Tag
by Sue P.
Staring in disbelief and growing frustration at yet another hole in the fence, I silently cursed the pony who for the last four years had consistently torn down, knocked over, or yanked out every fence and barrier we had constructed in our battle to keep him confined. I shook my head and started forward into the barnyard, skirting the paige wire fence that lay inside, and began the tedious task of sorting the electric wire out of the brush along side the fence line. As I tugged angrily at the stubborn wire clinging to the thorns and rocks, my frustration mounted as the sharp thorns pricked my arms. I paused for a minute and looked out over the fields searching for the runaway, and spied him grazing contentedly on the far side of our mixed grain field. Perhaps feeling my gaze upon him, he lifted his head for a moment and looked back at me, then turned his attention back to rooting around under the new wheat to find the soft rich clover coming up underneath. As I turned my own attention back to the job at hand, my mind wandered back to when we first adopted this pest into our family.
Four years ago the friend of a friend called me in the middle of a beautiful January afternoon. The sun was shining in the backyard and the snow gleamed with a whiteness almost too white to look at. I remember thinking how beautiful it was living here in the country compared to the filth of the city we had left behind. I picked up the phone and heard a vaguely familiar voice asking me how I was. Before I could answer, she was asking me if I was interested in obtaining a pony. She was moving back to the city and had to find a home for a seven year old Shetland she had bought for her children. Shaking my head, I told her that I didn't like ponies because they were no good for kids. They are too stubborn and have a bad reputation for biting or kicking. She was disappointed, but I promised to keep my eyes open for anyone who was interested. We spoke for a few more minutes and then I excused myself and hung up. A few moments later, the whole conversation had slipped my mind completely. The weeks went by and I never gave it another thought, till one night we were watching TV and the phone rang again. I was surprised to hear from Anne again. This time she sounded upset. She would be moving in three days, and the only offer she had had for the pony was from the local meat man. I looked at my husband who rolled his eyes and shrugged in that age old gesture of male surrender. Sighing, I turned back to the phone and told her we would drive up on Saturday to pick the pony up. After getting directions and general information, I was about to hang up when I thought to ask her how tall the pony was. Anne said she wasn�t familiar with horse meanurements and mumbled something about the pony coming up to her husband�s nipples. I choked back a laugh and quickly guessed that this would be equivalent to about 12 hands, which is not a bad size for a pony -- almost a horse at that rate. Slightly mollified at that thought, I hung up and settled back into my chair thinking that in a couple of years my three year old daughter would be able to ride the pony.
Saturday morning we loaded up the truck and trailer and began our seven hour drive into northern Ontario to pick up our new addition. It was Superbowl Sunday, the roads were empty, and we made good time. Half way to North bay things were going great.As usual, that is just when something goes wrong. Ten minutes out of Trout Creek we heard the tell-tale flapping of a flat tire on the trailer. Pulling over onto the shoulder, we found the tire in shreds. My husband avoided my eyes and I knew this was going to be more than a quick tire change before we were on our way. Apparently the spare had been left at home, and now we were stuck in the middle of nowhere on Superbowl Sunday with a flat tire, all for a pony we didn't really want in the first place..
We unhooked the trailer and left it on the side of the road, and headed back into town and began the difficult task of finding a wreckers� that would be open on this most-hallowed of all football days and would be willing to sell us a tire. We were happy to discover that Trout Creek, Ontario is one of the better places to be stuck on a Superbowl Sunday. We made a few phone calls, and within twenty minutes someone met us at a wreckers� not ten minutes from where we were stranded. He met us at the gate and made short work of finding the right tire for us. He only charged us 10 dollars for the tire and thank you very much gotta get back to the game. He was gone before we got back in the truck. After a quick stop at a local garage where a cheerful young man broke down the old tire and mounted the new one in exchange for some friendly conversation, we were on our way again, a mere 90 minutes after discovering the flat.
Throughout this trip my daughter Rebecca sat quietly in her car seat, happily playing with her toys.If you ever want to see something really funny, try giving a three year old trapped in a car seat a box of Smarties. Twenty minutes after she chewed through the cardboard, she was on a sugar high and was unable to get up and run it off.
By the time we pulled into Anne's it was well after dark and getting cold. We hustled into the house to warm up, only to find out that she had shut the house up two days earlier and the heat was long gone. Shivering in the cold and anxious to get back into the warm truck, I asked Anne where the pony was and she led me back out to the barnyard. It was now almost 2 AM, and it was very cold. Anne whistled out into the darkness, and soon we heard the pounding of horses feet. I saw two horses come running up, and looked in vain to see the 12 hand pony I was expecting. It was hard to see anything in the dark, and there seemed to be a large dog plodding along behind the horses. My heart sunk to my feet as I realised that the big dog was in fact the pony. Incredibly fat for his size and matted with burs, he looked bedraggled and pitiful....
