When my son Andrew was about one year old, we visited his Aunt Colleen. Her brother-in-law had some horses and for some reason we went over there and rode.
The horse must have been able to tell that I was inexperienced with its kind. This wouldn't have been so bad, except that Andrew was riding with me.
The horse began getting rid of us almost immediately. First it tried rubbing us off against the corral fence behind the photographer in the picture.
I wasn't able to turn it away, but we didn't give up.
Finally, it went toward the shed that you can see in the picture. It walked straight towards a horizontal pole that would have just cleared the saddle, ducked its head and kept going.
In a flash, I squeezed Andrew between my thighs, grabbed the pole with both hands, and held us up while the horse went all the way under the pole. Then dropped carefully to the ground and took Andrew in my arms. Safe.
This came back to me yesterday during Pilates when the instructor asked us to squeeze a small ball gently between our knees. It all came back in great detail. A most traumatic memory.