Last weekend, I was positively pony punked

So I've read a few articles on the power of positive thinking, and I think it's safe to say that when I fell off my pony last weekend, I positively didn't mean to dismount that way.

Yes, in an awe-inspiring display of my training ability and current state of physical prowess, I fell off a pony.

No, "fell off" is not a understated way of saying "dumped off," "bucked off" or "launched," all terms that create dramatic images of a romanticized rough-and-tumble horse training life.

And, no, "pony" does not mean short only in relation to my two very tall horses: the uncoordinated and lanky youngster, or the stunningly athletic rocket launcher, the first one being most likely to tangle his legs and fall on me, while the second would pile-drive me into the dirt before her brain could spark a flicker of thought in her pretty little head about my safety.

No, it was simply the legally pony-sized paint horse. And it happened when we were returning from the first ride that she finally started figuring out the meaning of the Pamville Horse Training motto: "There's my way or there's the sweaty way."

She seemed positively happy to have figured out that all I wanted was for her to walk like a civilized ride. I have to say, she was groovin' the gait, neck low and relaxed, head bobbing gently to her long, easy stride (well, long for a short-legged horse).

In response, I had played out roughly a mile of rein as a reward for her good behavior and to give her the freedom to roll along there in the stroll zone.

In retrospect, though, this loosening of the controls was an unwise choice.

When a killer figment of her imagination startled her from her thought-free meditation, she swooped abruptly sideways, and I just flipped off her into the dirt like someone had kicked my favorite barstool out from under my favorite butt. I hit the ground so quickly and soundly that a Wile E. Coyote "Splat!" sign hovered in the air above me for a full three seconds.

In my defense, I was riding in my English saddle while wearing "slick" jeans rather than my breeches styled centuries ago by some English inventor who smartly designed the pants with grippy suede knee patches to help riders stick to those little saddles. And too, did I mention that this horse is small enough to be a pony? She doesn't have much body to wrap your legs around.

Still, I clearly and simply fell off.

In the pony's defense, she was equally as surprised as I was to find me picking myself up out of the gravel. Her expression obviously said "What are you doing down there?!" — which looks like worry that the human lying on the ground might be hurt, but really is worry that said human is entirely unprepared and ill-equipped to run for its life in the face of danger — real or imagined.

So true, pony. So true — but she was entirely missing the subtle point that she seemed to be the only threat to my life at that moment and the only way to save myself from said threat was, ironically, if neither of us were spooking and running instead of walking placidly for home.

Horses aren't big on irony. Even the short ones.

But let's not dwell on any more negatives because this article is, as I said at the beginning, about the art of being positive, and I can tell you that I was positively happy with the fact that a 4-foot 8-inch flump off a little horse isn't very far to fall.

(Short is a positively good trait in a horse when you're taking the express route to the dirt at http://viewnorth40.wordpress.com.)