When we went on The Pony Quest several years ago for our then four- and five-year olds, we looked at all shapes and sizes of ponies. And I had to keep repeating this mantra to myself, temperament, temperament, temperament to keep me on track during what turned out to be The Great and Epic Search for the Right Pony.

When one seller led a round, licorice-colored Shetland pony mare from her barn, I was almost immediately in love, envisioning the kids on her back, trotting around the back forty like Bonnie Blue (wasn't that her name?) in Gone With the Wind. But the mare didn't exactly reciprocate my warm and fuzzy feelings. She’d just been removed from her filly.

About a quarter of the way through The Quest for the Pony of Ponies, I realized that if I was going to get a reasonable feel for any pony, I was going to have to ride him myself, no matter how silly I looked. This caused some raised eyebrows and chuckling from sellers, but no one complained, especially when I explained to them who the pony was for.

My husband and I were exclaiming just how beautiful the glossy Shetland was as I climbed up onto her bare back and gathered up a handful of her luxurious mane. We walked once around the arena, and then I asked for a halt, which she executed beautifully, considering she was carrying me instead of a child. While I was praising her to high heaven, she swung her petite head around glare at me with one mean little eye and sunk her teeth into right into my thigh.

Dennis tried not to snicker. The seller was apologizing left and right. I tried to retain was left of my dignity and ride the cranky beast forward.

We settled on a 20 something-year-old P0A gelding with one blue eye. Not a glamorous creature, Thor looked like someone had tossed bucket after bucket of paint at him in roan and red and brown and black and gray and white. And that old gentleman carried both of our children to high mountain lakes and alpine meadows with the greatest of care.

Because he knew if he didn’t, then I was going to have to ride him.