The for Always Pony

By Laverne McPhail Harris

Horses, motorcycles, a learning disabled little brother, and possibly a girlfriend, complicate Randys life. He thinks he has outgrown his pony; competing in arenacross resulted in a debilitating leg injury; his little brother commands his parents attention; and his girlfriend - if she is his girlfriend - fights a battle with cancer. He is a teenager trying to find maturity surrounded by circumstances that are spinning his life out of his control. Yet, Randy has an anchor. Boomer, the pony he thinks he has outgrown, remains a constant in his life, and she is ready to teach him that pain and loss are not insurmountable. Boomer and Randy enter the world of competitive carriage driving, demonstrating that she is a for always pony.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490761640

Laverne McPhail Harris

Although I don’t remember it, my mother told me my first word was “horse.” I am the director of a nonprofit organization, Friendly Horse Acres. Yes, horses have always been in my life. My passion for equines is only slightly more than my love of books and writing. I have published a nonfiction book, The Hoofbeats of My Heart. My son did not inherit my passion for equines, but he did develop a love and skill for racing motorcycles. For years, until he got a home of his own, our horse pasture was either a grazing area for animals or a motorcycle track. Neigh, neigh. Vroom, vroom.

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Prologue

Randy heard moaning. The sound echoed in his head, but his bedroom was quiet except for the scratching of a branch swishing across his window like a broom sweeping a porch.

His throat felt raw, as if a blunt knife had scrapped his larynx. His joints ached. Randy was sure he had cried out loud. Yet, no one else in the house stirred, and he thought his mother would have wakened if she had heard him yell. She was a light sleeper; always alert to sounds from his little brother who often had trouble breathing. He shifted on the bed and his leg throbbed. He stretched to massage the cramp, his fingers skimming over the bark-like scar tissue at his right knee.

Randy remembered his nightmare and the reason for his cry. Again he had dreamed of racing his two-stroke 250 motorcycle; speeding through the motocross course like a jet in flight. Did rock stars on Ecstasy feel this good? He heard the deafening roaring, drowning the arena in sound from half a dozen engines firing without the restriction of a muffler. His eardrums protested, but he exhilarated in the sound. Exhaust fumes choked his throat; he swallowed, savoring the taste. He bumped over quads, pushing the throttle of his 250. He flew over the whoops, gaining air, wishing his bike never had to touch the ground. Randy sat balanced perfectly mimicking the best rider of an Olympic jumping horse. The adrenalin made him tingle like every Christmas morning, every Fourth of July, every birthday had combined into one tidal wave rush of positive emotion.

The dream shifted into nightmare. He heard the other rider roaring up behind him. He knew he should never look back, he had trained himself to never to look back because he had to focus on the track ahead, but he felt the competitor’s bike approaching as amplified noise vibrated in his helmet. He had to look. He saw the other bike gaining fast, only a few feet behind him, and he did not notice the 180 degree turn with the high berm on his right. In the nightmare it morphed out of the ground, like a brick wall suddenly sprouting from an open pasture. Randy leaned into the berm, dragging his handlebars into the ground, trying to avoid the other rider. Fast. Fast. He slid dangerously up against the dirt wall, now made of concrete. He couldn’t keep traction, and the bike leaned against him, a dead weight pressing him into the solid surface with the machine over him, crushing him, burying him. He had no time to think, nor did the rider behind him who raced up beside him against the wall, pressing Randy’s bike upward, flinging boy and machine into an impossible heap. Immobile and twisted under his bike, Randy realized he was not riding his own two-stroke 250, but a much larger 450. He felt the other rider hurtle by his bike; past him, crunching bones as he passed. In the dream world that rider mounted a miniature tank, not a motorcycle. Randy wanted to scream but he had no air for his lungs, and his body had become a collection of twigs snapping under the weight of thundering machines.

The boy woke up. Had he screamed as he relived and reimagined his accident? He thought so.

