I am not amused. I stand here at my hitching post with a ridiculous pink plaid fly mask on my face like I’m some sort of real life My Little Princess Pony. I am a made Hunt Horse of the Tennessee Valley Hunt; I am not a toy. Gretchen, aka the Scarlet Wench, claims that she only got the fly mask in pink plaid because it was on sale. But I see her sniggering when she thinks I’m not looking. She did this on purpose. I’m so gonna hack into her Paypal account again and buy me a plane ticket to Ireland. I’m sure the foxhunters there know how to appreciate such an awesome hunter as me!
Back in 2006, I competed in the Centennial Field Hunter Championships at the Iroquois Hunt country for the MidSouth Division. I was the only small pony in about a 100 entries, and I jumped every coop! How many 12.1 and a half hand ponies can say they did that with an enormously fat rider in their saddle? [Gretchen’s Note: Watch it, My Little Hippo Butt. I wouldn’t be talking about weight when you have gained so much this summer that you are now as wide as a Kia. One more peep out of you, and I will attach a sign to your tail crupper that says, “WIDE LOAD.”]
Say what you like, Wench (and I will kick you if you try getting a sign like that anywhere near my tail), I’m ignoring you.
We started off the day at the beautiful Boone Valley Farm territory for the Championships. I was braided and spiffed up like I had never been before. I looked so good! There was a flat class of sorts that showed I knew how to walk/trot/canter around a small area with a group of horses without misbehaving. I, of course, was perfect. The Wench’s fat rolls bounced around embarrassingly, but I tried my best to ignore it. [Gretchen’s Note: That’s it, you little Squishy-Scrappy Doo. No more Stud Muffin snackies for you.] And you think I don’t know where the yummy snacks are hidden? I worry about your intelligence sometimes, Woman.
Then all of the entries formed a Field, and we went on a mock hunt. Gretchen held me back to the very end so I won’t get run over by the other hunt horses. At first I was so mad, but then I realized that all of the judges were watching and would get a better view of me if I was dead last. I wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. Yippee! It was time to jump coops!
The first coop was right by the little area we had been using as an arena. It was a black coop on a black wooden fence line right by a big, black tobacco barn. There was an uphill approach, and I sailed over the average sized coop. We landed on next to the paved driveway and had to turn left right away. We then went just a few feet down the drive to the next coop, which was on the other side of the drive. Gretchen turned me to the coop and kicked me into a canter. She had this crazy belief that I had to canter every coop because I was too small to trot them. Well, there was no way to canter this coop. The paved drive was several inches above the grass, and there was only room for one trot stride on the grass before the coop. I had to trot it.
She had the nerve to smack me with the crop as we trotted towards it, so I showed her. I not only cleared the coop, I popped it so high I cleared the 4-plank fence it was built on as well. [Gretchen’s Note: Yes, little man, you did pop the thing like it was 6 feet tall. I was lucky I stayed on! And how embarrassing to be left behind and almost fall of such a tiny pony in front of all those dignified and prestigious judges! One of them had to hand me my crop from off the ground as I had dropped it when you launched like a rocket.]
Yes, yes, but did you ever smack me again with that unnecessary crop? Nope. So you learned your lesson.
We then went through a lot of fields with cattle and several creek crossings to show that I could manage all without spooking. The creeks were easy and the cattle just ignored us as I ignored them. We looped around in the cattle fields to come back to the drive way and jump across it again like we did before. Along the edge of the creek the Field galloped though a series of larger coops built on wire fences.
We had a check in a beautiful field at the bottom of a big hill, and then we had to jump into the woods right into the creek. The coop was hiding in the shadows, and the landing was a trappy with the creek bank forming a bounce down into the water. Several horses refused. I, however, did not. After riding around that “Back 40” for a while longer with another check, we came back through the same creek to jump out of over the coop. The reversed direction was even more trappy with the creek bank being on the take-off side, but again I charged through and over. I’m so awesome, I must say.
The judges were looking for hunt horses that jumped, galloped and stood at the checks safely and calmly. Which is exactly what I did, but I wasn’t chosen for the Finals that had a cross-country course to be taken individually. I couldn’t believe that I wasn’t chosen! It must have been the Wench’s fault; she did something to make the Judges look away. I just know it. [Gretchen’s Note: I did no such thing. You, however, had a long wait in the queue for each and every coop as there were about a 100 horses in front of you. So what did you do, the O Mighty Hunt Horse? You spun. And spun. And whined/screamed, “I wanna jump NOW!!” That, My Little Pony, is why you weren’t chosen.]
I am not listening to you as I did no such thing. You, Wench, are the one who messed up. Not I.
But no matter. I still competed in the Centennial Field Hunter Championships and jumped every coop. I am an awesome hunt horse, but I sure don’t feel like it in this ridiculous pink fly mask. I will get the Wench back, I promise. But first I’m gonna get the 4 year old gelding, the Kid, to rip this horrible thing off my head and bury it with all the other fly masks he’s stolen. The Kid is a kleptomaniac, which can be very handy when the Wench decides to dress me like a little girly pony. Scheesh.
Ziggy Pelham, the Manly, Made Hunt Horse With No Equal!