The Pony That Refused to Load

Last winter, I bought a pony for my kids, sight-unseen from Florida (I know, I know). 

He was cute as a bug. His little face had already stolen my heart and my common sense. Waiting for him to arrive felt like Christmas morning. Would the dream gift be under all that wrapping? Or would it be socks, underwear, and heartache? Womp Womp.

And in many ways, he was dreamy. Lovely to ride, soft, supple, and willing. He was brave to jump, fun on the trails, and game in the derby field. But there was one glaring problem: He did not adore the horse trailer. 

Let’s be real. He despised it.

That hatred was a major issue for us, since we keep our ponies at home. Our two-horse trailer is our lifeline to the rest of the horse world. Pony didn’t need to enjoy it, but he had to tolerate it—or we were in big trouble.

I don’t even remember how we coaxed him on the trailer for his first field trip to an indoor ring. All I recall is sweating, swearing, and the sinking realization that my teenage daughter was hearing every F-bomb I dropped. Somehow, we managed to load him, and once at our destination, the trip itself went smoothly.

But getting him back on to go home? Nightmare.

Picture us in the middle of winter, soaked jackets plastered to our bodies, snowflakes stinging our cheeks, shivering in the glow of the headlights. The pony planted his hooves and made it clear we weren’t going anywhere. I whispered bargaining prayers to the universe, promised him cookies and warm bran mash, and then threatened him with a Craigslist ad.

My teenager offered advice: “Maybe we should try a lunge line behind him?”

But I was so focused on mission get-this-jerk-on-the-trailer, I ignored her. By the time we finally got him on, I was jonesing for a bottle of vodka, a pint of mint chocolate chip, and a heating pad. Cold and exhausted, my kid and I tucked him into his stall. 

“Let me help next time,” she said, shaking her head. Scolding me.

The field trip disaster was a wake-up call. We weren’t going through that again. From now on, I’d practice until this pony became a trailering aficionado.

So, the next day, I marched outside with treats, caffeine, and a whip in case things got hairy. “I’ve got this,” I thought, stupidly optimistic. Surely, with patience, he’d get over his antics. I could do this myself.

Wrong. 

The minute we approached the ramp, he scooted backwards like the trailer was a portal to hell. Was he terrified? Stubborn? An infuriating mix of both? 

I tried the nice-guy approach, laying a path of treats like Hansel and Gretel. He sniffed one, looked at me, and promptly backed off, the ramp-was-lava-style. I also tried the mean-guy approach, tapping him on the rear with the dressage whip. Also, ineffective. 

Again, I ended up sweat-soaked, muttering curses, and seething. Tail between my legs, I put him away and told myself I’d try again tomorrow. Things could only get better. Right?

The next day went about the same—until my teen daughter hopped off the school bus, dropped her backpack, and ran down to help. Defeated, I was ready for the tag team. 

Together we tried everything: switching roles, opening doors and windows—channeling Martha Stewart, making it bright and inviting. We offered him his dinner in there too.

Once or twice, I thought we’d cracked the code, only to realize it was a fluke. He still had our number. This pony was smarter, bigger, and more determined than me. He was a straight up thug.

But while I fumed, my kid stayed calm. She encouraged. She spoke to him in the kind of patient, sing-song voice I’d long since lost. I, on the other hand, was muttering through clenched teeth and tugging at the lead rope, like that would magically solve things. 

My kid kept saying, “Mom, stay patient. We can do this. We are making progress.” She was 15, talking me down like she was the adult, and I was the petulant child.

Our boarder stopped by, offering her years of experience loading. Alas, even with an hour of her help, we barely got him further. I was spiraling. Meanwhile, my daughter was calmly saying, “It’s okay.”

That’s when it hit me: she was handling the whole trailering fiasco better than me. And that was embarrassing.

Eventually, desperate, I messaged the pony’s former owner. “Try a lunge line behind him,” she said. When I told my daughter, she rolled her eyes. “I said that days ago.” And she had, but I was reluctant to use that method as a crutch. I was unwilling to listen. But maybe she had been right. At least it would be a starting point.

So, we tried it. And before the line even touched his buttocks, he hopped right on the trailer.

From there, we worked on the details—teaching him to back off calmly and slowly instead of like a lunatic. We rewarded small progress. Slowly but surely, he got better about getting on, staying on, and getting off.

And in all those driveway battles, the pony taught me something I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t about brute force, or tricks, or swearing like a sailor. It was about staying calm. It was about patience. It was about being more like my teenager.

I felt ashamed by how quickly I’d unraveled. But also humbled. The pony humbled me. My daughter humbled me. And maybe that’s the point.

Because just when you think you’re in control, when you think you’ve got it figured out, life throws you a stubborn pony who won’t load. And maybe that’s the lesson you need.

Sure, I make plenty of mistakes, but they aren’t irreparable. The pony loads now. My daughter’s heard worse language on the school bus. And, hopefully next time, I’ll get it right-ish.

Next time, I’ll listen. Next time, I’ll be humble.