Randy rubbed his right knee, hard, until it hurt and he felt tears had squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He jerked open the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out the crumpled figure of a brown plush pony. He hugged the toy; then pushed it under his cotton sheet until the soft material massaged his aching knee. His room felt suffocating. He had spent too many months cloistered in misery with only a few electronics, and some half-used school books for company. The room smelled of sour sweat, and too little showering. Randy felt a wave of disgust for the way he had let himself exist. He finally fell asleep again promising himself, Tomorrow I’ll finally go and see Boomer. The thought was a warm blanket on a cold winter night, and Randy drifted into unremembered dreams, the plush toy at his side, clenched in his hand against his right thigh above the mutilated knee.

Chapter 1

Late the next morning, Manny Garcia pushed back his straw cowboy hat, removing it so he could rub a worn gingham handkerchief over his balding pate. He studied the lean, tall, sable-haired fifteen-year-old boy limping towards him, the right foot rigid and ungainly. He was a handsome boy who promised to be a woman-magnet as he aged, Well, well, Randy McVea, it’s been awhile? How are you?

Whad ya think? the boy snapped.

Manny didn’t react. He stared steadily until Randy reconsidered his response.

The teen’s dark eyes studied the dusty ground, his overly long dark hair covering his flushed cheeks. I came to see Boomer. Is she here? Did you sell her?

She’s your pony, Randy; you could have asked your parents. Your folks have always paid the board, regular as robins in the spring. Why would I sell her? She’s an asset. I’ve got permission to use her as a lesson horse. He paused, scratched his neck, and like Randy, he studied the ground as if he had finished talking. He muttered to the dust, You’ll find her in the warm-up arena.

Randy nodded and moved off; circling the unbendable right leg with each step in the dirt he had so carefully studied. Neither the boy nor the man met the eyes of the other. Manny fell in beside Randy; silently letting the teen set a slow pace.

The arena where they halted was small by show standards, only large enough for two jumps. The big-boned bay pony popped over the obstacles, a foot and a half off the ground, carrying not a child, but a woman. The animal cantered with the easy rhythm of a well-conditioned athlete; shiny, thick ebony mane and tail extended each time she soared. Her head flicked. She had spotted Randy but her tempo remained solid and consistent. After three more leaps, the woman on the pony’s back saw her audience, and trotted the mare to the fence.

Hi, Papi, Boomer’s very fit this summer. She keeps me challenged. Then she refocused her attention, Hello, Randy. We haven’t seen you in a long time. What has it been? Nearly a year?

Hey, Rosa. Randy blushed, avoiding the eyes of the perpetually tanned beauty who had stolen his heart when he was eight years old.

Rosa vaulted off her mount with the grace of a sparrow alighting on a window sill. Want to cool your pony out, Randy?

Don’t ride anymore. Besides, I’ve outgrown her.

Whatever. Funny, I haven’t outgrown her and I still might have a couple of inches on you, Rosa wasn’t smiling. I seem to remember a boy who called this horse his ‘for always’ pony. And if you won’t ride her you can hand-walk her. She’s worked up a sweat.

But, I…

Walking and moving that leg will do you good. Your folks told us you have refused any more physical therapy. So walk the pony. Rosa swiped a turquoise halter and lead rope off the top rail, pulling a splinter off the post’s apex. As she brusquely handed the tack to the boy along with the reins she stalked off, her back rigid, her long dark hair swaying under her white helmet.

Manny prepared to follow her. Guess you’ve got a pony to look after. See you in the barn. He grinned, and followed his daughter.

Alone, Randy stared at his pony. Her dark eyes stared back at him. He remembered that when she looked at him directly, he could see a deep royal blue at their center. He loved those eyes and the soul she exposed. He didn’t move. He forgot to breath. In spite of the months of desertion she remembered him, and Boomer accepted him back into her life with a devotion and affection that went beyond human concepts of time. She neighed at him, a deep throaty bass that seemed impossible to come from a 12.2 hand pony. Boomer lifted her head and her breath, smelling faintly of a newly mown lawn, caressed his cheek.

