We are having an unusually lovely, hot early summer. Great summer evenings, beautiful sunsets, no grass growth. So our large garden has been turned into an extra paddock by me into which I turn Ben and Rosie in the evenings when I come home from work. The procedure is this: I come up the drive, closing the front gate. My four year old runs out, we go together to open the gate and electric fence in the paddock.
Yesterday was the same. Ben and Rosie were waiting. In the neighbourhood someone was using a drill. I opened the fence, Ben came first, waited. Holding hands, my daughter and I walked out together, Ben following with Rosie behind. He came up close behind my daughter so I moved her aside to let Ben move past. As I stopped, Ben stopped, level with me; he looked at me, awaiting my reassurance that the way was safe despite the scary drill. I walked with my daughter first, Ben followed all the way through to fresh grass. He only put his head down when I signaled to him to do so.
I do not believe that there is any such thing as a bombproof pony.