As a child I constantly begged my father to buy me a pony. One day I extracted from him the promise that if he saw an inexpensive steed at the auction he would buy it for me. He came home with a pig.
   "Where's my pony?" I demanded.
   He pointed to the pig. "You're lookin' at it."
   I named the pig Trigger.
   Naturally, I was enraged. Other farm kids had their own ponies to gallop about on while I had to ride a stupid pig! On the pig's behalf, I'll say that he cared as much for being ridden as I did for riding him.
   "Whoa, Trigger!" I'd scream at the pig.
   "Oink oink squeeeeeeee!" he'd reply, and race along a barbwire fence in an attempt to saw me into four equal sections.
   The great humiliation, though, was when my pony-owning friends would come over to play cowboys. The only one who sate short in the saddle, I always had to be the villain. "Hey, Podner," one of the guys would say to his sidekick, "I think ol' Black Bart is trying to sneak up on us--I just heard his horse oink!" Then they'd laugh.
   That fall I had little trouble containing my grief when Trigger was transformed into hams and salt pork. Seldom does one have the opportunity of eating an adversary without being subjected to criticism. Nevertheless, I was still without a suitable steed.
   Crazy Eddie Muldoon, who lived on a nearby farm and was also horseless, came up with the theory that cows might be employed as satisfactory mounts. The theory seemed reasonable enough to me, as any wild scheme did in those days, and I agreed to help him test it.
   "Since it's my idea, I'll do the hard part," explained Crazy Eddie. "That means you get to ride the cow first and have all the fun."
   This seemed uncharacteristically generous of him, and I inquired as to the exact nature of the "hard part." He said it consisted of studying the results of the experiment and thinking up ways by which the ride might be improved upon. "And I have to keep a watch out for Pa, too," he concluded. "He's down working in the bottom pasture right now. But we don't want him showing up while you're riding the cow. Understand?"
   I understood. Mr. Muldoon was a burly Irishman with a volcanic temper, and he strongly objected to scientific experiments being conducted on his livestock.
   Getting on board a cow turned out to be more difficult than either of us had supposed. Crazy Eddie would try to boost me up, but the cow would give us an indignant look and walk away, with me clawing at her hide and Eddie running along grunting and gasping and trying to shove me topside. Finally, he said he had another idea, which was that I would climb up on a shed roof overhanging the barnyard and, when he drove a cow past, I would drop down on her back.
   "And presto!" he exclaimed obscurely.
   As soon as I was perched on the edge of the roof, Crazy Eddie cut out from the heard a huge Holstein, one approximately the size of a Sherman tank, and drove her unsuspectingly beneath my perch. According to plan, I dropped down on the cow's broad back, grabbing her bell collar as I landed. And presto! The Holstein emitted a terrified bellow, leaped straight up in the air, and executed a rolling figure eight with full twist. That was for openers, a little warmup exercise to get out the kinks and limber up her muscles. then she stretched out like a greyhound after a mechanical rabbit and did four three-second laps around the barnyard, a maneuver apparently intended to build momentum for a straight shot down the narrow land behind the barn.
   With hands locked like sweating visegrips around the bell collar, and every toe gripping cowhide, I stuck to the back of the Holstein like a hungry, sixty-five pound bobcat, which may have been exactly what the cow thought I was. During the first moments of my ride, I wondered vaguely if Mr. Muldoon's cows were equipped with burglar alarms, for there was a terrible din in my ears; only later did I attribute this fierce clanging to the cowbell.
   About midway down the lane, I managed to unlatch my eyelids-a mistake, as I instantly realized, for the first thing I saw was a compounding of my troubles. There, plodding up the land toward us, possibly with nothing more on his mind than the question of what his wife had fixed for lunch, was Mr. Muldoon. Now, unknown to me, the barnyard antics of the Holstein had terrorized the rest of the herd, which was stampeding along immediately behind us. It was this wild and violent spectacle that greeted Mr. Muldoon as he glanced up from his preoccupation with picking his way through patches of cow spoor laid down with the singular indiscrimination for which cows are noted. In retrospect, this preoccupation bore a certain similarity to concern about a few drops of rain just before one falls in a lake.
