The Squire's Tale

When I was a kid, I was an avid consumer of pony magazines.  I read them from cover-to-cover, and there was always a particular section that I found rather poignant.  It was the section where owners used to post a photo of their animal along with a caption along the lines of 'Does Anyone Know Such-and-Such?' in an attempt to try and discover some more about their horse's history.

I was lucky with Squire.  I had a pretty good idea of what had happened to him.  Unfortunately, it wasn't always plain sailing.  Squire's history is probably pretty representative of what most horses go through in their life.  No wonder the poor souls who take care of them have to face all sorts of difficulties as their horses enter their twilight years.

Squire was, allegedly, a Hackney/Connemara cross.  He was bred in Ireland, and shipped over to Ayr as a young, unbroken colt.  His first owner in Scotland was an old, retired army man who kept Squire in a garage in Ayr and exercised him in the carpark of a local cinema.  The horse's name, at this point, was supposedly 'Cribbage' (doesn't have the same ring, does it?). 

This gentleman's idea of training left a lot to be desired.  His command to canter was to whistle.  I think he also had Squire broken to harness.  Whatever equipment he was using didn't fit - Squire had a scar on his back from his youth, and was prone to back trouble in later years.

Eventually, Squire proved too much for the gentleman to manage so he sold him.  I'm told he was in tears when they came to take his horse away.

Squire's next destination was a riding school.  He was renamed Squire Thomas, and he had to relearn everything afresh.  But he was smart: it took him just three weeks to pick up what was required. 

While he was never treated cruelly, he was everyone's favourite, and therefore he was heavily worked.  He was stabled all day and every day, only escaping to a field for a fortnight every year when he was granted his annual holiday.  He was also broken to harness, so he was used for carriage-driving, battering along at a spanking trot.  There's an old horseman's adage - 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard, 'ard roads - no wonder poor Squire had leg trouble in later life.

The regime took its toll on him.  He was a really stressed-out horse towards the end of his stay there .  He was thin.  He used to tear his stable rugs to pieces.  He had a nasty habit of trying to crush his rider's leg against wall or fences when being exercised. 

Worst of all, he developed the mean, almost psychopathic habit of coming up to you in the field when you were trying to catch him.  He'd pretend to be all sweetness and light, then snatch the treat from your hand, before swinging around and lashing out with both back feet.  If you weren't quick, you risked being kicked in the face or chest.  And oh boy, when he did this, he wasn't joking.  He meant to kill, to destroy.

I wanted to help this horse.  I fell into the trap that's brought down so many women throughout history.  The 'He's a bad man, but I can change him!' trap.  Though in retrospect I can see that at the time, I was part of the problem.  I was advised that the best way of getting him to work properly was with the aid of fearsome gadgets like martingales, running reins and Market Harboroughs.  These used the strength of the horse to pull his head into the right place. 

I was told I'd always have to keep stuffing him with food just to keep his weight up.  I was told the only way I'd get him to work on the bit was with the aid of gadgets

But I'm pleased to say that this was one of the rare instances where female intuition was not misplaced.  When Squire came into my care, his world changed completely.   He was the resident 'stallion' in a small herd of three.   He had just a handful of people instead of a constant stream of strangers.  He felt secure and cared for.  And as far as schooling was concerned, I gave up on the gadgets and followed the reasoning of the Ancient Greeks - 'nothing forced is ever beautiful.'  

His personality changed within a month.  He put on weight.  He stopped tearing his rugs to pieces.  You could run up behind him in the field playing 'tag' and slap him on the rump, knowing that he wouldn't try to kill you.  After a few years, he was trusted so much that the owners of the stables would take their infant children down into the field and place them on his back, without using so much as a headcollar to hold him.
 

But that's enough of Squire.  Tonight, I spent an evening in Molly's company.  Molly really doesn't know how fortunate she is.  She may be a riding school pony, but she has a much easier time than my poor old horse did.  Her workload is very light, and she spends every other day out in the field playing with her friends and getting muddy.  She's slightly overweight.  She's unfit.  But she's happy, and in that respect, she's lucky. 

It's getting late now, and I'm knackered.  It'll be back to comparative normality tomorrow.  I shall return to the realms of archaeology, and hopefully introduce you to the joys of the Neolithic carinated bowl!!

