To this day I cannot keep my hands off baby animals. Don’t care what kind of animal it is, just as long as it is in baby form. Adults, not so much.
On a farm, there is always some type of babies being born. If it wasn’t my 4-H rabbits, it was the cousin’s pig. Well, one fine year we had a Welsh Pony, her name was Dolly. She was a booger! The meanest pony I ever met. Once you got the bridle and saddle on her, she was fun to ride. Trying to get them on without her stepping on your foot or trying to nip you was another story. I don’t know where or when it happened, but she got pregnant and had a colt. A beautiful black and white spotted thing just like her.
I can’t tell you how many times dad warned us NOT to go near Dolly. She was very protective of her baby, as a mother should be. Did I listen? Nope! I would go out there for hours and try to get close enough to touch the baby.
There was a small shed out in their pen with the door and window blown out. Dolly would hide in there with her baby, and I knew it. I would crawl up to the side of the building and try to reach in to get to touch the baby. Never worked.
One day I decided I was just going to do it! Just who did this pony think was the boss anyway? So, I put on my little cowboy boots, grabbed my coat and off I went. I marched right into that pen, right up to the pony and that was the last thing I remember of that encounter.
Apparently, she knew she was the boss and the moment I got too close, she decided to show me. Swung her butt around and planted a hoof square on my head – knocked me out cold. I was lucky for two reasons:
- Dolly did not want to come after me for more damage once I was down.
- Dad saw the whole thing.
He managed to get me to the house (back then you didn’t just rush off to the hospital or doctor, you tried to handle it at home first.) where mom took over and eventually I came around.
Now, I’m not going to say I was okay. As far as “ok” – that is still left to be determined (sure hope not)! However, I was an idiot back then, and I will continue to prove this to you in my future family stories. (FYI – Dad’s nickname for me was “Dumb Shit” for a reason.)