OK, let's get something straight from the get-go. I'm not talking about plastic figurines here.

When I was a kid, a real pony was what you wanted for Christmas.

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The holidays came early one year for my twin brother and I, when our parents brought a female shetland pony and her offspring, a half-size palomino filly.

When we went to pick up our new acquisitions, surprisingly we didn't end up in a dustup over who got which animal. I knew I wanted the pony, and my brother was happy with the filly.

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Up until then, my time on the back of a horse was pretty limited. I was around 10 years old, and I remember thinking that if I managed to fall off the horse at a full gallop, it sure was a long way to the ground.

But with the shetland, you could almost reach the ground while you were still on the saddle. I named her Scout, after Tonto's steed in the "Lone Ranger," and we trotted around the ranch every day for the first summer, a smiling boy and a painted pony.

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My brother, meanwhile, was getting used to riding on a little higher saddle affixed to the back of the newly-named Blazer. The palomino, which obviously had an actual horse for a father, didn't have much mileage, and as such his predicament was to fully "break" the filly into something that was easily rideable. I'm not sure he ever succeeded in his mission.

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Scout took some prodding to carry on a full gallop, and had a nasty habit of finding top gear on her own if you happened to turn her in the direction of the barn. After a few white-knuckle rides, I made sure that any turn toward the barn was quick and ultimately commenced in another direction.

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Scout also came with an affection for water - not only at the drinking trough, but the up-to-her knees running type as well. Our barn was near a creek, and whenever I decided we'd ride south, she wanted to stop in the creek and "count." She'd lift her front right leg and splash with her hoof over and over again.

I guess at some point, I'd gotten used to the routine, because one day Scout decided once she had gotten to 100, it was time to rear back and dispense of me.

I found myself wet and surprised all at the same time. Meanwhile Scout made off for the pasture at a dead run heading south to who-knows-where.

I dried off and collected my thoughts, most of which involved a glue factory and a painted pony. When I came to my senses, we took a pickup out to see where she'd run off to. We found her at the far southern end of our ranch, standing calmly in the corner - waiting for what I'm not sure. I took her by the bridle, and we had a little heart-to-heart talk about rider-and-ridee etiquette.

After a long, downhill ride, we made it back to the barn. Her usual sprint in the final mile was missing, no doubt due to her full day of seeing the country.

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Somehow Blazer eventually picked up the habit of dispensing her rider as well. My brother had to become vigilant to stay onboard.

We staked the two out in the yard by the house fairly often, and a finer pair of lawn mowers you'll never see. They could trim a circle around their stake in about an hour, and if you remembered to move them, you could get your yard work done by noon.

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Once we reached high school age, the pony and the filly (by now a mare) were getting less use in the corral and saw more time out in the pasture with our regular horses.

Every so often, we'd round all of them up and get out the saddles, mostly at branding time. Scout's attitude about riding had deteriorated - she wanted little to do with commands fed to her through a bit, likewise for Blazer.

At some point - I really can't remember when - the two were sold to some other "lucky" kids to try and get some saddle time. Boy, I wish I could have been there for that.

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In any case, our time with these animals was an exercise in futility: On the side of my brother and I, trying to become real cowboys, and for Scout and Blazer, to become respectful, serviceable stock.

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Something tells me my brother and I lamented about our failure just a little more than Scout and Blazer did.

Jerry Hitchcock is a non-bow-legged copy editor for The Press. He can be reached at 664-8176, Ext. 2017, or via email at jhitchcock@cdapress.com.