When I moved onto this 1.17-acre microranch, I did what most people do when buying country property*:
I went a little bit nuts.
In short order, I had three horses, 30-odd chicken, two ducks, a handful of goats (some already pregnant) … and of course the full complement of dogs and cats I moved in with. To be fair, some of the chickens and both the ducks moved along with me, too.
But three horses? Yes, that’s crazy. Especially since I hadn’t done any riding of note in 30-plus years, and had developed a fear of falling that gripped me at anything faster than slow walk. Not to mention: I was facing significant back surgery. Horses I came back to about 20 years too late.
I also collected other strays, most notable a fifth-wheel trailer and retired guy to go in it rent-free, ostensibly in trade for helping care for it all. That was a good idea in principle that didn’t stand the test of time.
Four and half years later, the horses are gone, and so is the retired guy and the trailer. The ducks died, and I’ve given away or eaten about a third of the chickens. The little dairy goats are down to a manageable herd of five does, none pregnant. Both the cats have been rehomed after it became clear they would be happier in dog-free surroundings.
Dogs, there will always be.
My life is pretty easy, in terms of maintenance. That couldn’t remain steady, though, could it? So of course when my asked me to take a pony for her, I said yes.
Here you are, sensibly closing in 60. And then someone wants to give you a pony and you can just take the zero off.
Yes, I’m six years old now, and I’m getting a pony.
His name is PJ, which is almost as cute as he is.
I honestly don’t think I’ll ever grow up.
*I live about two miles from a Target, a Starbucks, three banks and a high-end grocery store. It’s really not all that country here anymore. Really, it never was: I can see downtown Sacramento from my street, and could ride a bike to the steps of the State Capitol. But an owl just killed two of the residents of my poultry yard, and coyotes roam the streets. And my next-door neighbor drives a carriage for a living. So … it’s kind of country, no?