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AdventureDecember 06, 2008 Weather permitting, I'm moving Allie to a new barn tomorrow. The forecast is less than promising -- rain and snow showers in the morning, snow and rain showers in the afternoon, chance of precipitation 90 percent -- but the move involves a ride from the northeast corner of the state forest to the southwest corner, and there's no way I'm doing that with shotguns going off in all directions. There's no hunting on Sundays, so tomorrow it is; either tomorrow or a week from tomorrow, or bum a ride from someone with a trailer. Late this afternoon there was no bang-bang in the woods near where Allie's lived for the last five years, so Allie, Trav, and I set out for a short ride, up the right fork, left along the perimeter of George Fisher's field. Allie's ears perked forward as we approached the wire fence: the field had acquired a new occupant since we passed this way two days ago, a striking bright chestnut pony with a flaxen mane and tail and blaze orange ribbons braided into her mane. Trav was intrigued too, at least until the pony chased him out of her field, whereupon he fled squealing, sounding for all the world like Rhodry in similar situations. We continued on our way, along a narrow trail until it met a wider path coming down from the M.V. Land Bank's Tisbury Meadows property. There we hung a left, and a little while later another left, to head back toward the barn via the left fork, when what did we see approaching through the darkening woods but the bright chestnut pony with the flaxen mane and tail, trailed by a hunter whose blaze orange vest and cap matched the ribbons in the pony's mane. Eh wot? It took a moment to register that despite their matching garb the hunter and the pony were not together. I dismounted, watched the pony approach, and got hold of her halter when she was in range. The obvious solution seemed to be to get the pony back to George Fisher's field. I had Allie's reins in my right hand and the pony's halter in my left. The hunter had Travvy in his left hand and his rifle in his right. Off we went down the trail, left and then left again, till we reached the wire fence surrounding George Fisher's field. Dilemma: The fence is electrified, and there was no gate in sight. There's a gate at the next corner, I said, and we followed the fence to the right. Correction: There used to be a gate at that corner. The hunter agreed to hold the pony while I rode the fence perimeter in search of a gate, and en route hailed George Fisher's house (the only one in the immediate area) to see if we could get some help. My wildcard puppy was great. He didn't even vanish when we passed near the spot where the compellingly attractive (to him) deer remains had lured him off the trail twice before. The lights were on in the Fishers' house, but no vehicle in the drive, and no one answered my hollering. I did find a gate in the fence; not a gate exactly, but a place where the top wire had an insulated handle at the end of it. This was obviously the exit/entrance used by Bruce, whose two draft horses graze the field all summer. I continued counterclockwise along the fence line. It was trail for a little ways, then it was bushwhacking through the underbrush. Hunter and pony were waiting where we'd left them. Hunter left his rifle propped against a tree, and leading the pony he followed Allie and me through the scrub. I told him he was awfully good with the pony; did he spend much time around horses? None at all, he said. It was getting dark and darker. We reached the gate, which wasn't as easy to manage as I'd hoped. The top wire had a handle, but the bottom two wires -- more like electrified tape, but at least the middle one didn't shock me when I tapped it -- were tied to rings screwed into the post. We did manage to get the pony back into the field. The gate secured, we headed back through the undergrowth. I didn't want Travvy to get the pony excited, so I held his collar in my left hand and Allie's reins in my right. Allie was getting a little sick of this bushwhacking and kept crowding me to the left. This made it too hard to keep hold of Trav, so I let him go. I tripped and fell. Allie didn't step on me. We carried on. By the time we got back to our starting point, the pony was loose again. It was seriously dark. I told the hunter that I'd call Communications as soon as I got back to the barn. I'm Susanna, I said. His name was Jamie; he already knew Allie's name and Travvy's. Neither of us knew the pony's name. Jamie headed down the path toward the sand quarry where his truck was parked. I headed down the right fork toward the barn. Travvy had gone AWOL. Finding a dog in the dark was hopeless; either Trav would find his way home or he wouldn't. I needed to call Communications and let Animal Control know there was a bright chestnut pony with flaxen mane and tail wandering around in the woods near George Fisher's field. I called Communications. Jurisdiction in this corner of the island is unclear: Malabar Farm is in Vineyard Haven, its neighbors to one side are in West Tisbury, and its neighbors to the other side are in Oak Bluffs. George Fisher's field is in Vineyard Haven, but it was Joanie Jenkinson, ACO for West Tisbury, who called back for the details. Travvy returned to the barn, tail wagging and brown goo on his neck ruff. I had a hunch he'd gone in search of his favorite deer carcass. I was ridiculously pleased that he'd decided at some point that coming home was a more attractive proposition than chowing down on aging deer guts. By the time we got done feeding the horses, it was drizzling. I dropped two bales of hay and two bales of shavings off at the little barn Allie's moving to. I got home to a message from Ginny: she'd alerted the horsey neighbors that a pony was loose in the woods, and learned which barn the pony was affiliated with and who she belonged to. Not long after the phone rang again: Ginny, reporting that the pony had found her way to her home barn. Whew. I called Joanie, in case she hadn't heard already, but of course she had. I told her that as of tomorrow my horse would again be a resident of her town. The phone rang again: it was Sarah Mello, owner of the pony, who wanted to thank me for my part in helping the pony find her way home. The pony is only three years old. I recounted the whole story (briefly) and said she was amazingly manageable for a youngster. The pony's name is Lizzie.
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