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When we were little, we had several ponies. I had a really sweet Welsch pony. I could call it, and use the command "come to me", and it would come. It stopped, and turned on a dime. I rode it bareback, most of the time, if I wasn't going too far from home. My little brother's pony was smaller, and not nearly as responsive to the reins. I had finished riding one evening. My brother hopped on, bareback, to check out the difference between it, and his pony. He was going a pretty good clip, and went to turn. The pony turned instantly, in the correct direction. My brother didn't. He went flying off in the opposite direction, and hit the ground. The pony stopped, and stayed right there. My little brother was mad. He was wearing his holster, which had a solid cap pistol. He pulled out the pistol, and whacked the pony on the rump, as hard as he could, with the butt of the pistol.

My dad saw the whole incident. He took his belt off, and tore into my brother. That type incident was never to be repeated. After the spanking, he made my brother go catch the pony. It took him hours. The pony would see him coming, and take off. Finally, he was able to get near it with carrots, or an apple, or something. My dad made my brother go out every day, and give my pony a treat, then pet it, and talk to it, to make up, for a couple weeks.
 

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