Major, Our Shetland Pony

How could we be so lucky? Brother Maurice and I became the proud parents of a yearling white Shetland pony at a very very early age. Our loving parents apparently had faith. It was the biggest, most precious gift we could possibly dream of getting.

He arrived at our stable in his shiny white coat. He had dreamy but mischievous brown eyes. His ears perked if we spoke. His mane and tail were braided in army style and tied in red ribbons. We had no trouble naming him. “Major,” we shouted. Papa led him prancing down the cobble stone path to the barn. It was a strong and positive impression.

We felt very privileged and very indulged. It lasted only a moment. Papa laid down strict rules and then admonished us: “If my rules are broken just three times, Major goes back to his original owner.”

“Papa,” said Maurice. “Trust us.”

I said, “If we love somebody we take good care of him. Snowball is our dog. He’s happy. Nellie is our cat. She’s happy. Major will be happy too. I promise.”

“Just listen carefully to the rules and tell me if you think you can faithfully keep them,” Papa said.

1. The stall must be cleaned and manure removed daily.
2. You must put down clean hay for his bed daily.
3. His water bucket must be clean and full always.
4. He must be fed regularly at the same time.
5. The tack, saddle, and bride and harness must be saddle soaped once a week and always kept hanging in its place.
6. Every time you ride Major, he’s to be walked dry and rubbed down.
7. He is to be brushed and currycombed daily.
8. He must be exercised every day.

“These are starters, “Papa said. “If you are sick or have a heavy school workload, you may ask Sam to do you the favor of substituting. Only remember: Sam has a big job supervising the farm. Don’t take advantage.”

Then, in  amore disarming tone, Papa added “ I know I sound like an ogre. This is not a punishment. An animal requires constant care. If it’s unpleasant, tell me.”

In unison, we shouted, “Papa. Please give us the chance!”

Sam, our surrogate father and farm manager made an exact schedule of jobs. We each had a daily assignment. There was no room for error. With few exceptions, we performed our tasks with joy and responsibility.

After six months, Papa sat us down and with a dramatic flourish, he said “You have proven yourselves worthy of my trust. You have now nobly satisfied my requirements of being the parents of Major. I award you his birth certificate together with the documents of his blood lines. Continue to prove my judgment sound and cherish him. The experience will serve you well the rest of your life.”

Major grew up to be our pet and the joy of the neighborhood. Sam was our master, He planned the calendar of training. Every beautiful sunny day, Major went out to pasture with the cows. He loved the freedom. He frolicked in the field. He neighed and demanded attention any way he could. He was the main attraction in the neighborhood. He was impossible to catch. To get him back in the stable, I had to charm him with a carrot or a lump of sugar. He was so full of fun; he transferred his love of life to all around him.

Then Sam suggested we try him in the corral. On a lead line, with an easy bit and bridle, we eased him around the circle much to his dismay. He hated it! He much preferred running free in the pasture, kicking up his heels, neighing and prancing. But soon he learned the lesson and even learned to enjoy Maurice on his bare back riding him around the ring.

Then show of shows, I was permitted to saddle, mount, and ride him. It was a tremendous accomplishment for both of us. He had such pride. He was always in charge. I learned to obey. I knew if I did not, he would quickly prove his superiority. One day, Maurice was riding his stallion George Lee and I mounted Major. We were not long on the trail through the damp fresh cool woods when Major decided to play games. He went under a low branch of a tree and toppled me off his back. In defiance, he stood waiting for me to get back on. I learned from then on to pay him total attention. Otherwise, I’d have to pay the penalty.

Maurice and I became the oddities in the area. We rode to school and we rode to Sunday School. Everyone gathered around when we tethered our horses to the hitching posts. Our friends were permitted to pet and feed the horses carrots. On occasion, we drove Major in his pony cart. We could take two friends with us in the cart. Major loved the display. On The Speedway (now the Harlem River Drive), the road was tan bark, Major’s turf. On that road, he could show his bag of tricks. He galloped, trotted, racked, and walked as the mood dictated. He thrived on the attention and we thrived on our popularity.

Papa never had to censure us in our care of Major. We were devoted to his well being. We enjoyed seven years together.

On a bleak winter day, we went to the stable to do our cleaning chores and found Major lying in his stall. A strange happening. He seemed unresponsive and lethargic. We immediately called Papa and Sam. They knew he was sick. He had a high temperature.

Papa told Sam, “Call Dr. Hargrave. Tell him to come quickly.”

Dr. Hargrave knew Papa understood his animals and sensed his distress. He was in the stable in short order.

“Abe,” the veterinarian said. “Major has a serious disease: Cholera. We’re having an epidemic. He feels bilious, lacking appetite, gassy. I’ve had no success in curing it. I prescribe medicine, I change the formula, I haven’t licked it. Keep Major cool. Sponge him. Don’t worry if he doesn’t eat. He can’t digest his food now.

We silently and painfully heard Dr. Hargrave. We tried not to believe. Papa, Sam, Maurice, and I took turns sitting vigil.

Major told us in all the ways he knew that he was really sick. His eyes teared. He was unresponsive. He relaxed when we pet him or rubbed his stomach or spoke softly to him. But he was also satisfied to be left alone to accept his fate. We were not so meek. We frantically treated him night and day. Papa, a formidable, knowledgeable, experienced animal breeder, tried every trick in his bag. To no avail. Major quietly slipped away on a cold winter morning at 4am, February 1919. We wailed, we cried, we grieved, the whole family mourned.

The day after his death, a horse hearse, a covered wagon, came to carry Major to his final resting place. Papa, Mama, sisters Elsie and Clara, Sam, Maurice, and I followed the hearse on foot for what seemed like miles. At the yard where the hearse stopped, Sam recited the prayer for the dead in Hebrew and Engish. “V’yis Kadal, V’yis Kadash, Shamarabor.” “Major,” he said, “was a presence in our lives. Yea, though we walk through the valley of death, fear no evil, God is with us to comfort us. Surely our love of Major will strengthen us all the days of our lives. He now dwells peacefully in the house of the Lord.”

Tired and crying with heartache, we mournfully retraced our steps home.

A year later, Papa said “You have learned about death. It is not to be feared. It’s to be accepted. Major was your first experience with loss. You now can talk and think of the wonderful times you had together. Come with me to our farm in Ardsley. I want you to join me in placing a stone on his grave, a permanent remembrance.”

Maurice shouted “You never told us Major was buried!”

Papa answered. “You were too raw to hear the truth then. Now I can tell you because we’ve lived a year without Major. He was a member of our family. The largest part of Major’s body was cremated. I scattered his ashes over the pasture where he had the most fun. I set him free. The vital personal remains of a horse are his heart, his head, and his hoofs. I chose the casket for him. It is under the Bryberry tree on the farm. It was where he loved to hide from the hot noonday sun.”

We went together to the farm in Ardsley. We gathered by the Bryberry tree and Papa spoke quietly. “Here we are with Major again. Let us join hands and make a circle around his grave. We will each remember him in our own private way.”

It was so perfect, so solemn, so sober, so silent, and so meaningful. “Papa, you’re so smart,” I whispered to myself.