On taking over

Today was the wonderful day, the exciting day, when I became a pony-mum (official) and J the proud owner of Clyde. We handed over the cheque at 3pm and in return received: 3 rugs (one is in rainbow shades! good start), 1 saddle, and 1 small brown pony (with attitude). There was a tearful scene of farewell as the reins were handed over from his previous teenage owner carried out to her anxious mum’s commentary : “She’s been for one last ride – sniff – such a lovely pony – snuffle – now I’ll take her home and try to put her shattered life back together –“ By this time we were all nearly weeping too in sympathy, but the saddest one of all was Reluctant-Pony-Dad as he wrote out the cheque.
Clyde was so easy to handle in the stable as we tacked him up that I sensed no turmoil within his stout pony breast as to this dramatic change of ownership, and pony-girl took him out to ride. Far from her galloping off into the sunset and returning much later (which was the picture I enthusiastically painted for RPD when selling the idea – “she will be gone for hours and hours, every day!”) this involved setting up lots of jumps in the bottom school. The jumps at Pat’s are made by her lovely husband out of old buildings, etc, and to pony-mum fell the task of hauling them about while J sat in comfort on Clyde’s back barking out her orders – “and now a related distance crosspole on hole 6 on a diagonal from A-E – no no! Closer! how long do you think the poles ARE?”
I caught sight of RPD flanked by livery owners lined up by the fence as I struggled, dragging gigantic sides of house this way and that as rafters banged heavily on my heels at every step. Everyone was convulsed with helpless laughter, I expect from sheer joy of seeing J so happy.

While negotiations were in progress, J had been all for turning up with a tape-measure to fit Clyde up for pony boots and other essential pony-paraphernalia, but I had vetoed this as it seemed insensitively premature, a bit like the eager debate on where to bury Arafat, while he was still alive (I was worried he might wake briefly and hear the TV News.) Now Clyde is duly measured up and I have a long order to make, though it took us ages to decide if the Best-Dressed-Pony-at-Christmas should have Rudolph antlers, or merely a Santa hat – both would be overkill, of course.

Reactions to Clyde’s mugshot on Hard-Facts have been mixed, and fairly brutal at times: “Are you sure it’s a pony, Merry? He doesn’t say heehaw by any chance?”