   Overcoming the momentary paralysis that accompanied his first sight of us, Mr. Muldoon exploded into furious activity, which consisted largely of jumping up and down and waving his arms. The clanging of the burglar-alarm cowbell prevented me from hearing what he was shouting, which was probably just as well. Perceiving that his efforts to flag down the herd were not only ineffective, but, if anything, were increasing the cows' RPMs, Mr. Muldoon turned and began to sprint ahead of us at a rate that under normal circumstances I'm sure I would have marveled at. As it was, we passed over him as if he were a tansy weed rooted in the ground.
   My dismount from the Holstein was facilitated by a low-hanging limb on a tree at the end of the land. I bounced several times, finally coming to rest in a posture similar to that associated with a lump of mush. Fortunately, I had landed beyond the exit of the land, and the herd of cows that thundered close behind showed the good sportsmanship of fanning out on both sides of me. Mr. Muldoon had not been so lucky. When he came hobbling up to see if I was still alive, I noted that he appeared to have been pressed in a giant waffle iron, and one none too clean at that. I choked out the story of the experiment to him, and he showed considerable interest in it, mentioning in passing that he could scarcely wait to debrief Eddie in the woodshed. Crazy Eddie, I might add, was at that very moment in the house busting open his piggy bank to see if he had enough money for a bus ticket to another state. I was happy to learn that he came up short by several dollars.
   My craving for a suitable mount, by which I mean one that did not go oink or moo, was never to be satisfied.
   Years later, my own children began begging me for a horse. At the time, we lived in one of the humbler sections of suburbia, an area which, through some oversight of the planning commission, remained zoned for agriculture. This meant that it was legally possible for us to keep a horse on our two acres. I decided to broach the subject to my wife.
   "I've been thinking," I broached, "every kid should have a horse. Caring for a horse gives a kid a sense of responsibility."
   "What do you need a horse for?" Bun replied. "You already have a four-wheel-drive pickup with racing stripes and a chrome rollbar."
   That woman can be incredibly dense at times. "Not for me! Ha! I can just see myself, dressed up like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter, galloping off into the sunset!" Actually, I didn't look bad that way, not bad at all, but I wasn't about to give Bun the satisfaction of thinking she'd had one of her suspicions confirmed. "Yes, by gosh, I think we should buy the kids a horse."
   "But we don't even have a barn!" Bun wailed.
   "We can turn the garage into a barn, " I explained. "Listen, all we need is a little imagination."
   "All you need is a good psychiatrist," she muttered.
   Later, when I was copping a plea of temporary insanity, I would remind her of that mutter.
   Contrary to popular opinion, it is remarkable easy to buy a horse, but only if you know absolutely nothing about horses. I found an ad in the classified section of the newspaper that stated: "Good kids' horse, $150." It seemed like a steal. Surely, I thought, at this very moment hordes of eager horse buyers are converging upon the foolish soul who is offering such a fantastic bargain. I dialed the number, and the man who answered--he spoke in the soft, country drawl I had expected--confirmed that indeed he was all but overrun with potential buyers.
   "I don't want to sell Pokey to just anyone, though," he told me. "Since you sound like a man who knows horses, I'd be happy to bring him by your place so you can take a look at him."
   I said I'd be delighted if he would do that and gave him the address of my spread. Scarcely had I hung up the phone than an old pickup truck with a horse in the back came rattling down my driveway.
   A lanky cowboy emerged from the cab of the pickup. Extending a hard-callused hand, he said, "Name's Bill. You the man what's lookin' for a good kids' horse?"
