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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Rowdy loves his Squeaker Bone. Though what golden retriever wouldn’t love a 24-inch fleecy femur filled with a 20-inch plastic noisemaker?

Be it a testament to his generally gentle nature or a demonstration of devotion to this particular toy he’s loved it for months, with no implementation of the search and destroy mission targeting the hidden squeaker that would be standard operating procedure for the Four Sticks Farm canines who came before.

He does enjoy the occasional display of dominance, in which he grabs the bone on one end and shakes it with great vigor until he knocks himself into the closest piece of furniture. But mostly he likes to carry it around the house, applying periodic pressure to confirm that the squeaker is still in proper working condition.

I bought the extra-large plaything as a training aid, to keep Rowdy and his teeth to themselves when company came in. For as many dogs as I’ve owned, loved and educated, I’ve never managed to convince any of them that a knock on the door does not, in fact, translate to “rush to the door leaping and barking ‘cuz obedience is for idiots”. But since Rowdy’s interpretation also included guiding the visitor into the house with a gentle grasp of the hand, I had to address the situation pronto.

The obvious “Stay” options, Sit/Stay, Down/Stay, OnYourBed/Stay, DeathGripOnTheCollar/Stay – proved ineffective, likely victims of handler error, handler frustration and handler fatigue. So, I channeled my mostly dormant inner dog trainer and came up with a strategy that plays to one of Rowdy’s greatest pleasures – carrying something in his mouth. If his mouth is otherwise occupied, he can neither bark nor grab, and when I saw the super-sized snuggle toy in the catalog, I decided to dive deep and spend ridiculously big dollars on a ridiculously big pet toy.

Money well spent. As a behavior modification, the big bone fills the bill. He still rushes to the entry at the slightest sign of People Entering but is now slowed by

1. the need to grab his greeting support object and
2. the balancing act involved in getting through doorways with the extra-wide load.

Upon arrival he happily presents his pride and joy to the incoming, but is not likely to drop it, lest he lose it – sharing is not a core value in Rowdy’s realm.

The Squeaker Bone became a constant companion. So much so that I ordered the smaller, more portable “Squeaker Man” as a travel companion because jumping into the truck while balancing and centering 24 inches of floppy fabric presents a logistical challenge more easily conquered with the 10-inch alternative.

He managed to silence the Squeaker Man without breaking its’ fleecy skin but even on permanent mute he loves it as much as the day the man in the big brown truck dropped it at our door.

The Squeaker Squad has now expanded to include the Squeaker Squirrel, a diminutive wooly rodent just about mouthful-size, and the Squeaker Monkey, a perfectly proportioned primate with appendages perfect for tossing. These most recent additions sport a color that doesn’t display the dirt collected during days of being soaked in dog saliva and dragged across the wood floors, a sizable selling point to the shepherd responsible for tending the flock and their living quarters.

Rowdy rarely enters a room without a fuzzy friend in tow, offering an up close and personal introduction to anyone else in the area, confident that everyone shares his affection for his beloved buddies. What’s not to like about a slobbered-up hunk of synthetic wool mashed into one’s lap?

He embraces every member of his fleecy fold with affectionate enthusiasm, and each has its own place in Rowdy’s world, no matter their individual idiosyncrasies. He chooses one to shake, squeeze, toss, tote or travel with no discrimination toward size, sound, shape or color.

But mostly he just hangs with them. He sets them on one of his many dog beds and lies behind them, ready to pick them up when the time is right, willing to wait quietly until then. A silent supportive friend, present but not pushing, in-touch but not intrusive.

Until someone knocks on the door.