Good Thing He's A Pony, Not A Cat

Perhaps I've mentioned my thirteen-year-old son, The Pony. I think his name has come up once or twice. I may or may not have voiced a concern over the hairy kneecaps of The Pony. Of which he is very proud. But that's an ancillary topic today.

Every afternoon, we let our new puppy out of her pen. She was dumped at my mom's house, who refused to feed her for two days, then we took her in. She's a tiny imp, just now gaining energy enough to frolic, and we keep her in a rabbit hutch overnight and while we're gone, because she's smaller than a rabbit, and hawks cast their shadows over her when she's out. Which really makes the chickens squawk.

The Pony sat down on an old cooler, and I stood beside the porch. We roughhoused with Juno until her pointy teeth became too punctury, then calmed her down for petting. The Pony's knees and shins were at my eye level. "Did she bite your leg? Is that blood?"

"Where? Oh, that? That's ketchup."

"It looks like ketchup. Did you get some on you while eating your Sonic tater tots on the way home?"

"No. I didn't have ketchup with them. That's left there from lunch."

"You went through half the day, and two hours of Academic Team practice, with ketchup on your leg? And you didn't know it?"

"Nope."

"I'll hand you some Germ-X out of my purse."

"That's OK. I'll get it." He let a dribble of spit fall on his shin. He began rubbing it over the ketchup, like a Mom kind of spitbath, without the Mom spit. The hair swirled like that of a dog getting a suds bath. A lather appeared. The hair was thicker than Juno's.

"Heh, heh. I didn't know it would make suds!"

The Pony. He never ceases to amaze me.