WelshD
Well-Known Member
Some of you may recall my struggles with my little grey pony. very sadly we lost him recently. Below is the piece I wrote about him,
(Isla is the local girl who rides my ponies)
Heartbreakingly we recently lost Milo after a short illness. This was a shock from which I was not sure we would ever recover. We had constantly referred to him and his multiple personalities in the negative but in reality he was our ray of sunshine if only that sort of low winter sunshine that hurts your eyes and makes your squint painfully.
I remember the day seven years ago when I had set off on a tip to look at a potential show hunter pony going for a song locally. I turned up at a field of ponies and spotted my SHP very quickly, a quality pony and I started to count out fivers quickly before they changed their mind as they started to write a receipt on a notepad shaped like a toucan. A scrappy scabby small pony leaned over the fence and stuck his head in the middle of the receipt sending the biro off the page and leaving the toucan with a line through its forehead.
This was my first experience of Milo who gurned at me unbecomingly. He was covered with a fly rug beneath which I could make out countless scabs and sores, the owner explained that despite her best efforts they couldn't alleviate his condition.
I glanced over at my SHP who was immaculate in the sunshine and after arranging to have him delivered I took my leave.
A week later I had a gathering of friends at my field, this annual fiasco is a two day long chaos of food and camp fires mixed with copious amounts of alcohol.
The subject of the scabby pony came up as my assembled group of friends stood admiring the SHP who although handsome was not very bright as he stood staring in to the middle distance vacantly.
The majority of my friends wanted me to secure the scabby pony and couldn't believe that taking on a pony with a long term condition was not top of my priority list and when I hopelessly gestured at my immaculate pony they turned and started on my husband.
Unfortunately my husband is not a strong man when it comes to a sob story, he is weak and my friends exploited that and before long there were forty or so people in their cars looking for loose change which was counted and counted again as I called the owner and offered £124.57 for the scabby pony.
A few days later and clutching another receipt shaped like a toucan along with a green Welsh passport I regarded my purchase who had been named Milo.
I removed the rug and winced as I reached for my phone and not taking my eyes off the pony asked for a vet to please come and empty my bank account.
And empty my bank account they did, over the course of the next few months my bank account took a battering and my boss joked that he could just pay my wages direct to the vet who by this point was no doubt booking holidays to far flung places.
I applied cream to Milo nine times a day, counted out hundreds of tiny but horrifyingly expensive tablets and layered on pricey protective rugs like they were going out of fashion.
My friends took a keen interest in all this effort, keeping their distance they sent 'go team Milo' messages as I tried to rinse tonnes of greasy cream off my hands feeling a distinct lack of team participation.
Gradually the scabs began to heal and as I rubbed cream in to layers of thickened skin a not too unattractive pony emerged, first partially bald and then as the time went on white fur began to emerge.
What followed was a couple of years of brief highs followed by constant disappointment as Milo would systematically remove every new patch of fur as it grew as I tore my own hair out in frustration and tried to avoid outbursts of sarcasm as each 'go team Milo’ message pinged airily in to my inbox.
Stabilised and showing a bit of muscle Milo was sent to be professionally backed and I sourced a local child rider for him. Within a few days Milo had shunned his brand new professionally fitted saddle and by this time weeping at the endless expense I ordered him a smart suede number which was to his liking.
Milo came home looking fairly normal and well adjusted but within days was napping with his new rider.
Saddle number two was checked and replaced with saddle number three which was more eyewaterigly expensive than the previous two.
As the bad behaviour continued Milo waited until the vet had checked every last part of his body before revealing that he was in fact simply a moron and so we were pretty much stuck with him.
By this time the ‘go team Milo’ inspirational offerings were getting thin on the ground as one by one my friends realised that it was becoming tactless.
The little jockey drifted away as most of her lessons were spent within a metre of the arena gate and so along came Isla who instantly took to Milo and his antics and we found ourselves an endlessly patient instructor who developed a love/hate relationship with Milo as he scooted around the arena with her in hot pursuit.
Milo developed a habit of rolling while being ridden and although horrifying to onlookers was a constant source of amusement to us all and he obligingly threw himself on the floor in front of judges and officials around the county most often after he had won a rosette but before it was presented which resulted in rosettes being whisked away from under the nose of a howling Isla. He quickly became a local legend and accumulated a huge fan club and cups of tea were left abandoned at shows as onlookers crowded to the ringside to see whether he would behave or not.
On his day he would sweep the board only to roll in the championship but more often than not he would blot his copy book within minutes of arrival most famously at Equifest where his was excluded from the ring after just three minutes - a new low for us and we had low expectations as it was.
Every now and again his condition would resurface and he would be sidelined for weeks at a time while he was treated, Isla would come every day to slather on layers of cream and everything I owned would bear a film of grease for days
When things were good Isla would ride him in the field and without a nice surface to roll on he would become surprisingly obliging and would canter and hop small jumps, these sunny evenings generated the happiest if memories and we would all go home absolutely convinced that he had turned over a new leaf only for those hopes to be dashed a few days later.
Never had I met a pony so singularly frustrating to deal with yet so charming and so he stayed gradually wearing us down until we loved him as much as he loved himself.
Over time Milo treated many of my friends children to their first ride on a pony for with no pressure on him he would stand like a rock for hours at a time eyes closed in his happy place while children climbed up his legs and poked fingers into his nostrils.
And so with many repressed traumatic memories and many many more happy memories Isla came and said her last goodbyes to her scabby partner in crime, she was brave, us adults were less so.
Milo left us on a sunny spring like morning with a mouthful of forbidden coarse mix and an absolute conviction that he was the biggest superstar of a pony that ever lived. He will be missed by his legions of local fans who were endlessly entertained by his huge personality.
