I was confident the challenge would kill me.
"You need to get right back up there," she'd say from safely behind the fence of the large pasture in Lake Bluff where we first boarded him, as I struggled to my feet after another tumble from the saddle. "Make him know who's boss."
"I know exactly who's boss," I'd moan as I limped toward Chief, who'd be standing at the opposite end of this large field of succulent grass and delectable wildflowers he loathed to be distracted from. In between mouthfuls of tall, rich grass, he'd raise his head and with his wild, blue eyes, quietly watch my approach, achy and discouraged.
Until I was just within reach.
Then, with a flick of his tail, he'd take off in a mad dash across the long pasture, adding insult to injury with each toss of his head and kick of his rear legs. When Chief allowed me the rare opportunity to mount, it was only so he could buck me off within seconds. If I happened to ride the rodeo out, annoyed, he'd pin those spotted, fuzzy, white ears all the way back and lunge into an uncontrolled and uncontrollable canter.
Clutching the saddle for my life, I'd hear Mom yell something absolutely useless to my current predicament, then feel my grasp weaken and my feet slip from the stirrups. I'd have little choice but to abandon the saddle for the quickly passing terra below; thrilled if I could manage a slide off his side, knowing the alternative would once again be proof positive of my butt's inability to bounce.
If by some miracle I managed to hang on, Chief (now thoroughly annoyed by my persistence, or in most cases, luck) would either come to a complete stop, refusing to budge any further, or much, much worse... he'd suddenly swerve off his trajectory of terror and head straight for a cluster of pines at the edge of the fenced in field.
Two pines in particular.
Which stood a pony's width apart.
It was like jamming yarn through an embroidery needle.
At full gallop.
Depending on how fat Chief was (which was mostly), threading that needle usually meant my legs being scraped from the stirrups and shoved so far behind me that I looked like a trick rider - hands clutching the saddle horn, while my battered legs bounced and dangled off of his round, plump rear end.
Once the barn was built and Chief came home, Mom thought a mate might keep him calmer, so onto the scene came Mia's pony, Billy Gold, a blue ribbon, well-trained, well-behaved, Palomino from Mom's Uncle Howard in Missouri.
Chief took offense to the new arrival immediately.
During one of Billy Gold's first days at his new barn, during which much our of attention had been focused on our new four-legged ward, I was standing in the lumpy, half-frozen corral of early spring while Mark and Mia sat on top of the pine log fence, still unsure of whether we'd brought home Chief's evil cohort. I'd just finished currying Billy Gold's beautiful white blonde mane and ginger coat, still winter thick, and was feeding him a carrot (his warm breath and fuzzy lips tickling the palm of my cold, red hand) when I heard both Mia and Mark scream something that I couldn't make out due to the thickly lined hood sheltering my head from the bone-chilling, lake breezes.
I recognized them as warning tones, but it was already too late. Suddenly from behind, I felt Chief's powerful teeth clamp down on my hindquarters - the right cheek to be precise. I howled in pain, hopping up and down. Billy Gold bolted to the other end of the corral. I spun around to find Chief standing there, not having moved an inch from the scene of the crime, waiting for a reaction.
Or was it reward, I asked myself as I looked into those side-set, ice blue eyes that showed no hint of remorse.
Mia and Mark sat shocked and silent - at first - then each collapsed from the fence top with laughter, followed by a closely contested race to the house to see who'd be the first to tell everyone what had just happened. By the time I hobbled to the kitchen with a purple-red welt the size of a small apple and red indentations clearly defining each of Chief's big, front teeth, Mom already had an ice pack in hand and a sympathetic look on her face.
For the next two weeks, I was forced to sit lopsided and had to regularly refuse siblings' entreaties to bare my right bun.
Yet I couldn't help but love that pony, who seemed determined to prove how cantankerous he could be. His rowdy barnyard behavior was a thing to behold. I'd climb the corral fence and watch with wonder when Chief bucked and bolted, kicking up dust (or muck) as he bent his tail and flung his mane - the bangs of which I liked to cut, causing him to look exactly like Moe of the Three Stooges.