Boomer, he sighed. Quickly, efficiently, with movements he didn’t know he remembered, he exchanged the bridle for the halter and rope, and loosened the girth of the saddle. He began to limp around the arena with her at his side. Dusty isn’t it girl? She hesitated, catching him in the lie. She knew he was close to tears, and the dry summer footing was an excuse to explain the thickening in his throat. Horses always knew. Humans can’t fool a horse, especially a pony like Boomer with enough empathy and wisdom for a shaman.

They trudged around the arena, Boomer close at the boy’s side. Although he felt people were always critically observing his limp, the pony appeared oblivious to the change in his gait from the way it had been the last time they were together. She doesn’t care. She accepts me no matter what. Why did I stay away so long? Randy realized he had circled with the pony far past the time necessary to bring her breathing back to normal; to reduce the sweat on her body.

His leg was aching by the time he brought his pony to the shade of the main barn where he put away her tack and began to massage her with the rubdown she deserved. As he stroked her with a brush he realized he felt content, almost happy. Around them the stalled horses munched on wisps of hay left over from their last meal, stomped and sighed, and blew through their noses – all the sounds of peaceful animals.

The tread of cowboy boots brought Randy around with a jerky turn. Manny had his thumbs hooked in his jean’s pockets.

Where do I put her? Randy asked.

Outside, in the small paddock behind the second barn. She still dislikes stalls. Nothing much has changed in her life, except maybe your absence.

Randy chose to ignore the comment about his desertion of his pony and, in spite of himself, he grinned. Good for Boomer. I’m glad she still lives up to her name.

Manny returned the smile.

Vividly they recalled the day a ten-year-old Randy arrived to meet the new pony that his parents had promised with a note in a birthday card tied onto the bow of a soft brown, plush pony. He knew this would be a special birthday, he just knew it. When he had first seen the toy wrapped in a shoe box, he had suffered from a brief disappointment. Then he read the note and realized that all his dreams were about to come true.

His parents had pulled up in the driveway of Manny’s Bird-in-Flight Ranch and young Randy was out of the car before his father had completely applied the brakes. His younger brother, Kevin, still a baby, had been mewling in his mother’s arms. Randy raced ahead, leaving his family to follow.

Manny stood in the aisle of the main barn, a bemused expression on his face as he tried to ignore the steady banging coming from the end stall. Dust motes danced at each pound, as if the old stall was slowly disintegrating, crumbling apart wisp-by-wisp. The boy was oblivious. His eyes danced, and his face was ready to split open in a grin as he raced up the row, as fast he had ever run in his young life.

A pony, Randy puffed. Has my pony come?

She arrived last night. That’s her you hear.

Randy blinked, What’s she doing? He was suddenly aware that the barn appeared to be threatened.

Apparently she doesn’t like being enclosed. She gave the haulers a hard time coming up from her breeder’s farm in California. She banged and protested the whole way, although she is an easy loader. Can’t quite figure her out. Have a look.

Randy approached the stall as if he was attempting to walk over ice. The pony heard him. She lifted her nose over the bottom half of the stall doors. A mealy muzzle explored Randy’s tanned face, blew at his dark brown hair, and found him satisfactory. She puffed peaceful jets of air at his cheek so he could smell her hay-sweet breath. Randy giggled happily as his family finally arrived in the barn. The boy stroked a silky neck, and encouraged the pony to continue messing his hair.

Randy’s mother juggled the baby into a more comfortable position against her worn brown parka, Do you like her? She has a beautiful name – Desert Mist.

Randy grimaced. That’s a girl’s name.

She is a girl.

Now that the boy’s attention had wavered, the pony struck at the stall door with her front foot. Boom! The sound echoed down the aisle.

Randy grinned. I’m going to call her Boomer! That’s a good name for a boy’s pony.

And Boomer she became.

Chapter 2

As Randy inspected his treasure, Manny explained, She’s an Exmoor Pony. They are extremely rare, less than fifty of them in the United States, and probably fewer than a thousand in the world today. I kept looking for a pony to suit Randy, and I saw a lot of nice ones – Welsh, Connemaras, some really fine POAs. But when I ran across this breeder in California I knew I had hit pay dirt. These Exmoors are incredibly powerful, so even though Misty - er, Boomer, is not big, Randy might not outgrow her. This pony is one very stout animal, and there is not much she won’t be able to do for him. I’m impressed with the breed, although I have been told they can be shy, and a little flight reactive.

