Goodnight

Columnist Tessa Waugh’s hunting diary, plus our weekly cartoon “The Final Straw”

‘Rusty set about guarding my horse as if he was a global megastar who required 24-hour security’

PEOPLE don’t always agree on the value of having ponies on trial. Some say get them back to your place and put them through their paces, that way you will have longer to work out if they tick all the boxes. Others insist that trials are a waste of time; ponies aren’t themselves when they are uprooted from home, it’s an unfair test and not worth bothering with. Personally, I’d always go for the trial, if the seller will allow it. It gives everyone a bit more time to make the right decision, as long as you take the strange surroundings into account.

We had a pony called Sally on trial last week. She came with glowing recommendations from two pony gurus in the vicinity. “Saintly,” said one, and that is not an adjective commonly associated with ponies. Alec rode her around the farm, had a lesson, took her to a gymkhana, all without a hitch. What I hadn’t considered is that having a pony on trial can expose the flaws of the other residents. As soon as Sally touched down on the farm, Rusty started behaving like a firstclass turd, beginning in the field, where he set about guarding my horse as if he was a global megastar who required 24-hour security.

WHEN we went to the gymkhana, on the last day of the trial, Rusty had an abrupt change of heart and everywhere Sally went, he wanted to be with her or, preferably, on top of her. Every time she moved away, he let rip with a lot of frantic neighing. Sally replied politely, but when she was asked to go off and do the six-bar or the jumping, she did it without a backward glance.

Not so, Rusty. Mary had a hell of a time with him in the handy pony. Ignoring a fan club of former riders cheering his name at the ringside, he was bolshy at the gate and had a couple of stops in the showjumping. His mind just wasn’t on the job.

After the clear-round showjumping, he came out of the ring and spotted Sally in the distance. Disaster. I watched in dismay as he moved slowly through the gears — walk to flat-out canter. “Rusty, NO!” sobbed Mary, as he belted through all the ponies and riders to get back to Sally. “Sit up,” I shouted lamely as he finally ground to a halt. Having failed to predict or prevent this unfortunate episode, I performed the customary walk of shame in the wake of a pony who has “gone rogue”.

We have bought Sally, but Rusty is now on thin ice.