!!" I scream at her.

She is oblivious.

She could care less.

She is a Being oh so much stronger than I. 

She can stay here all day if she wants.

But oh, she wants that corn. 

As soon as her rage at me is sufficiently appeased, her desire for that crack corn roars back to life, and she tips her neck back down the ground. 

Immediately, I slide off her neck, fall to the ground, hop up, then dust myself off.

Then just as I immediately, I start in front of her with my arms spread wide, and and I know she can sense I Mean Business.

"YOU GO."

I didn't have to say it twice.

Pony is not just a smart ass.

She is also incredibly smart. 

She won't respond unless she knows I thoroughly mean it. 

She walks backward out the gate, easy as that. 

I latch it securely.

I scatter more feed for the chickens.

My legs are shaking. 

But I am not mad at Pony any more. 

In fact, I am slightly in awe of her.

I have respect for her. 

I admire her. 

This is a girl who gets what she wants, how she wants, when she wants. 

It's on me to keep the south pasture gate latched. It's on me to keep the hay enclosure gate latched. Pony is just a gal who is looking for a snack when she can get one. 

I admire Pony's confidence. 

Growing up in the religious cult I did, confidence was a trait that was brainwashed out of us. Even though deep down, I always knew it was a value that was natural in healthy context. 

That's why I admire Pony so much. 

But I won't ask her to move next time she's eating something tasty, even if it's not chicken feed.