By MICHAELA MANGUS
“Oh, your new pony is coming in today!”
My trainer’s casual statement had me tilting my head, urging her to elaborate. The pony wasn’t mine, of course—my family simply didn’t have the money for a horse. I was a horse-hungry barn rat who worked for hours upon end doing various chores for this local stable, earning both riding time and an education of good horse management. At thirteen, I had already earned a reputation as a scrappy rider with little fear, a sticky seat, and a willingness to sit on just about anything I was offered. This, along with a small stature, had made me the barn’s go-to “pony jock.”
“She’s coming from Idaho. I have a video.” Eagerly, I took the offered phone to watch. The pony was a flashy bay roan, equipped with four white stockings and a white face, and standing as a medium at 13.1 hands. She seemed cute enough. My trainer’s next words were the ones to raise the red flag.
“… She was free.”
I was young and didn’t know much, but I had been around smart people in the industry for long enough to know that a free horse—not always, but often–came with the words, “Okay, so what’s wrong with them?”
Apparently, this pony could be “difficult.” My trainer didn’t know much about the situation; the barn owner had arranged it. Again, the pony was cute enough. How hard could she be? It was worth a shot, anyway. Fiona stepped off the trailer that afternoon, but I wouldn’t know until later the extraordinary role she would play in teaching me about horses, riding, and life.
From the beginning, Fiona and I had a strange sort of understanding. She liked me, dare I say, even grew to love me. She let me be her person in a way that she wouldn’t let anyone else. This pony was sensitive and reactive, but for whatever reason, she let me be a part of her orbit. What she wouldn’t let other people, she allowed me. When clipping her would have resulted in a full-blown meltdown when done by someone else, she let me do it while standing quietly as a lamb. Some days she would run rings around people trying to catch her in the pasture, only to trot up to me a minute later when I would go to assist. Always touchy about her legs, for a long while, the only way to get shipping or standing wraps on her was if I was the one at the end of the lead rope.
One of the things that very quickly became apparent was that while under saddle, Fiona could be either the most rewarding horse, or the most frustrating horse—no middle ground existed. Athletic as a cat, with a scopey jump and beautiful form, a practically auto lead change, and naturally oaty, balanced gaits… when she was “on,” Fiona was nothing short of phenomenal. She could have easily been ranked with the best of them, if her “on” days didn’t come with the “off” days.
Her off days consisted of spooking at the smallest of shadows, or the pile of poop that we had trotted by six times already. Her athleticism, which I welcomed so much on her good days, would haunt me on the bad days; instead of using it to get over a jump in fine form, she used it to pull the most wicked, dirty stops a kid has ever had to sit. She could go from marching into the show pen and laying down the most clean, professional trip, to the next day, at the same ring, with the same prep, be stalled out and rearing at the in-gate. There was no rhyme or reason to what would result in a good or bad day. We ruled out just about everything: vet checks, saddle fit, training load adjustments, you name it. We were so desperate as to even try an animal communicator. Nothing helped. It seemed she either wanted to play, or she didn’t.
I was the only one who really rode her, no one else really wanted to. Her good days were mine, and years later, I still think about the rides with her effortless, floaty jump that felt more horse than pony. There’s still no doubt in my mind that she was one of the most talented horses that I’ll ever sit on. Her bad days were mine, too—I developed a defensive habit to sit and suck back at the base of jumps, courtesy of Fiona’s abrupt dirty stops. She never did throw me, but this bad habit would haunt me for years before I managed to break it.
Still, my good memories of her and our relationship far outweigh the bad. At one point, she was shipped across the country to a big-time trainer to see if they could “ x” her… but they ultimately flunked her from the program. When she came back, with me standing by to meet the trailer, the hauler made a comment about how hard she had been to catch in the box stall at the layover sites, describing how he could barely get close enough to hook the lead rope to the halter.
“Hi, Fi !” I called out a moment later as the hauler made his way up the ramp to her box stall. “Whoa!” he said, as Fiona practically ran to the stall door before prancing him down the ramp. “She’s never acted like that before!”
Fiona is interesting because she sums up many aspects of my “junior career” extremely well. I was lucky enough to have the opportunities to show some nice horses on the AA circuit and do well, but I really didn’t have a huge presence in the show ring or win a ton of accolades that would make me well-known.
I didn’t go to Pony Finals, or the Maclay. I was off riding the ones like Fiona —the hard, quirky ones that weren’t necessarily always the most fun, but had a lot to teach if you were willing to stick it out and listen. This was more than honing just riding skills; it was also learning how to take life in stride, working hard with what you have, and making the best of the opportunities that come your way. I learned the life lesson of how to deal with disappointment, as well as persistence, grace, and grit. Fiona was also a real-life application of how horses cannot be expected to fit the paradigms we have for them.
It doesn’t matter what we think Fiona should have or could have been. Animals don’t perceive things the same way we do, and as such, the animal is never wrong. Our goals or expectations must be fluid, and always in consideration of the horse we actually have…not the horse we think we should have.
Fiona was sold when I left for school, but I use the lessons I learned from her every day. I think about her often, sometimes with a shake of my head after I catch myself getting too far back in the saddle on the approach to a big oxer. But more often, I recall her scopey, powerful jump, or the time she trotted off the big hauler ramp to greet me after hearing my voice.
It makes me smile.
This was a submission to the 2024 Equestrian Voices Creative Writing Contest sponsored by The Plaid Horse. The goal of the contest is to promote fine, literary prose involving horses and the equestrian experience. This contest is open to writers of fiction and non-fiction, regardless of any previous publications, and awards 16 prizes. To learn more about the 2024 contest click here.
