Mishaps and Messages
The other day pony-girl was leading Clyde along when Pat waylaid her. Pat is a woman who brooks no nonsense from girl or beast, and J is minded to obey instantly even so unwelcome an order as delivering a message, which inescapably involves speaking to a person, not high on PG’s list of favourite things to do. So she thrust Clyde’s leadrope into my hand and scuttled off to do Pat’s bidding at the double.
I eyed Clyde and he eyed me. His big brown orb rolled slowly over me, his meditations plain to read: ‘terrifed – hopeless - me very big – her very small - grass over there…. ‘ Before this mental process came to its inevitable conclusion I tugged at the rope, authoritatively squeaking “Walk on!”
We made good progress through the yard and then we turned into the barn in sight of his stable gate and I felt extremely pleased about this. I was leading a pony! There was my charge, still at the end of the leadrope, still following. Feisty, feared-by-farriers Clyde, obedient, plodding along at my bidding - surely I was graduating Pony-Mum-Stage-One with flying colours! It was then that I heard a muffled cry and turned to see a small Chinese woman flat on her back in our wake.
I wasn’t quite sure of the etiquette here. I was at the teeth-end, firmly in control; surely I could not be responsible for what was going on right back at the tail? I was naturally crestfallen by this disaster, but the poor woman downed by Clyde’s wayward hindquarters was very nice about it, even trying to blame herself – “I did not see him!” which seemed odd as most of us would notice a two-ton mammal presenting to the starboard side, but that’s how life goes sometimes, your stars just ordain it that way: “Today you will be felled by the passing of a large beast.”
Two sweet little girls came to talk to us the other day, hanging over the stable door and watching solemnly as PG picked up Clyde’s cobby feathered legs while he huffed and whiffled crossly, nudging his feedbowl with his nose, snorting in disgust because it remained empty despite his heavy hints. They told us that they are going to Blade’s Hill next week, taking their loan ponies showjumping. PG turned to me, eyes aflame: “I must go, mum. I really MUST!” I haven’t seen her this determined in a long while, this matters more to her than GCSEs, marrying well, or guaranteed World Peace, so we ummed and ahhed awhile about how to approach Pat and bring the matter to a head. We decided that only an utter coward would leave a note on Pat’s desk rather than face her in person; that would be the mark of a truly spineless pair of wimps. So we did that immediately, and this is what it said:
Dear Pat
Some girls told me they are taking their ponies to Blade’s Hill for the showjumping on 13 Feb. Would it be ok to take Clyde, and do you know anyone who might give him a lift? Thanks, J and Clyde.
No word yet from Pat.
I eyed Clyde and he eyed me. His big brown orb rolled slowly over me, his meditations plain to read: ‘terrifed – hopeless - me very big – her very small - grass over there…. ‘ Before this mental process came to its inevitable conclusion I tugged at the rope, authoritatively squeaking “Walk on!”
We made good progress through the yard and then we turned into the barn in sight of his stable gate and I felt extremely pleased about this. I was leading a pony! There was my charge, still at the end of the leadrope, still following. Feisty, feared-by-farriers Clyde, obedient, plodding along at my bidding - surely I was graduating Pony-Mum-Stage-One with flying colours! It was then that I heard a muffled cry and turned to see a small Chinese woman flat on her back in our wake.
I wasn’t quite sure of the etiquette here. I was at the teeth-end, firmly in control; surely I could not be responsible for what was going on right back at the tail? I was naturally crestfallen by this disaster, but the poor woman downed by Clyde’s wayward hindquarters was very nice about it, even trying to blame herself – “I did not see him!” which seemed odd as most of us would notice a two-ton mammal presenting to the starboard side, but that’s how life goes sometimes, your stars just ordain it that way: “Today you will be felled by the passing of a large beast.”
Two sweet little girls came to talk to us the other day, hanging over the stable door and watching solemnly as PG picked up Clyde’s cobby feathered legs while he huffed and whiffled crossly, nudging his feedbowl with his nose, snorting in disgust because it remained empty despite his heavy hints. They told us that they are going to Blade’s Hill next week, taking their loan ponies showjumping. PG turned to me, eyes aflame: “I must go, mum. I really MUST!” I haven’t seen her this determined in a long while, this matters more to her than GCSEs, marrying well, or guaranteed World Peace, so we ummed and ahhed awhile about how to approach Pat and bring the matter to a head. We decided that only an utter coward would leave a note on Pat’s desk rather than face her in person; that would be the mark of a truly spineless pair of wimps. So we did that immediately, and this is what it said:
Dear Pat
Some girls told me they are taking their ponies to Blade’s Hill for the showjumping on 13 Feb. Would it be ok to take Clyde, and do you know anyone who might give him a lift? Thanks, J and Clyde.
No word yet from Pat.
1 Comments:
At 12:53 AM, Anonymous said…
Merry,
To answer your question on my blog, Prize is a Morgan. She's a more hunter/dressage type than stock type or park horse. Around here she gets mistaken for a Quarter Horse alot.
Hope Clyde gets to show his stuff at the jumping competition!
Heather
www.spiritblog.net
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