Clyde UnCluttered
Because we now own a special saddle which is to be used only by pony-girl and not those who ride Clyde in the school, we have been given the key to a forbidden zone – the area known as Pat’s Tack Room. It is a treasurehouse of livery owners’ tack, with bridles and saddles of finest leather (sometimes 3 for each horse – general purpose, dressage, and jumping) and horses’ boots and bits of every variety. Pony-girl has an obsessive compulsion with bits and, if she dares, will rifle through them softly crooning ‘eggbutt snaffle… mullen-mouth Pelham with curbchain….weymouth set with french-link bradoon….’ Our saddle is a poor thing besides these and we tend to dart in and out apologetically, tugging our forelocks to tall men who sweep past in full hunt dress.
Clyde was a bad, bad boy in the lesson yesterday. He can’t stand to wait in a queue for his turn, though he fools you by looking like he’s going to – standing there patiently, staring into space, thoughtfully chewing on his cherry-roller - then
- wow! with no warning he dashes out of line and streaks for the jump, overtaking everything in sight and scattering the nervous thoroughbreds into panic-mode, flighting from the tiger the herd lookout just spotted. This is not good and sends Pat shrieking ‘you got control of that woild animal?!?!’ I’ve read that while it’s tempting to think this behaviour means ‘oh bless him, he really loves jumping!’ instead it can mean that the pony hates jumping and is desperate to get it over with. I don’t think Clyde hates jumping or loves it. He’s an old hand, a done-it-all-seen-it-all kinda lad, and I’m convinced he just knows it’s coming up and he gets fed up standing in line. A bit like RPD when he knows his dinner is due.
Pony-girl has a dream, a dream where she is at One with her horse, riding bareback across the rolling Cotswold prairies, her strong, noble beast unfettered by bridle or bit, guided only by telepathy and the merest twitch of her skinny knees. Unfortunately Clyde is the sort of pony who was delivered to us with a mouthful of clanking hardware and so strapped up with bits of leather that only small areas of pony were visible beneath the trappings. These trappings, I was told, are not to control the feisty little chap, heaven forbid! but merely to remind Clyde of the need to stop when his rider requests it. This is a reminder Clyde does quite often need, as various hints in this diary will have given away. However, pony-girl feels that bonding with Clyde is at the point where she can dispense with at least some of them, so today off came the martingale which prevents him throwing his head up wildly (I expect he has seen The Black Stallion) and the flash noseband, which clamps his muzzle shut to deter any attempts to spit out the bit, was loosened two holes.
I feel J’s dream has every chance of success. Clyde is telepathic. I know this because ‘Hmmm, what big feet he has! How heavy they look! See the way they are punching the ground, up and down like piledrivers as he walks! I wonder how it would feel to have one of those iron-clad cloppers clump down onto my toes’ had no sooner sprung into my mind than he was kind enough to demonstrate it to me.
It wasn’t his fault and I was able to refine my jump-lugging technique to accommodate the ensuing hobble quite nicely.
Clyde was a bad, bad boy in the lesson yesterday. He can’t stand to wait in a queue for his turn, though he fools you by looking like he’s going to – standing there patiently, staring into space, thoughtfully chewing on his cherry-roller - then
- wow! with no warning he dashes out of line and streaks for the jump, overtaking everything in sight and scattering the nervous thoroughbreds into panic-mode, flighting from the tiger the herd lookout just spotted. This is not good and sends Pat shrieking ‘you got control of that woild animal?!?!’ I’ve read that while it’s tempting to think this behaviour means ‘oh bless him, he really loves jumping!’ instead it can mean that the pony hates jumping and is desperate to get it over with. I don’t think Clyde hates jumping or loves it. He’s an old hand, a done-it-all-seen-it-all kinda lad, and I’m convinced he just knows it’s coming up and he gets fed up standing in line. A bit like RPD when he knows his dinner is due.
Pony-girl has a dream, a dream where she is at One with her horse, riding bareback across the rolling Cotswold prairies, her strong, noble beast unfettered by bridle or bit, guided only by telepathy and the merest twitch of her skinny knees. Unfortunately Clyde is the sort of pony who was delivered to us with a mouthful of clanking hardware and so strapped up with bits of leather that only small areas of pony were visible beneath the trappings. These trappings, I was told, are not to control the feisty little chap, heaven forbid! but merely to remind Clyde of the need to stop when his rider requests it. This is a reminder Clyde does quite often need, as various hints in this diary will have given away. However, pony-girl feels that bonding with Clyde is at the point where she can dispense with at least some of them, so today off came the martingale which prevents him throwing his head up wildly (I expect he has seen The Black Stallion) and the flash noseband, which clamps his muzzle shut to deter any attempts to spit out the bit, was loosened two holes.
I feel J’s dream has every chance of success. Clyde is telepathic. I know this because ‘Hmmm, what big feet he has! How heavy they look! See the way they are punching the ground, up and down like piledrivers as he walks! I wonder how it would feel to have one of those iron-clad cloppers clump down onto my toes’ had no sooner sprung into my mind than he was kind enough to demonstrate it to me.
It wasn’t his fault and I was able to refine my jump-lugging technique to accommodate the ensuing hobble quite nicely.
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