Uncle Harry’s Newfoundland Pony

 

Uncle Harry met me at his front gate with Jerry in tow. ”Now,” he warns, “don’t get on that horse’s back no matter what, he’s not used to being ridden, you could break your neck.”

 

I nod, as I grab his reins, ensuring that my response was somewhat muted and I had the benefit of deniability should I endeavor to do so. Having tried once before and failed miserably, the animal having tossed me off within a second, the likelihood of another attempt was quite high.

 

I would never normally disobey my uncle, it was just that my hesitancy in doing so was slightly eclipsed by my desire for adventure. I couldn’t help myself.

 

A Newfoundland Pony of exceptional beauty, Jerry represented his breed well. Handsome, the graceful bay stood proudly in a wispy coat of rusty-red, capped with a full, ink-black mane and long flowing tail. His regal  appearance, suggesting an air of absolute tenacity.

 

Lean and muscular, his build was more in line with a diminutive show jumper than a draught horse. An observation borne out by the fact that there was no garden that could contain him. A burst of speed and an agile leap, he could clear any fence in the community.

His athleticism contributed significantly to my desire to tame the small gelding. I could think of nothing else. The horse begged to be ridden.

 

I wave assuringly as I fade from Uncle Harry’s sight. With no one looking, I toss the reins over Jerry’s head. Gathering them with one hand, I quickly attempt to mount. Springing up, I pull myself onto his back. About to throw my leg over, he abruptly jumps, kicking his hind legs out, forcefully tossing me backwards and onto the roadway, landing with a bone-shaking thump.

 

Realizing my mistake, I head for the first object I can find that would give me a better chance of getting on his back, before the animal could resist. Spotting the guardrails at the bottom of the harbour, I lead Jerry alongside and leap upon the steel. This time, I jump high into the air, straddling his back, tight to his front legs, in an effort to minimize the impact of the vertical movement of his haunches, should he choose to pull the same stunt twice.

 

The second I am upon the pony, he rears up, sliding me backwards along his spine before swiftly dropping and kicking his hind legs out, forcefully slinging me up and forward, landing rather dramatically on the pony’s neck, directly behind his head. I instinctively wrap my arms around him as I slide underneath, staring up at his widely grinning snout.

 

Releasing the unperturbed animal, I realize that riding the small beast wouldn’t be as easy as I had thought. Attempting twice more, the horse recoiled against the attempts. Turning and twisting he would allow me nowhere near him, other than directly in front of his head.

 

Surrendering to his wishes, I lead the rose-coloured pony the three or four kilometres to our vegetable gardens and tether him to a tree, ready for the next day’s labours

 

A better draught animal than a riding horse, the spirited courser worked hard. For several days we used him to plow and prepare our vegetable gardens, the princely charge impressing everyone in attendance with his work ethic. Having lost our own horse, Trigger, months before, he easily equaled the much larger steed, determined to get the work done.

 

On the last day, the small horse sensed the end of his labours. Getting increasingly excited as each moment passed, he shook with anticipation.

 

The animal was ready for a few months of reprieve from his captivity. Having finished with his work for the time being, he will be turned out with other horses to roam the numerous long-abandoned pastures ringing the community.

 

Releasing him of his collar, he immediately rears up and starts pacing and twisting, his body twitching and trembling.

 

Leading the feisty animal to the road, he shivered with excitement, as if being trotted to the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby.

 

The ginger beast had comported himself admirably, and he knew it. Dancing and whinnying, he is proud, he is invigorated, he is headed home.

 

Father, pulling up in his truck with Grandfather and my Great Uncle beside him, issues a warning, “Stay off that horse’s back, you don’t know how he is going to react.” Driving slowly away father shouts with finality, “he could cripple you.”

 

I acknowledge the edict as l tug on Jerry’s reins, turning for home. The horse follows, but he’s not happy. He throws his head back repeatedly, shuffling his hooves as if trampling some unseen impediment to freedom. Cursing it savagely with loud snorts.

 

As soon as father’s truck disappears from sight, I turn, staring intensely at the pony. I sense something different about the sprightly horse. I’ve never seen such a fierce spirit. It draws me in. Without further thought, I am upon the rapturous mount. He was expecting as much.

 

Instantly, his haunches squat as he lurches, exploding into a gallop. As he streaks ahead, I grab his mane with both hands, pulling myself slightly forward, wrapping my legs tightly around his form. With reins in hand I lean over  and hang on.

 

At a blurring pace we are suddenly upon a tight curve. I let go of his mane and pulled on his reins in an attempt to slow and turn him, realizing quickly, there was no need. The focused horse keeps to his pace and leans in. As he comes out of the corner, I see father’s truck waiting by the side of the road. I guess they knew me better than I thought.