Then he turned directly to Randy, making sure he was attentive, She’s young, just four years old. That’s the youngest horse you have ever ridden, Randy. However, if you have patience, she has the intelligence to learn.

Randy stood in the stall nodding. He had picked up a brush stashed in the caddy beside the stall, he unlatched the door, slipped inside, and he busily groomed his pony, only half listening to his instructor. He didn’t care what kind of a pony she might be, as long as she was his. Maybe he had imagined a coal black Friesian, but he would settle for this chocolate treasure. Boomer drowsed as he groomed her, calm and relaxed with no tendency to lash out to strike the wall. Like ubiquitous background music, Randy heard his parents and Manny talking quietly about the merits of an Exmoor Pony.

I’ve got the center paddock ready for the pony, Papi.

Randy jerked his attention away from Boomer at that rich contralto. Rosa. The girl he was going to grow up and marry. It wouldn’t matter when he had a horse ranch of his own that she had six years on him. Besides, he had just had a birthday. He already was catching up. He could tell Rosa liked him, too. She smiled at him over the stall door, teeth sparkling as brightly as the white Bird-In-Flight logo on her pink t-shirt.

Nice pony, Randy. Can I ride her sometimes?

Anytime you want, but I get to ride her first.

Let’s get her outside, Randy, Manny instructed. You lead her before she makes a hole in the stall door.

Boomer pranced beside her new partner. She respected the pressure of the lead rope but the boy could tell she felt anxious and excited - like him. The other horses neighed greetings to her. She replied with a deep whinny better suited to a draft horse. Behind the pair of them, Manny, Rosa and his family followed like ducklings ranged behind a mother duck on her way to the pond.

When they reached the paddock, Randy slipped off Boomer’s halter leaving her to inspect her new 20 foot by 20 foot home, complete with a flake of hay, a bucket of water, and a sparkling silver salt block tucked inside the three-sided shelter in one corner of the enclosure. She snorted at each unfamiliar object, but made no attempt to destroy anything with her feet. As long as she wasn’t in a small space, Boomer was content.

When can I ride her? he asked Manny.

I recommend you wait a couple of days. Give her a chance to settle in.

She’ll be okay tomorrow, Randy assured everyone with the authority of his ten years.

So he came back the next day to discover he had a wonderful partner. Boomer responded with a maturity and alacrity that amazed Manny and Rosa as they watched. Randy, however, expected his pony to be brilliant. Her trot amazed him, though. He had been working hard at correct collection in that gait, but with Boomer he didn’t have to worry about trotting. She moved as smoothly as a punt on a breezeless day at the lake, with a gait that could eat miles.

He probably should have waited to know her better, though. The exhilaration of the ride, and the warming afternoon sun encouraged him to remove his rain jacket. He had stripped off layers when he was atop a mount many times with Manny’s lesson horses. Boomer, however, had never had anyone flutter and flap a bright yellow coat over her head. She bucked like a rodeo bronco, protesting the object that had rustled over her ears. Randy hit the dirt after the second bounce, his coat still clutched in this left hand. Boomer continued to buck around the small arena, circling until she realized the offending object was gone. She returned to Randy, reins drooping, standing over the winded boy, and blowing over his body. She snorted at the jacket that puddled out from his left fist. She threatened it with a hoof, but Randy was quick enough to pull the coat to safety before she shredded the offending fabric.

Manny grinned and Rosa giggled when they were sure he was unharmed. Guess you need to do a lot of ground work with her. There seems to be a few holes in her training, Rosa suggested.

Ground work, riding, grooming, talking, living and breathing the new pony filled Randy’s days. The people around him related to him in only one way, and that was through Boomer. School work did not appear important unless it pertained to his pony. His school friends only caught his attention when he was at school. His best friend, Sean, accused, "You’re