When I was 8 years old, I knew everything about horses and ponies. I was in the 4-H horse club, where once a month we meet at a member’s house to learn to take care of animals. Then we would eat Rice Krispie treats and run around the house until the host family was sick of us.
One winter evening I brought my friend and fellow 4Her, Mindy, home for some pony riding. After all, I had 2 ponies, one for each of us. One pony was Woodvale Top hat, a purebred Welsh pony. The other one came with no name, so I called her Princess, copying another horse-crazy girl in my school. Princess was a Shetland pony bred for the coal mines with no pedigree and a stubborn streak a mile wide. She was princess of nothing more than my heart. When Mindy and I came around the corner of the barn, Princess was flat on the ground. We stopped short and stared.
Finally, Mindy said: “Is she dead?” I kneeled on the cold ground and patted her velvety soft nose. “What’s the matter girl?” I said, “No, she’s moving,” I said. Then our 4-H training kicked in. “looks like colic. She could die. We have to get her up and walk her.”
Mindy said, “She’s not going to like it.”
“We got to do it,” I said. So we pushed and pulled and pleaded. “Princess, you got to get up or you’ll die,” I said, crying. More pushing. pulling. And pleading. She lumbered to her feet and then went down again. Finally she she stood up and took a few steps, hoping to get away from us. “Yay, Princess!” we said, hugging and kissing her. She passed gas like the air brakes on a tractor trailer. She spewed stinky green diarrhea. Imagine some wet, heavy splatttering sounds. We didn’t know whether these were signs of success of failure. So we walked on.
It got dark and cold My dad came home from work. “It’s great that you remembered to walk a pony with colic.” Before he could go in the house and call the vet, Mindy’s mother drove up and insisted she go home because it was school night. My dad apologized for keeping her out after dark.
Mindy says she’s still mad at her mom for pulling her away from a pony emergency.
He called the vet and came out of the house with two things, a flashlight and a his hat. It was the 1960s and a 50-year-old man wore a hat.
“We have to get something from the drug store.” He made me go with him, despite my protestations not to leave Princess. “No, I’m not leaving you alone in the dark with this. This is a grownup problem. You are coming with me.”
He bought mineral oil and said the vet said we should pour it down the pony’s throat. He was worried. “She’s not going to like it,’ he said. So, we led her into the barn and opened the bottle
“This is going to take both of us,” he said, adjusting the flashlight to help not hinder. “You back her into the corner,’ he said, taking the cap off the bottle. “Now, you hold the bottle and I’m going to hold her head up so her neck is straight up and down,” he said.
Her eyes were wild, her body was tense and it was an understatement to say she didn’t like it.” “Always talk to your horse,” he told me. “Talk to her in a nice quiet voice. Tell her we won’t hurt her.”
“All right Princess, this is going to make you feel better,” I said.
Dad set the flashlight on the stall wall, freeing both of his hands. “Okay, pinch behind her lower lip to get her to open her teeth,” he said. I pushed the bottle into her mouth and the oil went down her throat. He waited waited while she swallowed the goo. “Now, what, Dad?” I asked.
“It’s time to in the house and take care of ourselves.”
“But they said to walk her. She could die,” I pleaded.
“We have done everything the vet said. We can’t take care of anyone else unless we take care of ourselves,” he said, firmly. He turned to me before opening the back door.
“You are not allowed to check on her during the night,” he said, as though he were reading my mind. I picked at my supper, prepared by my mother who fully understood the crisis. Soft-hearted me and a sick pet. Exhausted, I slept like a rock. But in the morning, Princess had made it through the night and so had I.
I am telling you this story because I like the version of myself in it: confident and determined. The bad stuff of life hadn’t come to me yet and slumped my shoulders and made me second-guess myself.
So would you please, in honor of my long-ago Princess and the night we saved her life, close your eyes and telepathically send me the confidence of 8-year-old me. I need it so bad. Take a pinch for yourself while you are at it. (I closed my eyes and bowed my head for a moment. Then I opened my eyes. Put my arms up and out.)
It’s back! Thank you so much!
THE END. (I Told this story at the Rotunda, Philadelphia, Pa., with the Patchwork Storytelling Guild during Philadelphia Fringe Fest.)