From Chapter 4
Copyright © 2011 Rebecca Wilson
For my eighth birthday, I got two big gifts: a large picture of my father and a fat brown Shetland pony with a white star on her forehead. Her name was Lisa. She cost $35.
My mother built her a corral in our front yard out of thin eucalyptus poles, weaving a gate out of red and green ropes. Then she made a flag—a white unicorn standing against a blue sky—to fly over the enclosure, but Lisa hated her corral. She also hated me.
The second night we had her, she lay down on her side, wiggled out under the fence, and ran away. We brought her back, and my mother added another row of poles to the bottom of the enclosure. Lisa chewed her way through the rope gate and took off again. My mom replaced the rope gate with sliding poles. It didn’t matter; the pony still got out.
Every morning, I got up and rushed to the window to see if she’d escaped. If she had, I woke Mother up, got a half bucket of oats, Lisa’s bridle, her halter, and her lead rope.
My mother grabbed a cup of coffee, and we drove down the dirt roads that crisscrossed the Mesa until we found her.
“Lisa’s an escape artist,” my mother said…
…Lisa grew fat on illicit flowers and hay. Finally, she got so big that she couldn’t escape anymore.
My mother was worried, and she called the vet.
“I hate to break it to you,” the vet said after examining Lisa, “but this pony is not fat—she’s pregnant.”
“Yep, you got two ponies for the price of one.”