 

The horse wizzes past the vehicle, streaking towards home and liberty. Nearing another sharp bend, he slows slightly to maintain his footing. Conquering the close curve, he trudges swiftly onward.

 

With each plant of his hooves Jerry carefully gages his speed. Learning the limitations of the uneven road, he races on, increasing his pace at every step. The animal does everything correctly, sticking to the compacted surface and out of the sand, staying to the right all the way. I hang on, knowing the horse is in charge. I am just along for the ride.

 

His cadence is rhythmic and smooth, no trouncing, no bouncing, just a steady gait. The clopping of his hooves, as if the reverberations of marching troops, digging their heels into the ground. The sound is invigorating.

 

Bracing against the force of gravity the sorrel pony challenges himself, facing the steep ridge he must climb. Sticking to his speed, the determined horse charges steadily upward. His breathing, loud and strong, he misses not a beat, as he quickly conquers the sheer incline.

 

Reaching the summit, time slows, the vista freezes, the imagery suddenly more vivid. The sky, a deep blue, the gardens, a canvas of emerald and gold. Every glance reveals the extraordinary splendour of the day.

 

Quickly looking behind, I see father’s truck following from a distance, rocks, gravel and dust launched by the horse’s hooves, seemingly hanging in the air.

 

With more confidence, I sat stark upright on the swift beast, the sudden exultation matching that of the pony, his exhilaration perfectly reflecting mine. I revel in his spiritedness, my body tingling from the connection. The equine races on.

 

The ridge sweeps slowly, then suddenly to the shimmering harbour below. With nature now on his side, Jerry’s speed is blistering as he increasingly straightens out.

 

Adrenaline is a powerful chemical. All the world, a motion picture. Every glance, a temporarily frozen snapshot. The scene, completely surreal.

 

The wind, whooshing past my head, pulsating my eardrums, suddenly becomes silent. The only sound, the loud thumping of my heart, its beat resonating throughout my body.

 

Reaching the crest of the hill overlooking the small community, we pass an oncoming vehicle, dust drying the mouth. The sudden interruption of the grandeur is short, as the steed bursts forth from the smothering cloud, careening down the slope.

 

A tight swing in the road looms at the bottom of the decline, with a band of sand and small rocks skirting the edge. I pull back hard on the reins in an effort to reduce his speed.

 

The pony is having none of it. Sticking to his cadence, he flawlessly rounds the closely arcing curve. Tasting freedom, he leaves it all in the dirt. Stretching out and pouring it on, the screaming pony races for the finish line.

 

I lean forward again, tight against his neck, giving him the edge he wants. The drumming, rushing, breathing, snorting, excites every particle of my being. The experience is absolutely euphoric, I am giddy with the intoxicating effects.

 

Cresting the low hill at the upper end of the village, Jerry spots his destination. With renewed vigour, he streaks down the gentle slope increasing his velocity with every bound. His hooves floating above the road as he races on. Rounding the bottom of the harbour, he climbs the small hill at an incredible speed, into his final leg.

 

With a five-way intersection around the next corner, I worry whether he will stay on the main road. As the pony comes out of the slight turn, I realize he is planning a shortcut, as he heads straight towards a fence.

 

Tightening my grip on his sides with my legs, I forcefully pull on his right rein turning his head around. He responds, as his hind legs, kicking out, spins his rear in a circular manner, sending rocks and dirt flying everywhere.

 

As his shoes gain purchase, he is lined up for his final push. Digging his hooves into the hard-packed road he closes the distance in seconds, rounding a final tight turn at full gait. Suddenly, dropping his haunches and locking his legs, he abruptly skids to a halt. Right in front of his gate.

 

Dismounting quickly, I stand, shaking dramatically at the experience. My body is as if being pulsed by electricity, a prickly, warm sensation enveloping me. I am so wired that I stumble as I try to move.

 

Looking up, I see Uncle Harry standing on his front bridge, his mouth agape, his eyes wide and round. He says not a word. I attempt to speak, but cannot, my breathing heavy and laboured, my legs trembling.

 

I hear screeching tires. Turning, I see father’s truck with all hands offering silent admonishment of my supposed recklessness.

 

Grabbing his halter from the vehicle, I lead the copper-coloured pony to his tether. Changing out his tackle, I snap on the lead and turn to walk away. As I do, the small horse, still breathing loudly, nudges me gently. I turn and stroke his head and neck looking deep into his eyes. The connection is intense. He is as moved by the experience as I am. I turn and walk away. The horse, following me to the end of his rope, baying softly.

 

Jumping into the pan of my father’s truck, not a word is uttered. There is nothing to be said. Everyone who was a witness to the proceedings, is silently wishing it had been them. Analogous to life, the ride was worth the risk.