Hup! Hup! Read this column!

I recently bought a pony. No, it wasn't a grand distraction purchase or bribe. My wife and eldest daughter have been working with horses the past two years at a local riding center and after expressing interest and aptitude in the equine arts we decided to go in whole hog (or in this case, whole pony) and buy one of our own. Of course as parents we reserve the right to invoke the grandness of the purchase should the need arise to diffuse a tense discussion over a questionable choice in clothing or a request to pierce something, but for now everyone's just happy to have a pony.

I'll admit, I know very little about horses. All I know is the digestive system of a horse defies the laws of physics. I've seen how much a horse eats and I've seen the volume produced on the outtake side of the equine digestive tract. It's obvious to me that whoever came up with the idea that matter cannot be created obviously has never cleaned out a pony's stall.

Because the bulk of the horse knowledge is possessed by my wife and daughter, my tasks thus far have been relatively basic ones that won't lead to either human or equine bodily harm if done improperly. Basically, I hand them stuff. Once I’ve handed them stuff, I then I hand them the correct stuff because I rarely get it right on the first try. It’s easy for a rookie groomer to get confused; after all the pony has like six different brushes, each used on a different part of her body. It's not like anything bad will happen if you accidentally use the face brush on the pony's mane or tail (All kidding aside, don't do it. The pony will explode.).

One of the first things I've learned about ponies is their personality is commensurate with that of a small dog: they compensate for their lack in size by projecting an attitude that's twice their stature. The previous owner informed us that one way to keep her sassiness in check was to run it out of her system with exercise. Having spent the first few days perfecting my job of handing stuff, I finally felt like I earned the right to do some actual work with the pony. So I volunteered to take her into the pen and put her through her paces.

Equipped with a longe whip, I stood in the middle of the ring while the pony leisurely picked at the scrubs of grass around the edge of the pen.

"How do I get her moving?" I asked.

"Tell her to hup," my wife said.

"Hup?"

"That's the word she knows to mean get moving," she said.

I looked at the pony. "Hup!"

Nothing. I tried again.

"Hup hup!"

Still nothing.

"Try the whip," my wife instructed.

I gave the whip a crack and repeated my earnest cry of "hup!" The pony responded with a slow walk. Success! My success was short lived however, as she stopped after about five feet, giving me a defiant stomp of her left front hoof. Attitude indeed.

I wasn't about to let her win, so after a few more hups and encouraging maneuvers with the whip, I finally had her walking and eventually running around the pen. With whipmanship rivaling the skill of a German dominatrix and shouting nothing but gibberish, I was able to keep her moving for about ten minutes. I had done it; I had tamed the diminutive, already tame horse.

I'll admit, the process of getting an animal that weighs more than a family of four to obey your commands fills you with an elevated sense of power. As a result of my power rush, for the rest of the evening I was an insufferable tyrant. Though the whip was no longer in my hand, hours later I was still cracking it as I barked out orders to all those around me. I had just commanded the respect of a large animal, surely a man of my ability should command the same respect from his wife and kids.

Beds not made? Hup! hup! Get to it!

Toys need picked up? Hup! hup! Get to it!

Dinner not made? Hup! hup! Get to it!

For those keeping score at home, it was that last one that put an end to my power trip. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.