A MiniPony, By Any Other Name

The minipony has a name! Yes, like the pine trees linin' the windin' road, like the singin' bird and the croakin' toad, like Jim Croce himself...our tiny equine has a name.

It's Barry.

That's right. Barry. I was hoping for something more regal. More fitting for such a fine hunk of horseflesh. More...horsey. It's not even Berry. It's Barry.

According to Farmer H, Barry's previous owner named him after a man who used to raise horses, but had recently died. Yep. He wasn't even named because he LOOKED like a guy named Barry.

Farmer H continues to call him Red. The Pony, now knowing his name, does not use it. "I call him Pony. Or Boy." I guess there's a certain symmetry to that. Says Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, stealing a line from The Big Chill, to once again show off her knowledge of obscure movie quotes.

We have no new pictures of Barry, so I'll leave you an old picture to see if you think he fits his newly-discovered name.

Poor little guy. It's like we are leaving him a blank baby book. I'll try to get some more pictures. Now that The Pony brushes his minipony a couple times a week, he's not looking so disheveled. Not so rock-starrish.

If Farmer H was up-to-date on his Ozark Mountain Daredevils lyrics, he might say:
"It's your good luck to know an old horse-trader like me."