The Perfect Pony

Mom always said that what every little girl needs in her life is a good pony. A good pony will strengthen a girl's self esteem, give her confidence, and "babysit" her out on trail rides and jumping rounds. My perfect pony was a tiny fourteen hand welsh mare named "Juby."
One of my most memorable occasions on that little mare was when I was about nine-years old. Dad decided to go with Juby and me out on our "hack" around the property. The trail around the property also happened to be on the outside of a huge racetrack where they conditioned the young thoroughbreds. After our nice little walk, Juby and I trotted down the path towards the barn. Dad opted to jog beside us, after all, he wasn't a horse guy, and how fast could a pony go anyway?
Juby was a spirited little chunk, what one would call "a hot mount" on a good day, or as my trainers often called her, a "little ****" on a bad one. As soon as Juby heard the sounds of the horse galloping down the track beside her, she took off. She babysat me alright! She babysat me all the way down the path, and to the barn at a million miles an hour! Of course, being a stoic little child, I screamed bloody murder the whole way! The man on the track pulled his horse up and began hollering, "hang on little girl!" This happened to spook my pony even more, and she kicked it into a gear that none of us knew existed!
My dad of course ran after me to see if he could somehow stop the frantic pony, but he was left in the cloud of dust kicked up by tiny pony feet. I was of course still screaming as loud as ever, which did not turn out to be a very calming influence on the pony. Everyone ran out of the barn and tack store to see what sort of horror was taking place out in the parking lot. Juby of course was galloping to her stall; after all, it was feeding time! Unfortunately one must pass a very wide tree, and a scary truck ramp to get to the barn. Luckily Juby drug me through the tree (yes, through), rather than jumping us both off of the four foot ramp. We eventually scraped past the tree (literally) and into the small door of Juby's stall. This of course was all done in pony fifth gear (a.k.a faster than a pony should be physically able to run...EVER).
My dad (and ten people that heard me scream from inside the barn) found me a few minutes later, still on Juby's back, still bawling and spluttering. Juby of course had her nose in the grain bucket, happily, and ever so sweetly, munching oats. Juby's happy little victory was short lived however, because she was pulled out of her stall and "schooled" in the round pen by someone who weighed at least two times more than she did.
I went home that night scratched, dirty, and tear stained, but boy was I proud. "Mom! Guess what happened to me!" I told the story with the pride and swagger of a war vet, showing my little "scars" and bruises to all who would pay attention. Dad just stood there with a perplexed expression as mom joyously said, "and see Heidi, don't you feel good about yourself for overcoming that?" All I seem to remember is dad walking out of the room, muttering something that sounded like, "women and their damn horses! Ponies shouldn't be able to run that fast..."