Casper

Patch used to be our mascot. When we had hats made, they had Patch embroidered on them. When we needed a default pony, it was Patch. Girls who used to work for Ted would show up at jobs and ask where Patch was, how he was doing, and if they could feed him the rest of their fried dough. Sometimes they marvel that he's still alive.

Unfortunately for Patch, though he still has a loyal fan-base, he's being replaced by a new generation of riders- and workers. These days, Patch is the doting old grandfather. Casper is the cool bachelor uncle.

If Patch's fan club has hats, then Casper's has T-shirts, mugs, embroidered jackets, and probably matching tattoos.

Ted loves the story of how he bought Casper. A friend of a friend who knew somebody was looking to sell some ponies. When Ted showed up the farmer led him out to the back pasture where, to quote Ted, "There were ten or fifteen Caspers all standing around eating." (This is my favorite part- the simple idea that out there, somewhere, are more sturdy, dependable, white ponies. Now, all we have to do is find them.)

Ted asked how old they were and the farmer responded, "Oh, about ten." A bit gangly for ten, but, Ted figured, they probably hadn't been fed too well lately.

Ted bought one (he says if he knew then what he knows now, he would have bought them all) and brought him home. The workers hated him. He was clumsy, nippy, and stupid. He ate like he had never seen food before, and flipped out at the silliest things. He was bossy and horrible even on a lead line. Ted was about ready to ship him. Sometimes, the pony's not worth the trouble if nobody wants to work with him.

Then the farrier came. Casper stood better than expected. Ted, curious, asked if he knew anything about horse teeth. Well, sure, a thing or two. A vet could say exactly how old the horse was, but he could give Ted an estimate.

Casper held his mouth open. He probably tried to eat the farrier's hat. He laughed. "How old did you say he was?"

"The guy I bought him from said he was ten, but he sure doesn't act ten."

"Probably because he's closer to ten months than ten years!"

Casper grew up with us. He knows just how to maneuver the pony wheel the way he wants, what to lean on to get the other ponies to do what he wants, and how to weasel an afternoon off of work. He's learned that the first pony ride of an oblivious baby is just as important as the hundredth pony ride of the handicapped boy. He loves them all.

Little girls see him from a hundred yards away and realize all their dreams have come true. They see Valhalla, and it is the saddle upon the tall back of a gleaming white stallion. (Even if he really isn't all that tall, is rarely "gleaming", and hasn't been a stallion since he was six months old.) They ask for him. ALL THE TIME.

Casper is handsome, I'll admit that. He's endearing too. He loves little children, and he loves old women. He's good at his job, though probably because it's the only thing he's ever done.

He loves being dirty, and washing him is fruitless. The minute he's clean and dry he promptly goes out to find the biggest, deepest, smelliest mud puddle in the pasture. He loves having his feet cleaned and trimmed, but seems to find perverse pleasure in laying his long neck across your back and leaning all his weight on you as soon as you pick up his first foot. I've been knocked flat on my butt by him on more than one occasion. He insists on loading into the trailer last. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Casper's a great pony, he really is, and although I wish we had more ponies his size, I can't say I'd be happy with more of him. After all, isn't he one-of-a-kind?