Here we come.....
Now we have Horatio all ready to whisk us off to any show we fancy it’s all a bit overwhelming – from no shows to any shows - but we have taken the bull by the horns and are starting with dressage at Blade’s Hill tomorrow. Pony-girl has entered Prelim 10 which, is, of course, the test where she endured a humiliating two-honk penalty in May. With wild if possibly misguided enthusiasm she also entered Prelim 18, which she has never performed, except on foot in the garden. As a layman I can report that it appears to be a lot of trotting in a circle, followed by a bit more trotting round the other way, ending up with a nice trot up and down to finish. I did try calling tests for her in case her mind goes blank, but since she wears her hat jammed down over both ears it wasn’t a success.
Clyde has been entered under the name Darkest Braveheart, so everyone will get a bit of a surprise as they await with bated breath the opening of noble Darkest Braveheart’s box and only Clyde comes out, but PG wants him to have a showname so a showname he has. Since we’ve never done, or seen, dressage at Blade’s Hill before I have absolutely no idea what standards to expect, but the point is to make the journey with only pony-mum at the wheel, get used to loading and unloading Clyde ourselves and being entirely dependent on our own resources to manage the day. Now if you know me and Pony-girl at all, you will be stroking your chin and going ‘hmmmmm’ at this point, but we are going to have a damned good try and if I pass this test then I am very nearly a real, true pony-mum I reckon, even if I don’t know my snaffles from my spurstraps.
Our one attempt at taking Clyde for a dummy-run test drive didn’t go as well as expected, to be honest. Progress across the yard was slow - one glimpse of the box from afar and he began to lift his tail, stopping every other second to deluge the ground with mountainous piles of dung. Off I went to get shovel, broom and barrow. Clyde cloppered willingly enough up Horatio’s ramp, immediately realised his mistake and began to back down the ramp again as once before in Mr Newtruck’s trailer. A mutinous banging began which shook the van and clanged hollowly round the yard. Neighs of anger could be heard. When I returned panting with my dung-shovelling kit, I found Clyde standing smugly outside the box, and RPD and PG looking sheepish and shuffling their feet.
“He didn’t want to go,” PG explained.
“He didn’t want to go?”
“Old chap seemed a trifle agitated,” put in RPD. “Drive’s off, I’m afraid.”
“Oh great,” I bitterly said, “and what if he doesn’t want to go on Friday?”
“Oh, he’ll know it’s for real then and he’ll be fine,” Pony girl cried. “He’s very intelligent – he must have an IQ of at least, um, 30!”
We’ll see, won’t we? At this point my thoughts are not on PG’s score, whether Clyde will achieve any degree of lateral flexion or any sign of going on the bit, or whether both tests are a three-honk fiasco. I just want us to get there and back in one piece..........
Clyde has been entered under the name Darkest Braveheart, so everyone will get a bit of a surprise as they await with bated breath the opening of noble Darkest Braveheart’s box and only Clyde comes out, but PG wants him to have a showname so a showname he has. Since we’ve never done, or seen, dressage at Blade’s Hill before I have absolutely no idea what standards to expect, but the point is to make the journey with only pony-mum at the wheel, get used to loading and unloading Clyde ourselves and being entirely dependent on our own resources to manage the day. Now if you know me and Pony-girl at all, you will be stroking your chin and going ‘hmmmmm’ at this point, but we are going to have a damned good try and if I pass this test then I am very nearly a real, true pony-mum I reckon, even if I don’t know my snaffles from my spurstraps.
Our one attempt at taking Clyde for a dummy-run test drive didn’t go as well as expected, to be honest. Progress across the yard was slow - one glimpse of the box from afar and he began to lift his tail, stopping every other second to deluge the ground with mountainous piles of dung. Off I went to get shovel, broom and barrow. Clyde cloppered willingly enough up Horatio’s ramp, immediately realised his mistake and began to back down the ramp again as once before in Mr Newtruck’s trailer. A mutinous banging began which shook the van and clanged hollowly round the yard. Neighs of anger could be heard. When I returned panting with my dung-shovelling kit, I found Clyde standing smugly outside the box, and RPD and PG looking sheepish and shuffling their feet.
“He didn’t want to go,” PG explained.
“He didn’t want to go?”
“Old chap seemed a trifle agitated,” put in RPD. “Drive’s off, I’m afraid.”
“Oh great,” I bitterly said, “and what if he doesn’t want to go on Friday?”
“Oh, he’ll know it’s for real then and he’ll be fine,” Pony girl cried. “He’s very intelligent – he must have an IQ of at least, um, 30!”
We’ll see, won’t we? At this point my thoughts are not on PG’s score, whether Clyde will achieve any degree of lateral flexion or any sign of going on the bit, or whether both tests are a three-honk fiasco. I just want us to get there and back in one piece..........
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