Meg was six, give or take a few years, when she was broken in. I watched her as she galloped wildly around a field like a complete physco, with a fully grown man being flung about on her back.
Soon enough, she had been tamed by the amazing man who's name I never knew, and it was my turn to sit upon her back. We cantered around the field, half by pure accident and half deliberately. I kicked her on, as my adoptive mother Jane cried at me to pull on the reins. I didn't care.
One day, though, something horrendeous happened. I came out onto the yard in the night, to see Meg, my beloved pony, in an awful state. Her thick winter coat was matted with sweat, she lay down and rolled, kicked about, tried to bite her stomach. I had never seen anything like this before, I screamed for help. People, including Jane, ran out to see what all the commotion was about. A vet came, Jane took me inside and I never saw Meg again.