Rex and the Christmas Pony

One Christmas, Rex decided he wanted a pony. His parents thought this was a good idea,

since the next thing in line Rex wanted was a G.I. Joe doll with the exploding head. So,

Rex wrote to Santa asking for the pony.

Santa noticed that the return address was an apartment house in Brooklyn and thought the

only place Rex would be able to keep a horse would be in the bathtub. (Rex also didn’t

realize that keeping a pony in the bathtub broke seventeen city ordinances.) But, Santa,

never being one to disappoint a child said, “Hey, it’s your porcelain.”

So, on Christmas morning, Rex ran downstairs and, lo and behold, next to the Christmas

tree, there stood a little gift from Santa; a black and white spotted pony. And, on the

floor next to him, was a little gift from the pony (which Rex’s father picked up

immediately with several paper towels).

Rex said, “You’re the prettiest pony I ever seed and I’m gonna name you Pony.” The

pony thought, “Not only does this kid have bad grammar, but he has no imagination.”

Rex wanted to ride him right then, but his father reminded Rex that he was too short,

even for this pony. (In fact, the only person shorter than Rex was Dr. Ruth.) So, Rex

took Pony out for long walks to Bensonhurst and the surrounding areas.

Everyone in the apartment house loved Pony. Even the old man who lived beneath Rex

loved Pony. Mostly, because, before Rex’s family moved in, there was a family of

fifteen flamenco dancers living there. The old man said, “Hey, four feet beat thirty feet

anytime.”

As the weeks rolled by, Pony became more and more despondent. Rex tried everything

he could to cheer him up, but nothing worked. He tried letting Pony watch “National

Velvet” on DVD, but that didn’t work. He took Pony to McDonald’s for some

McO.A.Ts, but that didn’t work.

One morning, Rex woke up and Pony was nowhere to be found. He looked everywhere

for him. He looked in the park. He looked in the playground. He looked under the

refrigerator. (I told you he looked everywhere.) Rex made every effort to locate his

Pony. He put an ad in the paper. He went door to door. He appeared on Oprah.

Finally, one day, on his way to school, Rex stopped at a nearby Woolworth’s to pick up

some number 2 Eagle pencils he needed for a quiz on the do’s and don’t s of bed wetting

and there, sitting at the soda fountain, drinking a wheat germ shake, was Pony. Rex ran

over and threw his arms around Pony’s neck crying, “Pony, Pony, I found you.” Pony

answered, “You must be mistaking me for some other pony, kid.” “You can talk”, Rex

exclaimed. Pony said, “How do you think I ordered this milk shake, fool?”

But Rex knew it was Pony, even with the sunglasses and moustache. It was then that

pony admitted that it was indeed he. Pony said that he couldn’t take the city anymore.

He was a farm animal and should be living in a barn, not a brownstone. Besides, that trip

up and down seven flights of stairs a day was murder.

Rex asked why he hadn’t said anything before this. Pony said he had a contract with

Santa. He told Rex, on Christmas Eve, Rudolph came down with a case of mono that he

had gotten from Prancer and Pony either had to put on a red nose and antlers and fly

around the world, or go to Rex’s house. Pony said, “That’s when a warm apartment in

Brooklyn began sounding good.”

Rex said he would see what he could do about Pony’s problem. And, sure enough, Rex’s

dad knew of a horse farm in Connecticut. Within a week, Pony was running around and

romping on the farm. Rex went up to see him every weekend.

Pony was bought by a trainer, who took him to Maryland, where he won one million,

four hundred twelve thousand dollars last year at Pimlico. Rex got his G.I. Joe with the

exploding head, and everyone lived happily ever after. (Except Rex’s father who goes around mumbling, “Why did I sell that horse?”