At the age of 40, I thought my childhood dream of having my own pony had finally come true.

The truth is, I'd had horses in my life before, but they were never mine.

Before I was born, my parents left New York City and bought a 55-acre farm in Vermont where I spent my first five years. It was an ideal setting in my child’s mind; fields to roam, a pond for skating parties and swimming, and lots of animals for playmates.

I loved the horses best, but as the youngest I wasn’t allowed to ride them unless it was with someone older. That’s why I wanted a pony all my own. Forward 35 years.

On a cool summer morning I stood by a row of windows in my second-floor bedroom and looked out onto the back lawn toward the woods that led to a golf course. With coffee in hand I luxuriated in the feeling that comes when a soft dawn breeze, pungent with sweet pine, wafts through the screens and promises another beautiful day. The mist on the grass was thigh-high and rising. The only sounds were the birds chirping their morning calls.

As I turned to head downstairs, something by the edge of the lawn caught my eye. Having the eyesight of a mole I never trust my un-spectacled eyes, so I raced frantically to the bedside table, jammed on my glasses and checked the spot again.

A pony! A lovely brown filly, grazing on the tall grass no more than 60 feet away. All logic left my brain. It seemed my dream had come true; my prayers had finally been answered.

Not wanting to frighten the pony, I flew silently down the stairs to enlist my husband’s help in corralling her. Looking like a player in a game of charades I began gesturing madly and mouthing “There’s a pony out there.”

“WHAT?” he replied in full voice.

“Shhhhhhh. A pony! A pony! Over by the woods. Help me get hold of her.”

We stepped outside and simultaneously assumed a stealthy crouch­­as if that would work. The pony nonchalantly lifted her head, continuing her munching as we moved slowly toward her. Making no attempt to run, she allowed my husband to clip our dog leash to her bridle.

For one brief moment I allowed time to slip away. I was a kid again and it felt like Christmas. While I held the lead, Jay called the police to see if anyone had reported a missing pony. No one had.

“Can we keep her?” I asked, half joking, half serious.

“Ya, right,” came the reply. “Let’s think about this for minute,” he said assuming his scholarly voice. “If we can retrace her hoof prints we can probably figure out where she came from.”

Although the prints led to a small stream and disappeared, that was enough evidence to give Jay the brilliant idea that she must have come from the estate on the other side of the golf course. So sure was he of this that after letting me play a while with the pony, he set off to return her to her rightful owner.

Down the cart path they went, the pony making no objections until they came to the barn. She wasn’t the least bit interested in going inside, but the horses in the stalls seemed delighted to have her back. It took some doing, but eventually with persuasive pushing, pulling and cajoling she was safely “installed.”

Since Amy, the woman who took care of the property, wasn’t home, Jay left with a satisfied feeling that he’d done his good deed for the day. I hung back, a bit sad at having to give “my” pony back.

A week later Jay ran into Amy in town and told her about returning the pony.

“Oh my gosh!” Amy laughed. “I wondered who had put her in the barn - I came in after work and almost died when I saw her there. She belongs to the Gordons on the other side of town.”

“Really?” Jay said, “But the other horses seemed so happy to see her.”

“That’s because she’s in season and they’re all stallions!”

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener