My blog yesterday was about the trauma of selling a horse... But this is a post written a few years ago when we were looking for a pony for my daughter - 
Everyone has one. Or so it seems. There are thousands on the internet, hundreds in magazines and dozens at shows. That is until you need one. How hard can it really be to find a 13.2 hand pony suitable for a twelve year old girl to take to Pony Club?
“Ask around,” advised someone who professed to be an expert on the matter, “there will always be someone who knows someone with a pony to sell.” There were plenty of someone’s who knew someone…. There was someone who had an unbroken four year old for $20,000 because it had great potential. Someone else with a very quiet pony of thirty four years old that had a heart problem. There was a ‘grand’ 13.2 that turned out to be a small, hairy Shetland pony that must have been all of ten hands.
Dealing with the dealers was a disaster. I discovered enough misrepresentation to give any Trade Description officer a nervous breakdown. One found us a lovely bay pony called Chester, who the vet said was nineteen not the nine that he was supposed to be. Undeterred the dealer swapped Chester for smart looking black mare, who would only go 100 yards up the road before she would turn around and walk calmly home. A pony called Murphy was sent on trial. We never did manage to catch him. And a veil was drawn over Trooper’s stay. The dealer somehow forgot to mention that he was impossible to keep in a field as he could jump out over any wall, no matter how high, or barge through any hedge no matter how thick. It was a long time before the neighbouring farmer’s spoke to us after Trooper, unbeknown to us, spent one night reeking havoc in a pristine field of young barley plants.
I had no luck with a wanted advert in the newspaper either. I was offered a fourteen year old thoroughbred brood mare, half a dozen 12.2’s, sixteen 14.2’s and a couple of Connemara yearlings. There were a few 13.2’s, one that was only suitable for an experienced rider, one that bucked a bit and had to be lunged for an hour before it was ridden, and another that had always been driven in a carriage, but would probably be fine once it got used to being ridden.
Next I trawled the internet for hours, running up an enormous telephone bill that had to be hidden from The Husband. I didn’t find a pony but could have bought shares in a racehorse or a very nice sounding dressage saddle.
The pony in ‘Horse Crazy Magazine’ sounded perfect. Cuddles - 13.2 grey gelding, 9 years old, excellent in all respects, loves children. There was even a picture of a sweet looking pony with dapples on his quarters like an old fashioned rocking horse. His owner, Frank Mulligan, made him sound perfect and viewing appointment was made. The ‘short way from Onehorsetown’ was actually a fifteen mile drive down single track roads and overgrown tracks to the Mulligan’s farm. ‘Cuddles’ lived in a dark shed in between a pig sty and a shack full of shaggy bullocks. He did not look a bit like his picture; he was a pale yellow colour, with pink rimmed eyes and a mean expression. Determined not to let us escape, Mulligan shot into the shed, from which came lots of bellowing and banging. He emerged a few moments later, holding onto the pony’s bridle as if he were restraining a slavering Rottweiller. Still hanging onto the bridle of the pony, Mulligan hoisted his hefty son into the saddle. A sheen of sweat broke out on Mulligan’s red face as he shoved his considerable bulk against the pony’s shoulder as it bounded and jogged sideways towards the small sand arena. There were skid marks in the muddy yard where Mulligan had tried to dig his Wellington boots into the ground to slow the pony’s progress. Mulligan made it as far as the gate to the sand arena before he let go of the bridle. Cuddles bounded forwards into a flat out gallop, round and round the arena, banking around the corners like a motorbike. I was feeling quite dizzy by the time the pony slowed down. Eventually Mulligan made a grab for Cuddle’s bridle as he made yet another circuit of the arena, hauled him to a standstill and enquired, with a beaming smile, if my daughter would like to try him now. White faced she declined. Somehow Cuddles didn’t seem quite what we were looking for. I’m sure that Cuddles did love children and somehow I am sure that he could have eaten a whole one.
