My husband makes me feel about two inches high sometimes.

Minutes after I snapped at him about reading over my shoulder (something I cannot stand), complained about being sick, and pointedly did not ask about his day, he returned from a quick trip to the grocery store with the makings of dinner and…

…a pony.

The significance of this goes way back to the first day we met. He arrived at a game one evening, was introduced, chatted a bit, then said that he was off to the dep for some Coke – did anyone want anything? People called out their orders, and he turned to me, bowed, and said, “Is there anything my lady desires?”

“A pony,” I said. It was my standard answer at the time. (Now I ask for world peace, or a million dollars.)

He bowed again and said that he’d see what he could do. He left, I went back to whatever I was doing, and when he returned, he passed out the chips and soft drinks everyone had ordered, then handed me a yellow inflatable pony with a flourish. There had been a vendor with a cart of kid’s toys on the corner.

Well, I was stunned. I had asked the impossible, and he’d succeeded in the quest. Okay, so it was a lot smaller than I had envisioned, and less fuzzy, and not exactly rideable, but it was a pony. That was about six years ago. The pony got lost in a move, but that’s not the point.

So when he walked in tonight and handed me a floppy stuffed pony, I felt warm, loved, lowly, and vermin-like at the same time. It’s a fluffy pony – it’s so soft to the touch, like baby blankets or towels. I am naming her E-Pony. You know – like Epona the Celtic horse goddess, only little and fluffy instead.

How can I feel so terrific and crawly at the same time?