   I replied that I was indeed that person. By this time, my brood of moppets were bouncing up and down around me, clapping their little hands together, and screaming, "Buy him! Buy him!"
   "Hush, I scolded them. "I'm going to have to have a closer look at him first."
   "Sure thing," Bill said. He dropped the tailgate of the pickup and ordered the gorse, "Step out of there, Pokey." Amazingly, the horse backed up and stepped down out of the pickup. Then the cowboy scooped up our little three-year-old and set her on Pokey's back. I'll swear that horse turned and smiled affectionately at Erin. He walked ever so carefully around the yard, stopping every time she teetered one way or the other until the little girl recovered her balance, and then he'd plod on.
   My wife, who was witnessing the performance, also seemed impressed with the horse's gentleness, or so I judged from the fact that she had ceased pounding her chest in an apparent effort to get her heart started again.
   "What'd I tell you," Bill said. "Pokey's a great kids' horse."
   There was no doubt about it. While Bill was lifting Erin back down, I was writing out the check. Perhaps I wouldn't have been so hasty if I'd had the good sense to study the horse's face more carefully. When I finally did so, I had the distinct impression that it bore a combination of features that reminded me of W. C. Fields and, in a different mood, of Richard Widmark in one of his roles as a homicidal maniac. Probably just my imagination, though, I said to myself.
   One little incident before Bill departed also caused me some wonder about my purchase. As Bill was wringing my hand as though I had just saved his life, Pokey plodded softly up behind him. I assumed the horse was going to give his former master an affectionate goodbye nudge. Instead, he clamped half a dozen yellow teeth onto the cowboy's shoulder. I recall the smirking look in the horse's eyes as Bill danced about, silently mouthing curses as he reached back and twisted one of Pokey's ears until the animal unlocked its jaws. Bill grinned sheepishly, if you can imagine the grin of a sheep that has just been gnawed on by a coyote. "A little game Pokey and I play," he said.
   "Really?" I said. "I would have guessed that hurt like heck."
   Bill casually flicked a tear off his cheek. "Naw! Heck no. Well, be seein' you."
   Contrary to his last remark, I never saw Bill again. But I can say in all honesty, I really would have liked to, and preferably in some remote area where his shouts for help would have been to no avail.
   Within a month, I could not look at Pokey without seeing "glue factory" written all over him. The only thing that saved him from taking up residence on the back side of postage stamps was that the children loved him. And, as far as I could determine, he loved the children. He lived with us for ten years, providing the children with almost as much pleasure as he did the tack-shop owner, the feedstore proprietor, the farrier, and the veterinarian. I viewed him largely as a malevolent machine for transforming five-dollar bills into fertilizer for my garden.
   I must admit that I had some ulterior motives in acquiring a horse. My wife's charges that I intended to satisfy the cowboy fantasies of my childhood were, of course, too ridiculous to dignify even with denial. I did think, however, that the horse might come in handy for elk hunting, so I went out and purchased some of the essential gear for that purpose.
   Bun knows nothing about elk hunting, but even so I thought her response to my acquisitions was uncouth, to say the least. Personally, I find it unladylike for a woman to stagger about holding her sides while squealing hysterically.
   "Laugh all you want," I told her, "but if you weren't so ignorant of the subject you'd know that nine out of ten elk hunters wear cowboy hats. Cowboy boots are the only safe footwear for stirrups--anybody knows that. And the brush on the sides of trails will tear your legs to pieces if you don't have a good pair of chaps. The leather vest--well, you'd just be surprised at how handy a leather vest is when you're hunting elk!"
   "B-but the spurs!" she gasped. "The sp-purs!"
   I didn't even try to explain the spurs. I mean, if a woman is so ignorant of elk hunting that she doesn't know about spurs, there's no point in trying to educate her.
