I just found this thread.
Got horse when I was 12, spent every hour I had with him. 14:3 Connemara, grey (under layers of whatever filth he chose to roll in, regardless of my spirited attempts to convince him otherwise and intense dedication to grooming). Have memories of just spending hours in his stable, particularly when it was raining, which was always; we are in Ireland. Once slept in his feed trough at pony camp when the tents flooded. He was a bit bemused, but basically ok with it. He had to smell me a few times in the night to check all was well.
He used to take off my baseball cap and groom me for fleas. When I brushed his front end he would lick the back of my legs. He liked to hold the end of my (bum length) plait in his mouth any time I took him anywhere on a lead rope, just to make sure I understood we were equals. He lifted his feet to be picked out if I tapped gently on his fetlock and held them up for me, but would stand like a rock, unmoved and resolute, for everyone else, especially the farrier whom he loathed with almost as much passion as he loathed the vet. Vaccinations were an opera every time, until the vet's daughter qualified. She called him' sweetheart', rubbed behind his ears and crooned, and could have sawed off his leg without much objection on his part.
He won everything he did, of course. He was a Connie, and they are just the best at everything they try. If, by some fluke, he was not declared the winner it was clearly the fault of others (me). A 17 hour grooming session, desperate attempts to make him submit to bathing, slightly wonky plaits and that was it, the spotlight was clearly there only for him. He would seem to grow by six inches, and would enter the arena of his obvious triumph like Ceasar entering Rome. 9 times out of 10 it worked. He was pretty damn spectacular at almost everything. The tenth time would invariably be dressage, where we once earned the comment "My goodness, well sat!" from a judge subjected to his best airs above the ground. We got a wretched score of 95 and chose to blame it on a combination of high winds and an air horn. I still have the score sheet. 
At 25 he semi retired and proved he was an extraordinary RDA pony. At 28 his life of sloth began in earnest. He ate, lounged, threatened vets, repeatedly attempted to kill or injure my OH and graciously submitted to the clumsy affections of my toddler DS and several foals who were turned out with him over the years.
He died this year, aged 35, having been half my soul for 25 years, and is currently in my front garden under a horse chestnut sapling.
Sorry, this is bloody long, I have an awful lot of memories. 