The Squire's Tale

When I was a kid, I was an avid consumer of pony magazines.  I read them from cover-to-cover, and there was always a particular section that I found rather poignant.  It was the section where owners used to post a photo of their animal along with a caption along the lines of 'Does Anyone Know Such-and-Such?' in an attempt to try and discover some more about their horse's history.

I was lucky with Squire.  I had a pretty good idea of what had happened to him.  Unfortunately, it wasn't always plain sailing.  Squire's history is probably pretty representative of what most horses go through in their life.  No wonder the poor souls who take care of them have to face all sorts of difficulties as their horses enter their twilight years.

Squire was, allegedly, a Hackney/Connemara cross.  He was bred in Ireland, and shipped over to Ayr as a young, unbroken colt.  His first owner in Scotland was an old, retired army man who kept Squire in a garage in Ayr and exercised him in the carpark of a local cinema.  The horse's name, at this point, was supposedly 'Cribbage' (doesn't have the same ring, does it?). 

This gentleman's idea of training left a lot to be desired.  His command to canter was to whistle.  I think he also had Squire broken to harness.  Whatever equipment he was using didn't fit - Squire had a scar on his back from his youth, and was prone to back trouble in later years.

Eventually, Squire proved too much for the gentleman to manage so he sold him.  I'm told he was in tears when they came to take his horse away.

Squire's next destination was a riding school.  He was renamed Squire Thomas, and he had to relearn everything afresh.  But he was smart: it took him just three weeks to pick up what was required. 

While he was never treated cruelly, he was everyone's favourite, and therefore he was heavily worked.  He was stabled all day and every day, only escaping to a field for a fortnight every year when he was granted his annual holiday.  He was also broken to harness, so he was used for carriage-driving, battering along at a spanking trot.  There's an old horseman's adage - 'ammer, 'ammer, 'ammer on the 'ard, 'ard roads - no wonder poor Squire had leg trouble in later life.

The regime took its toll on him.  He was a really stressed-out horse towards the end of his stay there .  He was thin.  He used to tear his stable rugs to pieces.  He had a nasty habit of trying to crush his rider's leg against wall or fences when being exercised. 

Worst of all, he developed the mean, almost psychopathic habit of coming up to you in the field when you were trying to catch him.  He'd pretend to be all sweetness and light, then snatch the treat from your hand, before swinging around and lashing out with both back feet.  If you weren't quick, you risked being kicked in the face or chest.  And oh boy, when he did this, he wasn't joking.  He meant to kill, to destroy.

I wanted to help this horse.  I fell into the trap that's brought down so many women throughout history.  The 'He's a bad man, but I can change him!' trap.  Though in retrospect I can see that at the time, I was part of the problem.  I was advised that the best way of getting him to work properly was with the aid of fearsome gadgets like martingales, running reins and Market Harboroughs.  These used the strength of the horse to pull his head into the right place. 

I was told I'd always have to keep stuffing him with food just to keep his weight up.  I was told the only way I'd get him to work on the bit was with the aid of gadgets

But I'm pleased to say that this was one of the rare instances where female intuition was not misplaced.  When Squire came into my care, his world changed completely.   He was the resident 'stallion' in a small herd of three.   He had just a handful of people instead of a constant stream of strangers.  He felt secure and cared for.  And as far as schooling was concerned, I gave up on the gadgets and followed the reasoning of the Ancient Greeks - 'nothing forced is ever beautiful.'  

His personality changed within a month.  He put on weight.  He stopped tearing his rugs to pieces.  You could run up behind him in the field playing 'tag' and slap him on the rump, knowing that he wouldn't try to kill you.  After a few years, he was trusted so much that the owners of the stables would take their infant children down into the field and place them on his back, without using so much as a headcollar to hold him.
 

But that's enough of Squire.  Tonight, I spent an evening in Molly's company.  Molly really doesn't know how fortunate she is.  She may be a riding school pony, but she has a much easier time than my poor old horse did.  Her workload is very light, and she spends every other day out in the field playing with her friends and getting muddy.  She's slightly overweight.  She's unfit.  But she's happy, and in that respect, she's lucky. 

It's getting late now, and I'm knackered.  It'll be back to comparative normality tomorrow.  I shall return to the realms of archaeology, and hopefully introduce you to the joys of the Neolithic carinated bowl!!