Mousie and the Birdies
I live in a lovely, interesting field with hedges and grass and three slightly boring girlies. There is Mizzie, the oldest of us who is in her twenties and has a Somerset accent, gained from her early years on Exmoor. She is timid and I can bully her easily if I want to do so. But I find that Liz takes lots of time making sure she gets more carrots than I do so I am not sure this does me much good.
Then there is Shelley, who is, as Liz is constantly reminding the Bearded One, mother of the spoilt child in the form of 3 year old (on 16 April) Katy pony. Katy pony is not allowed to live out with us but must be in a stable close to Liz’s house where she can see her and drivel over her every day. Katy is quite good natured as I recall, although is, in my opinion (and strangely enough, for once the Bearded One and I are in agreement) well on her way to being a Proper Little Madam. Shelley is heading towards 20 and is a very matronly matron. The Bearded One and Liz have whispered conversations about whether she should have another foal as the even more aged husband, Odin (27 years) carries not one but two rare Exmoor blood lines. These discussions usually end with Liz stomping off to the car and slamming the long suffering door after the Bearded One (who really does not seem to ever learn) says something like,
“ Of course we have to remember we are not getting any younger and you are really too old now Liz to breed a foal, why you will be well over 70 when it is 20 years old and probably won’t be able to look after it. And anyway we might want to live in a nice little retirement home.”
Liz, of course thinking of the many feisty Wimblington older people who she has encountered in her years on Parish Council, does not think 70 is old and certainly has not come to terms with being over 50 herself – let alone being reminded of it by the Bearded One. Who is I gather, a little older. She also wonders how to fit her books and ponies into a retirement home.
Then there is Phoenix my cousin. We were both rescued from a fate that probably was not worse than death but was in fact death, from Exmoor almost ten years ago by Liz and her best friend – with the help of Liz’s mother’s pension that she had collected the day before and then had to hand over minus the £20 it cost to buy us both as foals. A family affair you might say. The Bearded One did not endear himself to me as on arrival from a 200 mile or more journey, rather than being greeted joyfully, he jumped up and down saying something along the lines of,
“Not another scruffy pony to eat hay and make a mess. You planned this didn’t you?”
Which to be fair, Liz and her best buddy did not and were almost as cross about having to buy us as the Bearded One was on first seeing us. But gradually Liz and her friend softened as we were so cute (especially me!) while I wouldn’t like to speculate on what the Bearded One thought! It might have helped had I been less handy with my hooves back in those days. Phoenix exists only to eat and as a result has managed to gain an impressive figure even in the winter. Not bad for a gal who lives on grass.
So they can become a bit predictable, the lovely ladies. I have had to seek out new companions. Because of Liz’s obsession with bird feeding and the corn she has brought up all winter to sprinkle near the gate, I have some new friends. But I do find birds rather cheeky, they do have no respect. After Liz leaves they all descend and squabble over the corn. I pointed out that it might be better to take turns and what a waste of their energy it was to fly around, pulling feathers out of each other.
“What’s it to you?” squeaked one rudely.
“Oh look,” said another, “The walking hairy mattress can speak!”
These birds have a serious attitude problem. But at least they are interesting.
“What have you been doing today?” I asked
“ Well if it were any business of yours we’ve been into the village. Hung round the shop to see if anyone dropped any crumbs, ditto the school and then we raided a few bird tables.”
“I haven’t been anywhere” squeaked another one, “I’m a rural bird me so I stay in the hedges and look for old berries”.
There was a chorus of loud bird twitters which I take as laughter.
“You’re a strange bird,” one of them said, “ It’s fun going into the village and seeing people getting all pleased when we go on their bird tables”.
And a bird table is what, I enquired?
“People put out scrummy, yummy food and lots of it and we eat and eat and eat in return for letting them look out of their windows at us. Liz has a huge bird feeding area in her garden. She puts out lots and lots of goodies. The more we eat, the more she puts out!”
This does not sound like the Liz I know and er hem, love. Nor indeed the woman who stops the Bearded One eating sweets. Has she a more loving side? Only it would appear if you are a feathery little critter with a sharp beak. Why can’t ponies fly just a bit…..