   It had been twenty years and more since I had ridden a horse, or a pig or cow for that matter, so before embarking on Pokey myself I considered it only prudent to study the horse's style while the children rode him about the two acres I now referred to in taverns as the "back forty." With the older children, he would gallop at a moderate gait around the fenced pasture, slowing for the corners and in general taking every precaution not to unseat the young riders. Several knowledgeable horsepersons who observed him thus in action told me I couldn't have found a better kids' horse. I would nod knowingly, chewing on a grass straw as I pushed my cowboy hat back with my thumb.
   One day when the kids were off at school, I told Bun, "I think I'll take a little ride on Pokey, just to shape him up for elk season."
   "I was wondering why you had your chaps on," she said. "Where are you--hee! hee!--spurs?"
   "The spurs are for later," I said, ignoring her mirthful outburst. "Now, come on out to the back forty with me. I may need some assistance."
   "Okay," she agreed, "but if you think I'm going elk hunting with you to help you get on and off your horse, you're crazy."
   Perhaps it was fate that dictated I would have to suffer insults in my pursuit of horsemanship. The problem was, I had not yet been willing to mortgage the house in order to swing financing for a saddle. Since the children mounted the horse by using the board fence as a ladder, I figured I could do the same. This procedure, however, was made easier if someone held the horse's bridle while the mounting was taking place.
   Maybe my imagination was acting up, but the expression on Pokey's face that day seemed more Richard Widmark than W.C. Fields. Nevertheless, I climbed the fence and, while Bun maneuvered the horse up close, I threw a leg over him. So far, so good. Itook up the reins and told Bun to step back.
   "Giddap," I said.
   Nothing.
   "Giddap!" I said louder.
   Still no response whatsoever. I looked at Bun. She shrugged her shoulders.
   "GIDDAP, you miserable bleep-of-a-bleep!"
   The bleep-of-a-bleep lowered his head, against which he had now flattened his ears, but refused to budge.
   Once more I shouted "Giddap," but this time I dug my heels into his flanks. Before my hat hit the ground at the starting point, we were at the far end of the back forty. But it was not so simple as that.
   The smooth, rhythmic lope with which Pokey carried the children about the pasture had been replaced by a gait closely simulating the motion of a jackhammer--a thousand-pound jackhammer. My eyeglasses flew off, the fillings in my teeth popped loose, my vertebrae rattled like castanets. With the instincts of a natural horseman, I hauled back on the reins. Unfortunately, the motion of the horse had bounced me so far forward I had to stretch the reins far back behind me, and even then couldn't get the slack out of them. But this problem had ceased to concern me, since I now had another distraction.
  For those unfamiliar with a horse's anatomy, there is a large bone at the point where the neck hooks on to the rest of him, technically speaking. I now found myself astraddle this bone, pounding against it at a rate of five times per second. On the scale of discomfort, this sensation rated somewhere between unbearable and unbelievable, thus motivating me to take defensive action. I flopped forward and wrapped both arms around the beast's neck, a move which had the purpose not only of enabling me to hold on but possibly to strange the horse into submission. Alas, at that moment, Pokey cut sharply around a corner, so that I was swung beneath his neck. We arrived back at the starting point with me suspended from the horse's neck in the manner of a two-toes sloth from a limb. Pokey came to a reluctant halt, and I dropped to the ground. Calmly, I picked up my hat, beat the dust out of it on my chaps, and strolled over to Bun, who was sagged against the fence doing her impression of a limp noodle.
   "Want to see any more trick riding?" I asked.
   Despite my air of nonchalance, the ride had taken its toll on me. Suddenly, in fact, I detected what I thought was the symptom of a heart attack--an excruciating pain in my shoulder. Then, collecting my wits, I reached back, got hold of an ear, and twisted it until Pokey unclamped his jaws.
   Pokey was truly a great kids' horse. But he hated adults.
   Our next yard sale included a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, chaps, and a leather vest.
   "Don't you want to sell the spurs?" Bun asked.
   "No, I'm keeping them," I said, "Just in case I ever run into Bill again."