February 18, 2025 
Shoot. Here comes the kid.
Maybe if I look away, Kid will forget I’m here and choose another victim to torture. Oh man. She’s still walking towards me, singing Taylor Swift. I hate Taylor Swift.
When she rides me in the ring she can’t even get me to pick up the trot. But I muster up my pent-up energy to canter to the farthest corner of the field. Ha! Try to catch me!
Now, I run to the opposite corner. I’m satisfied when her face turns as red as my un-licked salt block.
I’m tired now, but it was worth making Kid angry. I guess I’m going to have to let her catch me. Hopefully, Mean Lady has the flu or gangrene and left Kid to fend for herself today. But I know I am rarely that lucky.
I will walk as slowly as I can, making Kid drag me every step back to the barn, like my hooves are stuck in bran mash. But she doesn’t give up. It takes her 15 minutes to walk me inside, but she’s still determined to make me work.
Now, here I am, imprisoned in a trashy beauty salon within crossties. She’s pulling out the curry comb, but I’m prepared. I took a refreshing mud bath and had an extensive manure-roll to ensure all my white spots are filthy.
Oh no. She’s going to degrade me with the sparkles today. She’s smeared purple gel in my tail and my mane, and is currently wrestling the top off the hoof glitter. The mares won’t take me seriously for weeks until that stuff rubs off. Thanks for having my back, Kid—not!
Finally. Things are looking up, because Kid’s holding the peppermints. Come on Kid—stash some when Mean Lady has her back turned! That’s it—grab the bag and bring it over here before….
“Remember,” Mean Lady cuts in. “She can’t have the extra sugar because of her Cushing’s.”
Mean Lady ruins everything.
I get a handful of diet treats that taste like cardboard. Half the time, I spit them out anyway. Pure spite.
Now begins the long process of dragging all the tack out of the tack room. Will she drop the saddle today or not? Let’s take bets. In the meantime, I’ll poop in the aisle.
She’s grabbed her favorite hot pink saddle pad, the one that makes me look like a Barbie-loving loser. Perfect. Of course, she puts it on backwards. Mean Lady will have to step in for a “teaching moment.” But at least that buys me some time before getting to “work.”
As if hot pink and glitter isn’t humiliating enough, Kid can’t get the girth buckled. I’m already insecure about my weight with all the diet crap they feed me, plus this. Pull harder, Kid!
She’s almost got it. I think I’ll blow out just to test her grit. That is, until the Mean Lady comes and wrestles the girth on.
I decide to channel my inner-giraffe and raise my head as high as possible to avoid the bridle. Ha! I wait until she gets up on the stool, then I drop my head down low.
Darn. There’s Mean Lady again. She knows my pony tricks, and manages to stuff the bit in my mouth while she scolds me.
Sometimes, I feel sorry for the kid. I would hate to live with Mean Lady 24-7. Thankfully, I only deal with that sociopath for an hour.
The kid’s suiting up. Fumbling with the buckles on her helmet. Grabbing that glittery crop that I will punish her for carrying. And zipping on the safety vest that Mean Lady makes her wear, even though I’m geriatric. Let’s get this over with.
Now she’s dragging me over to the mounting block for my favorite game. It’s called, ‘Try-to-Step-Into-Your-Stirrup-While-I-Make-It-Impossible.’ Oh Jeez. Mean Lady has the reins, and she’s holding me hostage. The kid’s scrambling on like I’m a jungle gym. Let the fun begin.
We are heading to field—my favorite place to fake having dementia. I’m in my mid-20s after all. Steering? What’s that? When Kid pulls the reins, I only turn one way. That way is towards home.
Mean Lady yells to Kid to, “Kick her! Don’t give up!” And Kid is trying. I still have some tricks up my sleeve, though.
I have two speeds. Very slow and very fast. I dare you to tap me with the crop, Kid. I will make you post the trot so fast your teeth will rattle. Drop the crop, and I’ll break every three steps until you pass out from kicking exhaustion.
I think I hear Mean Lady threatening to put me on the lunge line, though. Since nothing is more degrading than that, I figure I’ll trot around a little and get this misery over with.
Now, Mean Lady is shouting, “Pick up the canter!” She has some nerve.
I solve the problem by huffing and puffing, until Kid’s convinced I’m about to croak. “She’s so old, Mom! I feel so bad for her,” Kid sniffles.
I know, now, that the torture is almost over. I save a little extra for the very end, knowing I must uphold my speed-walking-back-to-the-barn-queen reputation.
Once on the crossties, I shut my eyes and do my best to look ancient and half-dead. I hope Mean Lady considers retiring me.
Kid puts on my pink sheet, speckled—naturally—with unicorns and hearts.
I sigh and poop in the aisle again, hoping she’ll step in it twice.
