Christmas Cards and Carrots

I received a Christmas card from the neighbour’s dog yesterday, which has prompted some debate over whether to add our pony’s name (and possibly a small hoofprint) to ours. Clearly not the ones to distant acquaintances who would assume Clyde to be a surly fostered teenager we were nurturing in the bosom of our family over Christmastide (for this reason, among others, it would have been better if our pony were named Fergy FourLegs or MightyMane IV). But at all? I detest such whimsy – from other people. But now we have a pony, it seems obvious that his name must be included. Obviously at least to other pony-owners, and in my reply to next door's dog.

But are we pony-owners at all? On Sunday J and her new friend were innocently walking through the stableyard wearing hats and bearing whips when from behind a stable door leaped out none other than Mrs Scowl, who is in charge of the stables in Pat’s absence. “What are you girls doing?” she hissed. “Riding,” I imagine they answered. “Which ponies are you riding?” “Clyde and Portly,” they whispered. “You must ASK before you take out the ponies! They are not your ponies!”

This puzzling exchange left the girls confused and uncertain, big-eyed and keen to spill out the whole exchange in breathless whispers when we returned. J and I are only too ready to be put off by this sort of thing, that Clyde is not our pony, as we never quite believe that he is, but rationally I know he is, as I have the purchase-price sized hole in my bank account and our first livery bill to prove it. What a blow to our confidence – we’ve only just got the hang of turning up at the stables and not humbly seeking out permission before we go and offer him an apple! Remember the Likit?

It was a most undermining day. Sarkia and Bichia, two teenage non-pony-owning girls told J that she was a) mucking out Clyde wrong b) that she should not ride him twice in one day and c) she should remember to put his rugs on before she left. To which she should have said a) but I like him to have plenty of muck to roll around in b) but it’s going to be such a laugh to see him hobble round on three legs c) actually I plan to spray him with icy water and leave him to drip dry. Or maybe the best response is to adhere to the worthy old adage never apologise, never explain, a motto I base my life around as much as possible, no honestly, I do, I’m really trying with it, it’s just that, erm…..

Dealing with this kind of teen-girl bitchery is difficult for J, who is unsophisticated and easily crushed, and she is still angsting over this. But in my persuasive sell months ago to persuade RPD into pony-purchase, I explained that the benefits of pony owning was not merely a jolly good thumping up and down on a saddle 5 times a week, Oh no!, but also the enhancement of Life Skills which would speed up J’s Personal Growth (though I’m relieved to report that I stopped short of 'she will find out who she really is'.) So J will have to cope. And then she will be a more rounded person, better fitted to deal with Life and Difficult People. And maybe we can train Clyde to kick Sarkia.

On the plus side, Clyde is so endearing that he would melt the stoniest heart (except RPD's). He raced back to his stable after his lesson all excited, to find the stable girls had forgotten to put his scoop of feed in his bucket. His harrumphing snorts of expectation turned to disbelief as he nosed the bucket round the stable, turned it upside down in his teeth and shook it, then raked through the straw with an energetic hoof, so strong was his belief that it must be there somewhere, his whiffles of surprise and disappointment heartrending to behold. It was time for the Emergency Carrot.