Fighting cavalry chargers.

I started riding when I was 4 or so, after my father bought me a soulless black Shetland pony. Riding that creature took considerable effort on my part, as she felt she was duty-bound, as part of the day's entertainment, to hurl me sun-ward the moment I dropped my guard. Once I found the ground, she then took great joy in trying to "accidentally" step on me. Then, I as I fought her to regain my saddle, she would turn about and nip me not-so-gingerly on my leg and/or butt. Well, my mother exercised her prerogative and informed my father that the beast from hell needed to leave the farm, and he assuredly agreed.

The Used Pony salesman arrived at house a few days later about 5pm and by the time my father arrived home from work, I had already negotiated a trade for a gentle palomino Shetland. Dolly was her name and she was one of the finest horses (Shetland or otherwise) I ever knew, very gentle. She lived another 25 or so years more and provided a faithful stead for me and so many of my cousins, who all learned to ride on her. We had no problems putting children as young as three in her saddle and handing them the reins. I, or another adult-sized person, would lead Dolly around without a lead rope and she would follow us, letting the child get accustomed to being on the horse and holding the reins. She is buried on my father's property, succumbing to cancer at almost 29 years of age.