Rehabbing The Pony

My Little Pony's physical therapy is going swimmingly. Not that he gets to swim or anything. The Pony is a landlubber. On the initial visit, he was lacking 20 degrees of extension in his elbow. He was given some exercises to do twice a day, three times on weekends. He has been very good about his exercises. Today, the therapist measured his elbow with a protractor-looking thingy, and declared that he is only lacking 9 degrees extension now. Alas, the poor Pony still has very much trouble holding his palm up on that arm. How will he ever beg for change? This week, he has two new exercises to do.

I did not accompany the Pony into the therapy room today. Instead, I remained in the waiting room, watching Jeopardy's Tournament of Champions, where an idiot made the most scathingly stupid calculation on his final wager, and gave his opponent the win. After Jeopardy, it was Oprah and the hoarders. Great Googley Moogley! Why couldn't Oprah spotlight a poor hoarder instead of a rich one?

The #1 son was with me. He plugged in Lappy and listened to a new contraption he bought himself. I don't know what it is. Electronics are not my bag. It reminds me of an iPod, but #1 says it is much better than an iPod. I just know it cost him $80 at The Devil's Playground, and he stores music on it, and he can watch TV episodes on it as well. And that he has christened it 'Phillipe'. That's because its brand name is 'Phillips'. But the point I was going to make about the #1 son is that he farted! OK, he does this all the time, but generally controls it in public. Granted, it was muted by the chair cushion, but it was unmistakably a fart. Perhaps it was no coincidence that on the ride to therapy, the boy announced proudly: "My forte is farting." Also, I knew the toot was genuine when he chuckled immediately after the unclassified release of deadly gas. I'm hoping those two women who stared saw #1 sitting in the corner on the other side of me.

I'm not sure what the Pony did today. His therapist said she was going to heat up his arm first. I saw a little girl throwing a ball really hard at a pitch-back thingy. I heard another therapist tell a man, "If you spend a lot of time hanging at home, I don't want you to hang here. That would make you sore." Hmm...I can't imagine the 'hanging' episode. Does he get out a noose? Does he have a big jungle gym in his house? Does he hang laundry? Drywall? I am mystified. I am also intrigued. At one point, I thought about a career in physical therapy. I had the anatomy and physiology and biomechanics and athletic training classes. The only thing that stopped me was the fear that I would end up working with old people in nursing homes, or severely dysfunctional people. That would have been too depressing for me.

We've got to get the Pony whipped into shape. Insurance only authorized 6 therapy visits. It's already paying for that no-cut surgery, you know.