(Isla is the local girl who rides my ponies)
Heartbreakingly we recently lost Milo after a short illness. This was a shock from which I was not sure we would ever recover. We had constantly referred to him and his multiple personalities in the negative but in reality he was our ray of sunshine if only that sort of low winter sunshine that hurts your eyes and makes your squint painfully.
I remember the day seven years ago when I had set off on a tip to look at a potential show hunter pony going for a song locally. I turned up at a field of ponies and spotted my SHP very quickly, a quality pony and I started to count out fivers quickly before they changed their mind as they started to write a receipt on a notepad shaped like a toucan. A scrappy scabby small pony leaned over the fence and stuck his head in the middle of the receipt sending the biro off the page and leaving the toucan with a line through its forehead.
This was my first experience of Milo who gurned at me unbecomingly. He was covered with a fly rug beneath which I could make out countless scabs and sores, the owner explained that despite her best efforts they couldn't alleviate his condition.
I glanced over at my SHP who was immaculate in the sunshine and after arranging to have him delivered I took my leave.
A week later I had a gathering of friends at my field, this annual fiasco is a two day long chaos of food and camp fires mixed with copious amounts of alcohol.
The subject of the scabby pony came up as my assembled group of friends stood admiring the SHP who although handsome was not very bright as he stood staring in to the middle distance vacantly.
The majority of my friends wanted me to secure the scabby pony and couldn't believe that taking on a pony with a long term condition was not top of my priority list and when I hopelessly gestured at my immaculate pony they turned and started on my husband.
Unfortunately my husband is not a strong man when it comes to a sob story, he is weak and my friends exploited that and before long there were forty or so people in their cars looking for loose change which was counted and counted again as I called the owner and offered £124.57 for the scabby pony.
A few days later and clutching another receipt shaped like a toucan along with a green Welsh passport I regarded my purchase who had been named Milo.
I removed the rug and winced as I reached for my phone and not taking my eyes off the pony asked for a vet to please come and empty my bank account.
And empty my bank account they did, over the course of the next few months my bank account took a battering and my boss joked that he could just pay my wages direct to the vet who by this point was no doubt booking holidays to far flung places.
I applied cream to Milo nine times a day, counted out hundreds of tiny but horrifyingly expensive tablets and layered on pricey protective rugs like they were going out of fashion.
My friends took a keen interest in all this effort, keeping their distance they sent 'go team Milo' messages as I tried to rinse tonnes of greasy cream off my hands feeling a distinct lack of team participation.
Gradually the scabs began to heal and as I rubbed cream in to layers of thickened skin a not too unattractive pony emerged, first partially bald and then as the time went on white fur began to emerge.
What followed was a couple of years of brief highs followed by constant disappointment as Milo would systematically remove every new patch of fur as it grew as I tore my own hair out in frustration and tried to avoid outbursts of sarcasm as each 'go team Milo’ message pinged airily in to my inbox.
Stabilised and showing a bit of muscle Milo was sent to be professionally backed and I sourced a local child rider for him. Within a few days Milo had shunned his brand new professionally fitted saddle and by this time weeping at the endless expense I ordered him a smart suede number which was to his liking.
Milo came home looking fairly normal and well adjusted but within days was napping with his new rider.
Saddle number two was checked and replaced with saddle number three which was more eyewaterigly expensive than the previous two.
As the bad behaviour continued Milo waited until the vet had checked every last part of his body before revealing that he was in fact simply a moron and so we were pretty much stuck with him.
By this time the ‘go team Milo’ inspirational offerings were getting thin on the ground as one by one my friends realised that it was becoming tactless.
The little jockey drifted away as most of her lessons were spent within a metre of the arena gate and so along came Isla who instantly took to Milo and his antics and we found ourselves an endlessly patient instructor who developed a love/hate relationship with Milo as he scooted around the arena with her in hot pursuit.
Milo developed a habit of rolling while being ridden and although horrifying to onlookers was a constant source of amusement to us all and he obligingly threw himself on the floor in front of judges and officials around the county most often after he had won a rosette but before it was presented which resulted in rosettes being whisked away from under the nose of a howling Isla. He quickly became a local legend and accumulated a huge fan club and cups of tea were left abandoned at shows as onlookers crowded to the ringside to see whether he would behave or not.
On his day he would sweep the board only to roll in the championship but more often than not he would blot his copy book within minutes of arrival most famously at Equifest where his was excluded from the ring after just three minutes - a new low for us and we had low expectations as it was.
Every now and again his condition would resurface and he would be sidelined for weeks at a time while he was treated, Isla would come every day to slather on layers of cream and everything I owned would bear a film of grease for days
When things were good Isla would ride him in the field and without a nice surface to roll on he would become surprisingly obliging and would canter and hop small jumps, these sunny evenings generated the happiest if memories and we would all go home absolutely convinced that he had turned over a new leaf only for those hopes to be dashed a few days later.
Never had I met a pony so singularly frustrating to deal with yet so charming and so he stayed gradually wearing us down until we loved him as much as he loved himself.
Over time Milo treated many of my friends children to their first ride on a pony for with no pressure on him he would stand like a rock for hours at a time eyes closed in his happy place while children climbed up his legs and poked fingers into his nostrils.
And so with many repressed traumatic memories and many many more happy memories Isla came and said her last goodbyes to her scabby partner in crime, she was brave, us adults were less so.
Milo left us on a sunny spring like morning with a mouthful of forbidden coarse mix and an absolute conviction that he was the biggest superstar of a pony that ever lived. He will be missed by his legions of local fans who were endlessly entertained by his huge personality.
