Max has rediscovered his inner wild thing. Not in a stampeding, tail held high way, but in a rebellious “I don’t think so don’t ask me again” two fingers up way.
Yesterday we tried long-lining.
“What’s that?” Max asked as I approached him with our kit.
“That’s your roller Max. Remember? The lines go through the rings and clip to your bit here, and then…”
“Never seen it before. Please tell the help I’m ready to go to my field now. Run along, now. Scoot!”
This was not well received, and I did get him into the school where we attempted long-lining to no great effect. He either feigned dramatically being choked by his bit, or with what seemed like determined resistance, did the opposite of everything I asked; turned left when I asked for right, stopped when I asked for go, trotted when I asked for walk, came to a complete, implacable, immovable stop if I asked for walk.
It would have been a wholly frustrating session if I hadn’t been laughing at him so much. Eventually, when he went into one of his trot strops, I just let him trot round and round me in circles until he got tired and stopped. So I sent him away again.
"Go on then! You want to run so much, go!"
"I'm done with that now, and you aren't the boss of me!" is the interpretation of the replying buck Max gave me as a parting shot.
Today we tried riding in the outdoor “jump” field. So called because there are practice jumps set up, but it’s a big field on a slope, so I thought we’d try some schooling in there rather than the dusty indoor arena.
To Max’s mind, this was just an opportunity to graze while wearing some inconvenient leather strapping and a rather irksome rider.
He wore me like a hat.
Resistant to everything I asked, fought every direction and when I finally just let him go his own way to see where he’d take us, he stopped in mild confusion, then tried to eat.
“Max,” I sighed with exasperation, “this is really simple stuff. We know this inside out, back to front. What are you playing at?”
“Just because I can doesn’t mean I will.”
"All right, we're going to trot up that hill and work that back end," I muttered.
The back end started working all right!
"Are you bucking, Max?"
"Who wants to know?"
We are paying for his two week post-op break, and also, as Sammie’s mum gently pointed out last night, we’re probably paying for a clever pony who figured out that I’m a soft touch when I’m concerned about him and he’s come to enjoy the leeway that’s given him.
Any frustration I feel now must be directed at myself though, not Max. It’s my responsibility to get us back on track.
Yesterday we tried long-lining.
“What’s that?” Max asked as I approached him with our kit.
“That’s your roller Max. Remember? The lines go through the rings and clip to your bit here, and then…”
“Never seen it before. Please tell the help I’m ready to go to my field now. Run along, now. Scoot!”
This was not well received, and I did get him into the school where we attempted long-lining to no great effect. He either feigned dramatically being choked by his bit, or with what seemed like determined resistance, did the opposite of everything I asked; turned left when I asked for right, stopped when I asked for go, trotted when I asked for walk, came to a complete, implacable, immovable stop if I asked for walk.
It would have been a wholly frustrating session if I hadn’t been laughing at him so much. Eventually, when he went into one of his trot strops, I just let him trot round and round me in circles until he got tired and stopped. So I sent him away again.
"Go on then! You want to run so much, go!"
"I'm done with that now, and you aren't the boss of me!" is the interpretation of the replying buck Max gave me as a parting shot.
Today we tried riding in the outdoor “jump” field. So called because there are practice jumps set up, but it’s a big field on a slope, so I thought we’d try some schooling in there rather than the dusty indoor arena.
To Max’s mind, this was just an opportunity to graze while wearing some inconvenient leather strapping and a rather irksome rider.
He wore me like a hat.
Resistant to everything I asked, fought every direction and when I finally just let him go his own way to see where he’d take us, he stopped in mild confusion, then tried to eat.
“Max,” I sighed with exasperation, “this is really simple stuff. We know this inside out, back to front. What are you playing at?”
“Just because I can doesn’t mean I will.”
"All right, we're going to trot up that hill and work that back end," I muttered.
The back end started working all right!
"Are you bucking, Max?"
"Who wants to know?"
We are paying for his two week post-op break, and also, as Sammie’s mum gently pointed out last night, we’re probably paying for a clever pony who figured out that I’m a soft touch when I’m concerned about him and he’s come to enjoy the leeway that’s given him.
Any frustration I feel now must be directed at myself though, not Max. It’s my responsibility to get us back on track.
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