I was never the type of girl who wanted Ken and Barbie dolls (or the latter’s million-and-one accessories). As a child, the one thing I wanted during the holidays or on my birthday was a reddish-brown Argentinian Falabella mini-horse with a long blonde mane (not the My Little Pony ponies (really, ponies sleeping in beds and cooking in kitchens designed for humans?))
Because I remember being seven and riding a handwalked pony on a summer’s day, with a cowboy hat perched on my head at Stanley Park, and I was hooked on the all-too-short experience. Continue reading