Comfortably Cool

March Mudness has arrived, and with it, many memories of my Old White Pony Cloud, the first equine love of my life, who was not, actually, a pony, nor, when he could help it, was he white.

Cloud was not cool horse. Rusty, retired from a successful stint in the local hunter/jumper show circuit was cool. Especially when he taught my nieces to execute a flying lead change.

Chicago, tall and handsome and a little too full of himself, is cool. If you have any doubt, just watch the raised-tail, high-headed extended trot he performs when cued by the shake of a metal garbage can, flap of a plastic garbage bag or bang of a nearby garbage truck.

But Cloud wasn’t cool.

I met Cloud while we both volunteered for a therapeutic horseback riding program in which we each did our part to enhance the lives of people with disabilities through equine interactions.

His breed and his age were unknown and unremarkable, his stout body covered with a wooly white coat that no longer shed naturally.

His perpetually long hair aside, Cloud’s most distinguishing physical feature was a broad pink scar across his muzzle, the cause of which shall forever remain a mystery along with the rest of his long-lost history.

His personality did nothing to make him stand out among his pony pals either, as he was a bottom of the herd horse, preferring to walk away from a challenge rather than engage in any unpleasant interaction.

I once watched a young rider scramble up the mounting block, uber-eager for his turn to get on a mighty steed and ride off to the evening’s adventures. He made his way to the top of the stand, turned to watch his horse approach, slumped his shoulders and mumbled, with just the slightest quiver in his voice, “ahhh, I have to ride Cloud?”

Two years later I was finally prepared to get my very first, very own horse, and had arranged to adopt one of the therapeutic program retirees, thinking of the middle-aged sorrel Arabian/Quarter Horse gelding with whom I’d fallen in love, and whose career was being called prematurely due to some mild lameness issues.

So, when the news came that the fulfillment of my life-long dream would come not in the form of a flashy red horse, but rather a stocky white pony with a permanent pink patch on his nose, for the tiniest fraction of a moment, I was the 40-year-old version of that boy on the mounting block – ahhh, I have to own Cloud?

But it was truly the tiniest fraction of a moment. He was still a horse after all and better yet, now he was My horse. Old, shaggy, and slow to some, but experienced, fluffy, and judicious to me.

He was calm and wise and prudent – my First Choice for the First Ride of any wannabe equestrian to visit Four Sticks Farm, which earned him a special place in the hearts of many little girls, but his cool factor faded quickly as they moved on to newer, sportier models.

He learned to bow while being groomed – a accidental consequence of me happening to be quick with a treat when he happened to need to stretch – but though his one pony trick was good for a laugh and an extra affectionate pat of the neck, it did nothing to raise his status as The Horse of Choice.

With his Coat That Would Not Shed, Cloud was literally not cool during our hot humid summers but only a commitment to the curry comb and a tolerance for taking home nearly as much hair as was left on the barn floor could make a dent in ridding him of all that white fleece. And by the time I reached some semblance of a summer coat, I had approximately one week to admire it before seeing sprouts of the protective covering needed for the winter that would come – in four or five months.

I once spent the better part of two afternoons body-clipping him, and he patiently tolerated my hours of sweaty toil as he stood in front of the barn fan, but upon release he immediately headed for the mucky end of the pasture to exfoliate with a full-body mud pack.

He loved to be dirty and without fail, would find the muddiest spot available for a deliciously decadent roll immediately following any grooming session.

Cloud was the well-worn brown leather ropers in a world of pink ostrich-skin cowboy boots. But he was comfortable in his dusty, hairy skin and I was lucky enough to live with him for the last five years of his life, time spent learning from a master of sage humility. He knew who he was, and where he fit in his herd. He knew what was expected of him, when he needed to move, when he could stay where he was, and why that bell rang every evening at 5:00 – he was well aware of the value of the daily snack-n-snooze in the peaceful confines of his own stall.

My Old White Pony knew how to live a life – get along with the others, but when you can’t, just walk away; do what you can to make kids happy; make people laugh a little whenever you get the chance; scars make for good stories; short do’s aren’t for everyone, and keep your hair the color you want it to be.

Cloud was a cool horse.

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