We all have our own favourite type of show horse but what, I wonder, do they think of each other? Here’s what I overheard at a showground I once visited….
“What,” sneered the Hunter, “is that? It looks like an explosion in a paint factory.”
“I don’t know what you’ve got to be so smug about,” replied the Coloured Horse, with his splashy overo markings. “You only had to beat seven other heavyweights. There were 23 in my class, and I’m the best!”
“Goodness help the rest of ’em, then,” smirked the Hunter.
“Twenty-three is nothing,” piped up the Coloured Pony. “There were 26 other traditionals in my class and I beat them all.”
“You look like a loo brush on legs,” said the Hunter. “But that is much more like it,” he added, as a Hack stalked past.
“Don’t touch what you can’t afford,” she flirted, batting her extravagant eyelashes. “Loving the quarter marks, big boy.”
As the Hunter preened, a passing Show Pony stared enviously at the Hack. “You are soooo elegant,” she said. “I want to be like you one day…”
“Not a chance, short stuff,” sniffed the Hack. “You look like a pig on sticks.”
“There’s no need for that sort of talk,” chided the Riding Horse gently. “It’s good to have aspirations. You wouldn’t be so pretty if you didn’t have so much makeup on.”
“Not one of you could jump a twig,” reminded the Working Hunter Pony as he strutted out of the ring.
“I take exception to that,” announced the Hunter. “I follow the Belvoir every winter, you know.”
“Yeah, going through every gate,” giggled the Worker.
But the Hunter was distracted. “What, in the name of all that’s good,” he said in an uncertain tone, “is that?”
The Hunter, Hack, Coloured Horse and Pony, Working Hunter Pony, Show Pony and Riding Horse all stared at a Miniature Horse that minced past, covered from head to hoof in purple lycra.
“I have no idea,” said the Riding Horse. “A giant Quality Street?”