I grew up in an area of California where kids rode horses to school in the 1980s and 90s. And then from that tiny town, we lived 18 miles away on windy country roads. A day late for the bus meant dad driving 80 for 18 miles straight, fishtailing intentionally on gravel around washed out spots and curves, while we listened to the rock station on the radio.
We had a farmers fair at school every year. The ultimate show and tell, where families would set up stalls in the play field, and show off whatever stock or crop or craft that they specialized in.
It was really neat, because I got to, at school, shear sheep and spin wool. I got to see German Shepherds who were trained for the CHP do mini obstacle courses. Hogs in pens that looked nothing like little Wilbur on Charlotte's Web grunt menacingly in the arid sun.
I remember clearly seeing my first "purebred" small breed dog. A family had these little white Yorkshire Terriers, and they were also doing some kind of course. I had never seen anything so adorable in my life. I learned that day what pedigree meant.
The only dogs I knew of were tall, muscular, stately mutts. Ranch dogs that never came inside. Never sat on laps. They were working dogs of a hundred different lines and breeds. Bred every year when the bitches would disappear into the mountains in heat. It's how it was for everyone. One year we even had a half coyote puppy who was sweet to us the first couple months before his instincts kicked in. But here were these little tiny purebred terriers, all washed and groomed and just the right size for a little girl to cuddle.
But my favorite stall was the rich girl who every year would bring her Shetland ponies. I think I cried at least one year, when the bell rang, because I loved those little ponies so very much. The couple that owned them didn't mind that I was late for class. They smiled down at me as I curried and brushed her horses, braiding the manes, even though all the other children were already in class. I got in trouble, but it was worth it.
