The Pony has been kicking up his heels in a coltish kind of way. I know he is entering adolescence, beginning the struggle for independence. But that doesn't mean I welcome his journey toward autonomy.
The Pony is my right-hand man. The Mr. French to my Uncle Bill. The Radar O'Reilly to my Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake. The Uncle Charlie to my Steve Douglas. The Miss Jane to my Milburn Drysdale. The Waylon Smithers to my Montgomery Burns. I want for naught when The Pony is there to anticipate my needs.
Yesterday, I was in a hurry to leave school. I stepped out of my teacher shoes and into the comfy shoes I wear to commute. I asked The Pony to set my teacher shoes in the cabinet while I went to run a few copies.
This morning, I set the teacher shoes out of the cabinet to put them on. The Pony had switched them so the right shoe was left, and the left shoe was right. When I asked him about it this afternoon, he laughed like that Jordan kid on Bernie Mac.