Like A Runaway New-Shod Draft Horse On Cobblestones

Let the record show that The Pony does not like wearing socks. Even on those winter Sundays when I have allowed him to select his own wardrobe, and he turned up on the porch on the way to the car in tan slacks, a t-shirt, and his black Adidas slides WITH NO SOCKS and snow on the ground. No, The Pony prefers to lay around the Mansion with unshod and unsocked hooves.

Today Farmer H informed The Pony that he would be helping take down Christmas decorations in the yard. Not the Christmas lights strung up around the Mansion. Laws, NO! M-O-O-N! That spells the lights stay clipped to the soffits year-round here at the Mansion. We're the Hillbilly family, by cracky! Farmer H had declared that today was supposed to be MUCH warmer than yesterday. So I laid out some shorts and a t-shirt for The Pony on the back of the couch. They were black. You know, to absorb the sun's energy.

When I entered the garage, T-Hoe was colder than a witch's teat! His mirror said 39 degrees! So on the way to town, I called The Pony. "It's really cold. Don't put on those shorts. Find your camouflage pants stacked on top of the dryer, and a long-sleeved shirt off the rack." Even though he is not fond of camouflage pants, I don't think slacks are fitting for taking down Christmas decorations in the yard. There were light-up candy canes to unearth, and Santas on sticks, and giant balls (heh, heh, you know what I said) hanging from the cedar tree beside the garage. The Pony agreed on the wardrobe change. It's not as if he had to use his giant brain to select his own ensemble.

This afternoon, sitting in my dark basement lair, trying to think up some incident to use for ridicule of my family members in order to entertain the masses...I heard The Pony trot into the NASCAR bathroom just on the other side of my office wall. Then I heard

THUMP!

"Pony? Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I think so." Kind of muffled, through the wall.

"What was that noise?" It sounded like somebody shoved the bathroom door to make it latch. Really hard.

"Me."

"What did you hit?"

"The floor, mostly. I think."

"You fell all the way on the floor?" It's tile, you know. Press-down tile over concrete. Visions of that time we found him laying on the basement steps, blood spreading around his head, flashed through my heightened conscious. Thank the Gummi Mary, it was only ketchup that time, from the plate of corn dogs that he had dropped when he slipped.

"Yeah. I was wearing my new socks. You know, the ones from that package you bought me a couple of months ago."

"But I laid out socks for you."

"I know. I forgot to pick them up when I went to my room to get dressed."

"ARE YOUR ELBOWS OKAY?" Let the record show that The Pony has broken both elbows, separately, in falls at school.

He walked into my office. "The left one looks okay. It kind of hurts, but I think it's good. My ear hit something. The floor, maybe?"

"Oh, you poor thing! Look at your elbow! Here. You can use my knee ice. It's not melted all the way yet." I rubbed his elbow, which was turning purple and red.

"No. That's okay. I'm just glad you're not touching my ear." Which made me want to touch his ear, which was fire-engine red.

"Are you sure you're okay? I don't want you lapsing out of consciousness while you're laying on the couch computing."

"I'll be fine."

I'm sure he will now equate socks with a third broken elbow and a cauliflower ear. He's a Pony behind his time. Miami Vice would have fed his keen fashion sense.