Page 49 of For the Love of Animals

Picky the Pony

CHAPTER 1

“PLEASE, PICKY, JUST walk. It’s almost dark.”

I squeezed my pony’s sides with my heels, but he stood firm and snorted. Okay, deep breaths. We’d been through this rigmarole at least twenty times in the last hour, and as the sun dropped, my pulse raced faster.

How had things gone so wrong? Ever since I was a little girl living in the East End of London, I’d dreamed of unpolluted skies and wide-open spaces. Now I was stuck in the middle of Dartmoor at twilight on my uncooperative four-legged friend, with a dead phone and no idea which way home was.

Fantastic.

Welcome to your new life, Sarah.

Picky finally deigned to walk past the killer twig, and as we headed along another track that looked exactly the same as all the others, I had plenty of time to reflect on how my dream turned into a nightmare. Kevin Simmons. I’d adored him since the day he walked into my sixth-form English class with a battered rucksack slung over one shoulder and that crooked grin on his face. My infatuation continued until the day he asked me out for dinner—well, a cheeseburger—and turned to love by the time we both finished school. It was only natural for us to move in together.

Kevin had worked as a salesman for a software company in Aldgate while I tried hairdressing, attempted fashion retail, and finally started up my own business as a virtual assistant. Who knew so many companies wanted someone to field phone calls and reply to emails? Not me, and certainly not Kevin. With hindsight, our problems started when my earnings surpassed his.

Picky shook me out of my thoughts as he leapt sideways. I peered into the gloom beside the path, but there was nothing there except a few gorse bushes and a lone crisp packet.

“You ate crisps yesterday. You like crisps. If you go past it, I promise I’ll buy you a whole bag all to yourself.”

Horses weren’t really supposed to eat crisps, that much I knew, but by then I’d have tried anything. He crept past sideways, blowing out air, and we carried on as the sky grew greyer.

Yes, I’d say my decision to move to Dartmoor was forty percent my fault and sixty percent Kevin’s. Because when a girl twists her ankle and returns early from yoga class to find her significant other shagging the downstairs neighbour on the sofa they’d carefully chosen as a couple from John Lewis, there’s only one thing to do, isn’t there? Yes, that’s right. Drink a bottle and a half of white wine, scoff a box of chocolates, and buy a dilapidated cottage in an online property auction.

In my defence, the photos attached to the listing had definitely been taken in good light, most likely several years ago. Maybe even several decades.

When I arrived at my new home with my Wi-Fi dongle, my laptop, and all of my other worldly belongings stuffed into the back of my Toyota Prius, I’d spent the first two days crying.

What had I done?

The electrics didn’t work properly, the roof leaked, the toilet smelled really, really bad, and somebody had climbed in through one of the broken windows and painted grossly oversized parts of the male anatomy all over the living room. Four months on, I’d had the entire place rewired, and it didn’t rain inside anymore, but a lack of funds meant I was tackling the rest of the renovations myself. I’d put six coats of emulsion on the living room wall, but on a sunny day, you could still see two coconuts and a totem pole glowing through next to the fireplace.

Then Picky happened.

I’d always loved horses, and every Christmas my stocking was filled with assorted My Little Pony accessories. Later in life, my Saturday morning riding lessons had been an endless source of tension with Kevin, who’d complained long and loud about the amount of money I spent on “those bloody nags.” But even so, I’d never quite intended on buying my own equine.

That second moment of madness had happened on a rainy Thursday afternoon as I drove back from a trip to Exeter to buy bathroom tiles. A little sign by the side of the road invited me to visit the pony auction at Chagford a few miles down the road, and as I’d finished work early for the day, I signalled left and went to explore. It was about time I got to know the local area, wasn’t it?

I’d spent so much time in the cottage, either working or attempting to stick the fabric of the building back together using duct tape and silicone sealant, that I’d barely met any of my neighbours. Mabel in the village shop kept me up to date on any important news, like the state of Mrs. McGreeky’s bunions and Sandra Thompson’s failed audition for The Great British Bake Off, but apart from that, most of my socialising took place on the internet. I’d become a regular on the DIY forums and even started a blog on fifty meals to make without a fully functioning oven.

Yes, I’ll admit it—I was lonely.

When I thought of a pony auction, I’d imagined rows of stables, each with a friendly face looking over the door. Shiny horses, groomed to perfection, with a perma-tanned auctioneer extolling their virtues in his plummy accent.

No.

The reality was a muddy ring with a series of grimy, wide-eyed animals alternately plunging around or standing stock-still in fear. Middle-aged men bid on them for a few pounds a go in between scratching their unmentionables and snarfing down chips from the catering van. I wanted to leave, but at the same time, I couldn’t. What if a pony didn’t get any bids? I’d heard those awful stories about them getting bought for meat.

And then Picky came out. The last lot of the day, a tatty skewbald with his ribs showing through the remains of his fluffy winter coat.

“Lot number forty-two…er…” The auctioneer glanced at his list. “Picnic. Bit of an interloper here in Dartmoor—a New Forest pony, fourteen hands high. Who’ll start the bidding at fifty pounds?”

Crickets.

“Nobody? Lovely nag, this one, six years old and broken to saddle as well. Forty pounds?”

Nobody. Not a single hand.

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