Close to a year ago, a neighbor girl, Jenny, declared herself my best friend. This I took as high praise and have tried to be worthy because, from someone "almost 13," it's a big gift.

Our relationship is based on candid sharing about the deepest, most profound issues imaginable, mostly relationships.

I make it a point not to offer advice, unless solicited and to roll with her assumptions about my age. She doesn't have to come here, I don't have to put up with anything: a perfect basis for "best friending."

I have, of course, modestly disguised her identity and have her permission to write about "all that dumb stuff you think is important." Excellent arrangement.

Personal appearance has become a matter of intense concern for Jenny. She's slender - scrawny, is her word - but much concerned that her rump "looks like a mule's." At this time of a woman's life, her body is changing as fast as moon phases and she is often unfamiliar to herself. It happens at the other end of life, too, as I can testify, but I'm not as surprised.

"I don't think you look all that much like a mule's tuchis from behind, Jenny. Actually, your gluteus maximus is good muscle and it protects your bones when you sit."

"What's a tuchis? What's gluteus maximus? Why do you talk like that? It's weird."

"I was trying to avoid saying 'butt.' That is what those words mean. Tuchis is a Yiddish word, something we don't hear much in these parts."

"Yeah, but my butt is really, really big and whatever you call it, I don't like it."

"Look at the models in magazines: every one that wears jeans has like you say, a mule's haunches."

"I know, but mine is weird."

I was beginning to tire of the topic, so I asked, "You're birthday is just a couple of weeks off. How are you going to celebrate?"

Jenny plopped herself on the bench in my kitchen, wrapped her arms around her knees and grinned at me. "I did something bad. Promise you won't tell?"

"Wait a minute. How bad? I might tell if I thought you were going to get hurt or into real trouble. First, though, I'd try to talk you out of it. So, how bad were you?"

"I listened on the extension when my Dad was talking to Tom about his pinto mare, the one that got a strained leg when she fell in the ditch and couldn't get up."

"You eavesdropped? On your father?" I exaggerated my horror, "That was pretty bad, all right."

"Are you going to tell?"

"Probably not. What's this got to do with your birthday?"

"I think Dad is going to get me Oreo! Tom said that she is spoiled and he can't ride her anymore. He's too heavy and goes too far on really rough trails. So he said he'd consider selling her to Dad for me. He says I'm light enough and if I have any sense, she'll do fine." Pure delight shone on her face.

"Oh, Jenny! What a wonderful thing! Your own horse."

"And she's a mare, so she can have babies!"

"You're going to start your own horse farm?"

"Maybe. But, what if he doesn't get her? I'll die. I really will." Her eyes filled with tears. "Having my own horse is the best idea in the world, but I'm not sure Dad'll do it. He says I'm a scatterbrain."

"Are you?" I was caught up in the excitement, abetting eavesdropping and entirely committed to Oreo and Jenny as companions. "What else did your dad say?"

"Well, he told Tom I was getting interested in boys - which is a lie, they're too weird - and he'd rather see me out on a pony than in some old pickup."

"Frankly, I see his point. But what about the responsibility stuff? Water and food and barn cleaning every single day? What about exercise if the weather is foul or someone wants to go somewhere with you?"

"Peg! You told me yourself that friends look out for friends. You look out for Gingersnap, no matter what. I can do it! Oreo is my friend."

"OK, I can see that. Now, about boys being weird and you having a mule butt, how does that all fit in?"

"Maybe my behind will get littler if I ride more. Look, I could ride with a boy, if he had his own horse and took care of it. That would be all right. But I don't want you to tell my Dad or Mom, OK?"

"OK. I think your reasoning is brilliant and, besides, they'll find out for themselves. I don't feel too good about the eavesdropping, though. Are you going to fess up?"

"Yeah, when I get my horse!"

Peg Elliott Mayo is a psychotherapist with offices in Corvallis and the Coast Range. She is an author, storyteller and artist. She invites comment at 753-2744, pegmayo@rivervoices.com or P.O. Box 542, Blodgett, OR 97326. Or see her Web site at www.rivervoices.com.