1. Ziggy is NOT a hound; [Gretchen’s Note: Well, to be fair, you do only have a few inches on the pack.]
2. Ziggy is NOT a speed bump; [Gretchen’s Note: It was not nice of Erin’s elephant warmblood to ram into you like that, but you did manage to slow him down for Erin. Turns out tripping over ponies IS a good way to slow down big elephants!]
3. Ziggy is NOT a warm up jump; [Gretchen’s Note: I know that Master at Woodford Hounds asked if he could warm his horse up over your rump before the first stone wall, but he was only half serious.]
4. Ziggy is NOT a mounting block; [Gretchen’s Note: My saddle is even with other rider’s stirrups, so . . . it could work.]
5. . . . and Ziggy is NOT a chin rest for the hounds! [Gretchen’s Note: That crossbred bitch was VERY wrong to do that to you.]

Just because I am only a 12.1 hand pony does not mean that everyone can treat me this way! Drat – where are my flash cards that say, “My Name is NOT Napoleon”? I need to meditate, or sneak into Gretchen’s flask.

Photo by Gretchen Pelham

I was so bored waiting for Tennessee Valley’s hunt season to begin. I updated my iPad with the great Jimmy Buffett book, A Salty Piece of Land. It’s about a cowboy who rides his horse to the coast, and then puts himself and his trusty horse on a ship to a small Caribbean island. The horse rides out all the storms and waves without an ounce of seasickness. I was inspired. A Huntsman’s Horse could do that!

[Gretchen’s Note: Don’t feed me that con, fatty. I know you stood there and egged him on to jump the fence but then freaked him out about jumping back in. You’re supposed to be mentoring him, not get him sold as an incurable delinquent!]

Lessons to a Kid – Part 2

My plan to convince Harrison Ford that I should be his next Indiana Jones horse is not going well. I had a conference call all set up with Harrison’s “people” the last week in April – I said I was a relative of Calista, which is kinda true, since I live within a two hours drive of her parents. I rigged up an antenna from the run-in shed that would tap into the satellite phone connections. The plan was foolproof! But then some crazy epic storms rolled through the South that night and the hail put grapefruit-sized holes in my tin roof. Gretchen thinks the remains of the antenna were blown in from a neighbor’s roof. But never fear, I will get a hold of Indy! Or maybe I should try Stephen or George? I could disguise myself as ET or R2D2 – after all, I’m the right size! But I’m far too handsome to be mistaken for ET, so I guess I’ll have to go for the droid. Anyone got any roller skates I could borrow?  [Gretchen’s Note:  Leave those poor movie people alone!  Or I’ll go all “Poltergeist” on your fat butt if you build another firetrap on the roof again!]

Lessons to a Kid

Now that I have ended the Tennessee Valley’s hunt season as the first and only 12.1 hand Huntsman’s Horse, I can focus on having a relaxing summer. Except I have a nagging feeling that I have now hit the ceiling in a hunt horses’ career. Now that Kurt Krucke, professional huntsman, has hunted off me as his Huntsman’s Horse, what’s next for me? I’m kinda depressed at the thought. At 14 years, I’m too young to have such ambition stifled.

So I have a new plan! What would be better than being the Huntsman’s Horse? Why, there is only one profession I can think of – being Indiana Jones’s horse! Think of the tanks we could fight! How easy it would be for him to grab his hat off the ground when it blows off? Those Nazis wouldn’t stand a chance with me around! Rockets-schmockets. Now I just gotta get a hold of Harrison. I hear he and Calista once came to East Tennessee to visit her parents – I wonder how much it would take to bribe the guy at the little airport they use to find out when their next visit will be. Hmm . . . I think I still have Gretchen’s Paypal password. This is a great plan! [Gretchen’s Note: I changed that password months ago, Mini-Me.  And you know you wouldn’t stand a chance as a movie horse – the first time anyone drags a hose or cable across the ground you’d throw Indy and run like a little girl.]