No wonder he was ornery.
I used to find his raucous behavior very intimidating until the day, during one of his high-spirited performances, mid-way through a rather plucky buck, Chief farted, loud and long. Mia and I burst out laughing (after all, Chief FARTED and we were 9 and 10) and the pony, whose attempt to grandstand for his audience of two, suddenly found his swagger had been reduced to slapstick with one, grand toot.
At the sound of our laughter, the pony planted all four hooves on the ground and turned his head our way. Then, like Eeyore lumbering toward his Gloomy Place, Chief lowered his head and with his tail between the offending flanks, slowly walked into his stall (a place he reserved solely for mealtime and bad weather), refusing to exit until we left the corral and took our relentless mocking with us.
I felt kind of bad about the whole thing when I saw him standing in the dark corner of his stall, but then I rubbed my right butt cheek and remembered.
This was Chief.
If he wasn't trying to shed me, buck me - or eat me, he was likely doing something he shouldn't, such as escaping, which was a thing he excelled at, often astounding us with his ability to open gates and stall doors thought to be horse-proof. The general belief was that he eventually taught Billy Gold his Houdini routine, as well.
Smarts was not something Chief lacked.
Mia and Mark sat shocked and silent - at first - then each collapsed from the fence top with laughter, followed by a closely contested race to the house to see who'd be the first to tell everyone what had just happened. By the time I hobbled to the kitchen with a purple-red welt the size of a small apple and red indentations clearly defining each of Chief's big, front teeth, Mom already had an ice pack in hand and a sympathetic look on her face.
For the next two weeks, I was forced to sit lopsided and had to regularly refuse siblings' entreaties to bare my right bun.
Yet I couldn't help but love that pony, who seemed determined to prove how cantankerous he could be. His rowdy barnyard behavior was a thing to behold. I'd climb the corral fence and watch with wonder when Chief bucked and bolted, kicking up dust (or muck) as he bent his tail and flung his mane - the bangs of which I liked to cut, causing him to look exactly like Moe of the Three Stooges.
No wonder he was ornery.
I used to find his raucous behavior very intimidating until the day, during one of his high-spirited performances, mid-way through a rather plucky buck, Chief farted, loud and long. Mia and I burst out laughing (after all, Chief FARTED and we were 9 and 10) and the pony, whose attempt to grandstand for his audience of two, suddenly found his swagger had been reduced to slapstick with one, grand toot.
At the sound of our laughter, the pony planted all four hooves on the ground and turned his head our way. Then, like Eeyore lumbering toward his Gloomy Place, Chief lowered his head and with his tail between the offending flanks, slowly walked into his stall (a place he reserved solely for mealtime and bad weather), refusing to exit until we left the corral and took our relentless mocking with us.
I felt kind of bad about the whole thing when I saw him standing in the dark corner of his stall, but then I rubbed my right butt cheek and remembered.
This was Chief.
If he wasn't trying to shed me, buck me - or eat me, he was likely doing something he shouldn't, such as escaping, which was a thing he excelled at, often astounding us with his ability to open gates and stall doors thought to be horse-proof. The general belief was that he eventually taught Billy Gold his Houdini routine, as well.
Smarts was not something Chief lacked.
He was devilishly clever.
It would happen about a half dozen times a year. The phone would ring, Mom would apologize - again - and sound the alarm.
Occasionally, his escapades meant Mom steering the station wagon toward town and places like St. Mary's Cemetery in Lake Forest, where one foggy morning, early in fall, the cemetery keeper had the daylights scared out of him when he witnessed, running through the mist and over the graves, a small, white horse, followed by a beautiful, blonde in a flowing, full length, lime-green chiffon nightgown. His hands were still trembling when Mom thanked him for his help in wrangling the runaway.
Most of the time, however, Chief's antics remained within the confines of Shoreacres and off I would dash with a halter, a lead rope and a bucket of grain, in not-so-close pursuit; tracking the wild-eyed Appaloosa's sod-ripping journey through the blue blood, buttoned up neighborhood, along the long, flat, meticulous fairways and in and out of the formerly pristine sand traps of the golf course.