�That�s it?,� an incredulous voice from behind me whispered in my ear, �That�s what I drove all this way for?� Elbowing my husband and biting back my frustration, I realised that when Anne had sent her husband out to measure the pony, he had used the top of the pony�s ears instead of the shoulder as was normal when measuring a horse�s height. I didn�t want to offend Anne, so I searched for something to say that was complimentary. The best I could come up with was, �he has a new halter, that�s good.�
I trudged down into the barnyard and clipped the lead rope on the pony. He looked up at me, peering through the tangled forelock which covered his eyes and most of his face. As he nuzzled me hopefully for a treat, I just shook my head. He was so fat that the horse blanket I had brought for him wouldn't fit.
I shook my head as I heard the first of the of �I told you so's� that were sure to accompany us on the trip home. I pasted a grim smile on my face and led the little guy back to the truck. The trailer we had brought wasn't a horse trailer, it was a box trailer intended to help Rod and Anne move some of their stuff, and we had built a stock rack to bring him home in the back of the truck. We struggled for an hour in the freezing cold and it was nearly 3:00 in the morning. We were all tired and cold and beyond frustrated. The men had given up when finally I stepped in. Walking over to the little guy, I bent over and whispered in his ear. The words are lost to me now, but I know they weren't friendly, and he listened. I took the lead rope and twisted his head slightly. I walked determinedly onto the back of the truck, and he followed me, albeit reluctantly. Feeling very satisfied with myself, I hopped down out of the truck to see Rod and Anne talking secretively. Something told me this wasn't going to be good. Shooting a wary look at John, I approached them, and finally Anne turned to me and said �Sue...� Warning tingles shot up my spine. �We can't take Bear with us either. Would you mind taking him with you and finding him a home?� John caught just enough of that to start shaking his head, but I pretended I didn't see. At this point I didn't care what I had to do-- or take--I just wanted to go home.So I agreed to take their dog. He, at least, was easier to load than the pony.
Once again I thought we were ready to leave, when I saw Anne carrying a box from the barn. Every bone in my body at this point told me to run, but it was too late. Sensing that I was about to make a break for it, Anne hurried over to the truck and thrust the box into my hands. From the panicked movement in the box, I knew what ever it was was alive, and wasn't happy. Not quite meeting my eyes, Anne mumbled something about Donald being the pony�s barn pal. I peeked inside the box carefully and caught the baleful eye of a very indignant duck. Rolling my eyes and gritting my teeth, I shoved the duck in front of Rebecca�s car seat, and warned it that if I heard one quack out of it in the next eight hours, it was going to end up with a lovely orange sauce on it. Finally we piled back into the truck, ahead of the game one pony, one dog, and one duck, none of which we particularly wanted, totally exhausted, and facing an eight hour drive home. To make matters worse, we heard on the radio that a winter storm was blowing across northern Ontario. We knew we would have to hustle to stay ahead of it.
I took the first shift in driving. Being an insomniac, I knew I could handle it. John stretched out as much as a 6-foot-tall man can in the back seat of a midsize truck and tried to catch some sleep. Blessed with the ability to fall asleep mid-conversation, he was snoring by the time I pulled out onto the main highway.
The duck was blessedly quiet.
We drove nonstop through the night, the storm chasing us all the way and finally catching us just outside Toronto. The last hour was spent crawling through heavy traffic slowed down by freezing rain and sleet. By the time we reached home, we were long beyond tired.
Once home, we unloaded the dog and the duck and then went to get the pony, who by now was quite comfortable in the back of the truck, and naturally didn't want to get out. I dragged him out much the same way that I had led him in, and we deposited him in the stall and went to bed. Eight hours later we awoke and went down to check on our new pony, who had not yet been given a name. We had left him locked safely inside the box stall in the barn, but when we got down there, he was gone. The duck glared at me from the corner. Searching the barnyard, we discovered a hole in the fence -- something that was soon to become commonplace -- and we found him a couple of fields away contentedly pawing through the snow for hay. We led him back to the barn and locked him up again, thus beginning what was soon to become an unending game of tag, one in which we were always it, and always had to chase him down. No fence, no door, no locks could hold the little guy in. We only allowed him to stay because of his sweet temperament. And that is how he got his name: �Tag, you�re it.�
Over the years ahead he would live up to his name, and we would spend countless hours tracking him down and mending fences. But Tag managed to worm his way into our hearts. The patience I developed from sorting electric wire out of brambles was mirrored in the patience Tag showed my two kids. In the years since we got him, he has never bitten or kicked any of the dozens of children that have piled onto his back. He has had his mane braided and his hoofs painted. He has endured children playing wild west and trying to leap onto his back, and he has stood quite quietly while the tears of a child have soaked his mane, offering all the love and loyalty that is in him. He may not be the 12-hand pony we originally hoped for, but I wouldn't trade him now for any other horse in the world. Perhaps the spirit that is held in that tiny body is too big to be kept confined, and he just has to break free.
Finally sorting the last of the wire and hooking it back up the charger, I head out across the fields to collect my little runaway. Knowing his freedom is about to end he moves cautiously away from me as I approach. But somehow he senses that I am not mad at him today, and he comes to me. Patting him on the neck, I lead him back to the barnyard and toss him some hay.
�Tag,� I think to myself, �you are definitely it.�
