Marti, Millie, Milo, Monty

In the middle of winter I sometimes wonder why we left our old house with its rose trellis and victorian conservatory to move further out of London in order to have horses in the garden.

I say “garden” but what I mean is a pasture that by mid-february is knee deep in clay based soil so sodden that the fence posts rot and lean, and the horses themselves come to smell more like marine life than animals who are meant to roam prairies across America or mountains in nearby Wales.  

It is hard to describe what a shetland cross cob pony with three inches of coat looks like after a roll in Berkshire clay, but if you hear of sitings of the the Loch Ness monster in the home counties, that would be my pony, Milo.

Milo was rescued more or less off a meat wagon by a kind-hearted woman who probably instantly regretted it. I bought him as a project that apparently never ends.

Millie is the more attractive of my horses, a black welsh cob mare with a bald (white) face and two startling blue eyes. My neighbours, many of which have never ventured further than the local Sainsbury’s, sometimes comment on the eyes. One told me that horses with “wall eyes” never go blind. Another told me that only witchcraft produces such colouring. I think it was just the misfortune of a speculative breeder, who sold on the filly as soon as she was weaned, lest she got pregnant by a wandering stallion and produced more horses with bizarre facial features. In the 17th century she would have been burned at the stake. 

By the way, I did not name either of these horses and it is only a coincidence

that they sound like a pair of french poodles. What is worse than having a gelding named Milo and  mare named Millie? Having additionally an older, “retired” horse named Monty. Again, this has nothing to do with any decision on my part. It is my fate to have horses that sound like siamese triplets who share a single brain. 

Being named Marti just adds extra alliterative comedy. Oh, wouldn't Shakespeare have a ball.

Monty is a mellow, gentlemanly 15.3hand cob, but the other two are fiercely competitive. It is constant jockeying for position in my household. When the two ponies are not trying to one-up me, they are trying to one-up each other. Milo bites Millie on the mane and she attacks him. He is perfectly willing to argue and comes right back for more. British natives must be like the terriers of the horse world and I am trying to get them to behave. 

So, here is my blog about them, about “natural” horsemanship, about the 8 principles and the 4 savvies and the 7 games and my 2 horrendously behaved native ponies. Also about me, now officially a middle-aged horse owner.