His name was Clyde. And yes, he came with a Bonnie. That should have been the first indication of trouble. Or a big red flag. But I believe when you ask for something in this world, you receive it. My problem is, I always think I know what the answer should look like. There I go thinking again. So when I first heard of Clyde, I had one of those inexplicable hits—that jolt of intuition that says, “I got a feeling…” And I did. That I was his last resort. He was rescued. From a sale. One of the first things I shared with his owner was, “There’s a reason he was there.” A young, sound, cute little pony doesn’t end up on the chopping block because he’s a joy to handle. But his rescuer continued wi

On the surface he’s not much to look at: plain Jane, average mover, too big to be cute, too short to look sturdy. He didn’t even have a name

My kid has a dream. He wants to be a major league baseball player. You don’t have to share the odds of that happening with me because I do everything in my power to stop from stating the facts to him. This is a feat, because he constantly reminds me of this goal and the bookies swear I’ll lose my ass if I don’t bet against him. Not long ago he also told me he wants to take all his friends on an overnight ski trip to a local slope for his birthday. The kitty I can expect to collect before winter gives out makes this request laughable. But I bit my tongue and forced out, “Let’s wait and see.” Then he made his Christmas list. The first thing my husband did was freak about the contents. “Did you