An Open Letter To The Folks At MSA

Dear Folks At The Missouri Scholars Academy:

Hello. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom here. I have sent you my little Pony for three weeks of intense consumption at the trough of your advanced scholastic smorgasbord. Nobody straps on the feedbag like my little Pony when it comes to fortifying himself with knowledge. Please keep an eye on him. Do not let him founder.

I know that The Pony is no more special to you than the 327 other children of other parents. But he is special to me. He is a deep thinker. Most of the time, he is oblivious to his surroundings. He lives in his head. Clothing, feeding, and making himself presentable to others are low on his priority list. He has a tender heart. He comes to you with high hopes, gamboling toward your Academy like a playful puppy, eager for acceptance, seeking out new scents, hoping for an occasional pat on the head. The mere sight of a rolled-up newspaper would send him whimpering away with his tail between his legs. A calm, "No" will suffice if correction is needed.

The Pony is a kinder, gentler soul than his brother, the #1 son. Whereas #1 is a go-getter, sometimes brash, full of confidence, outgoing, always networking...The Pony is more comfortable in the background, assessing each situation before sticking out his neck, waiting to see how he fits in, loyal to a fault if he deems one worthy of his allegiance. Please be gentle with him. His feelings are easily hurt. He avoids confrontation and strife. Even as a baby, harsh words in his presence, though directed elsewhere, would bring him to tears. He is not one to share his emotions, but rather withdraws from a situation to internalize his feelings.

Please do not hobble my Pony with arbitrary rules. He obeys regulations to the letter of the law. He has anticipated this day since his principal nominated him for the Academy. Let him kick up his heels in your paddock. He will be a stalwart workhorse for you. Please do not break his spirit.

The Pony has talked of little else besides his wish to join his herd, to be with his own kind. He relishes competition, for he has had few challengers on his own turf. He couldn't wait to feint and wheel about and rear and buck. To test himself. To see what he's made of. I picture him, head held high, nostrils flaring, approaching his herd with unbridled passion, eager to make their acquaintance.

I hope you have a good Pony-Whisperer on staff. Just in case The Pony needs to be reined in.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom