Saddest Moments; Happiest Times

To my little white pony Rambler, who gave me his heart then left with mine

Riding a little white pony has been the dream of many a girl. The lily-white coat, soulful eyes, and dainty hooves that cover many little bedroom doors are more than just a pony. They are a symbol of childhood, of innocence and spontaneity. I was once blessed with one of these perfect symbols. But sometimes, such gifts can only last so long.
My sister and I had been “sharing” a buckskin pony for a couple of years. Of course, I knew Bucky was never really mine. Siblings have an uncanny silent way of deciding things like that when it comes to animals. I still loved the buckskin pony and rode him and cared for him when I was allowed. I took him to shows and lessons. But whenever my sibling rode Bucky or petted him, I knew they had a stronger relationship. That was the kind of relationship I wanted. I wanted a friend in a pony. And I fervently hoped it maybe could be white.
Coming home from school one day, my mom told me of a certain little pony her friend owned. The woman’s daughter had outgrown the pony and had acquired another larger horse to ride. The pony hadn’t been ridden for a while as was apparently a little spitfire, so she was looking for someone to get him back in shape.
My mom said yes.
I knew I wouldn’t really own the pony, but I was still excited when I ran to meet the fuzzy white creature. My mom had said his name was Rambler. He stared at me with brown eyes and little white ears pricked with curiosity when my feet dragged me closer. His hide was stained with mud, but the unnatural beauty of creation still permeated around him. “Rambler,” I whispered. He held his regal head high, and then returned to munching the delicious grass.
Rambler and I formed that special bond over the next few years as we competed. His heart and mine started growing together. We borrowed confidence from one another, and love and hope. I trusted him and he carried me, whether with a saddle and bridle or neither. Of course I fell. We both messed up. But my worst mistake was starting to forget he wasn’t mine.
The owner had decided she needed to sell Rambler. I ignored the Pony for Sale! flyers we took to horse shows and feigned interest when people came to look at him. Rambler was mine whether I owned him or not. One day, Rambler’s owner called and said that someone in Maine wanted to buy him. I felt my eyes grow big and my forehead crease. Maine was very far away from North Carolina, too far away. I had never imagined that Rambler would go to another state. In the times that my tears reminded me he was going to be sold, I had placated myself knowing I would be able to visit him and run my fingers through his fluffy mane at least once in a while. If Rambler went to Maine, I would never see him again. It would be like he died.
The next couple of weeks went by too fast. I took pictures with my best friend, my pony. I climbed on his silky back and weaved my fingers in his mane often, just sitting out in that green pasture under a blue sky. But more than anything, I cried. It was hard to concentrate on schoolwork and sleep, when our merged hearts were slowly being pulled apart. I don’t know if Rambler would have cried if he had been able. Sometimes I wonder if animals get as much out of relationships as humans do. He always seemed happy; his bright, curious eyes level with mine when I shed my tears. But then he would nicker and rub his muzzle against my cheek, trying to wipe away whatever sadness lay there. His strong heart was ready for whatever came; mine was not.
The night that Rambler was going to leave, I had to go to bed early. It didn’t make sense to me; I would have thought my parents would know I would not be able to sleep. I stayed next to my white pony as long as I could. My hand slid down his neck over and over. I walked next to him around the pasture as he grazed. I finally closed my eyes, let my head drop on his shoulder, and squeezed my heart out through my eyes. Holding the tears back while I left him was hard enough as I passed my mom and went into the house. Rambler would leave at one o’clock in the morning and it was only nine. I left my room and ran toward my parents’, where I could see Rambler through a window. I hadn’t run out of tears quite yet as I peeked through the blinds and stared at my pony. He stomped and twitched, shaking off the flies. He was so normal, but so perfect. I never deserved him anyway, I thought when I returned to my room and curled under my quilt.

Rambler left that night to make his way into the heart of another little girl. His genteel but spunky spirit and angelic little face brought many kisses, pats, and hugs. I still have a bit of his tail saved in a little plastic bag, and still hope I might see him again, though it has been many years. But even if his silken body has fallen and his dark eyes have closed, I will always remember my little white pony; my friend.