One not-so-fine spring day of infinite gray, after chasing Chief across the neighbors' well-kept, weedless lawns (while they shook their heads and observed the chase scene through the windows), I stood at a distance, watching my spotted pony, buck and rear as if in his very own Wild West Show, hoping he would eventually tire himself out.
Instead, during one of his quieter moments, Chief let me tauntingly close, tempting me with his surrender. But as soon as I came within arm's reach, he turned and fled.
It would happen about a half dozen times a year. The phone would ring, Mom would apologize - again - and sound the alarm.
Occasionally, his escapades meant Mom steering the station wagon toward town and places like St. Mary's Cemetery in Lake Forest, where one foggy morning, early in fall, the cemetery keeper had the daylights scared out of him when he witnessed, running through the mist and over the graves, a small, white horse, followed by a beautiful, blonde in a flowing, full length, lime-green chiffon nightgown. His hands were still trembling when Mom thanked him for his help in wrangling the runaway.
Most of the time, however, Chief's antics remained within the confines of Shoreacres and off I would dash with a halter, a lead rope and a bucket of grain, in not-so-close pursuit; tracking the wild-eyed Appaloosa's sod-ripping journey through the blue blood, buttoned up neighborhood, along the long, flat, meticulous fairways and in and out of the formerly pristine sand traps of the golf course.
One not-so-fine spring day of infinite gray, after chasing Chief across the neighbors' well-kept, weedless lawns (while they shook their heads and observed the chase scene through the windows), I stood at a distance, watching my spotted pony, buck and rear as if in his very own Wild West Show, hoping he would eventually tire himself out.
Instead, during one of his quieter moments, Chief let me tauntingly close, tempting me with his surrender. But as soon as I came within arm's reach, he turned and fled.
He did this a couple of times. Frustrating me to tears, and then, from across the sweep of grass, I saw the signs and instantly knew what was coming next. Pinning his ears against his head, stamping his front hooves, Chief shot forward, like a Triple Crown winner, straight for me.
Normally, I'd dodge behind the nearest tree, but on this day, not a tree stood within close range and all I could do was prepare for the worst, which usually meant me fleeing and Chief following (getting close enough to feel and smell his excited breath), then swerving, skidding along the grass, and returning to his pathological circuit of intimidation.
But on this day, as Chief was coming around for his second charge, a stranger inside me screamed NOT AGAIN.
Instead of running away in fear, I stood my ground.
And I waited.
As the pony drew close, I dropped the bucket and halter, stepped forward and with all the strength I could muster, I SLAPPED his long, white nose.
And I screamed, "NO!"
Stopping him dead in his tracks.
Shocking us both.
Taken back by this sudden show of courage, Chief suddenly lost all his steam. He simply snorted half-heartedly, bowed his head (immediately sniffing out the grain bucket at my feet), and peacefully succumb to his halter.
Noses aligned, we lingered toward home with a far better understanding of each other and I finally understood what Mom was talking about.
Normally, I'd dodge behind the nearest tree, but on this day, not a tree stood within close range and all I could do was prepare for the worst, which usually meant me fleeing and Chief following (getting close enough to feel and smell his excited breath), then swerving, skidding along the grass, and returning to his pathological circuit of intimidation.
But on this day, as Chief was coming around for his second charge, a stranger inside me screamed NOT AGAIN.
Instead of running away in fear, I stood my ground.
And I waited.
As the pony drew close, I dropped the bucket and halter, stepped forward and with all the strength I could muster, I SLAPPED his long, white nose.
And I screamed, "NO!"
Stopping him dead in his tracks.
Shocking us both.
Taken back by this sudden show of courage, Chief suddenly lost all his steam. He simply snorted half-heartedly, bowed his head (immediately sniffing out the grain bucket at my feet), and peacefully succumb to his halter.
Noses aligned, we lingered toward home with a far better understanding of each other and I finally understood what Mom was talking about.
Know who's boss.
Face your fear head on.
And give it a good slap on the nose.
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