The citizens of Hillmomba know me as that crazy lady who drives around talking to herself. Any time they see me drive by, with my jaws jabbering, they assume I am conversing with me, myself, and I. But that’s not true. Behind T-Hoe’s tinted windows, and behind my driver’s seat sits The Pony.
I am used to this arrangement. More room on the shotgun seat for my purse. I am accustomed to talking to The Pony with one eye on the rearview mirror. At times, when the road is clear, I reach my hand back and pat The Pony’s leg. His wiry-hair-covered leg. Yesterday, I reached back with a bit of melancholy.
“What am I going to do when you’re off to college, and not here for me to pat your leg?”
Without missing a beat, The Pony said, “I could put in a prosthesis.”
Yeah. He’s quite literal, that Pony.