From a ginger cat, to a ginger Ferrari.

One of our family cats, Tig, was put to sleep on Monday. He’d lived with us for nearly 12 years, after my mum brought him home from the vet’s she worked at. Something about him just niggled her, and she felt she couldn’t let him go up for adoption. So, we got a ginger bundle of curiosity and, to put it kindly, one with the mental density of two short planks. A genius he was not.

I began to call him Ming (I don’t know why, it just happened. Most of our animals have a variety of pet names), but he would come running whether you called him, our other cat, Felix, our dog, Nicky, if my mum called me…anything. He was a real softie and you could do anything with him, pick him up, drape him over you, gently tackle him to the floor – a particular favourite. He would even stand on his back legs just at the tapping together of fingers – he thought you had food EVERY time, even though you never did.

Ming was rubbish at catching things, I think a butterfly, once, but little else. He wasn’t really bothered. He was never a barn cat, in fact to have him outside was dangerous, for he liked to lie on the hot tarmac of the lane outside our house in summer, and was forever being rescued and brought back. Heat was very much his thing. Lying along radiators so his paw pads burned, lying on the hearth in front of the fire, lying in the sun so long he was VERY hot to the touch. A gentle reprimand would elicit a few blinks and an affectionate purr as if to say ‘but it’s so warrrrrrrrm!!’ as he stretched luxuriously, hoping for a bit of attention. He never liked being picked up, staying put for a few moments, before slowly wiggling around so you’d put him down. But as soon as he was down, he’d look up and ‘rrrow?’ at you, which made you wonder what he wanted. Usually a gentle tackle and a tummy rub resulted.More recently he’d become a bit mischievous, taking to leaping on our biggest, baddest cat, Barry, when he least expected it and tackling him to the floor. All in all, Tig was the friendliest, most easygoing, happiest cat who lived with us. Everyone loved him, and I shall miss his chilled out way of life at the heart of the best heat sources, and the way he would miaow if you asked him to. He was a fab cat.

Tig is of course not the first pet or animal I’ve loved and lost. In my life I haven’t had much family – or at least very few of them worth caring about – and animals, particularly horses, have helped form most of my lasting bonds.

In my last post, Frankie’s story and ridden life were just beginning, but my time with Oliver was drawing to an end. Whilst at the smaller yard, I was growing quickly, and 13.3 was looking unlikely to be a height I could ride for much longer. My mum and I looked into putting Ollie out on loan or into a lesson program at a very good riding centre. We never wanted to sell him, after all the hard work and experiences we’d been through and the resulting happy, bouncing Ollie, we could never have done that.

We hacked out plenty at the farm, and one of my favourite shorter rides was up a long incline that you could take at a decent pace, then cooling off through a forest and back down windy hedgerowed lanes to the yard. One fresh spring day my mum and I headed out on Luke and Ollie, intending a bit of fun on the hill. Ollie was rapid, could beat any of the horses on the yard up the hill apart from one or two of the novice eventers. As Luke was an ex racehorse, this was no mean feat for a medium sized pony – except Luke just had no interest in racing. He’d happily canter steadily up the hill, getting to the top eventually, whereas I’d give Ollie his head and he would positively fly up the long logging trail, breathing like he’d run the Grand National at the top, but still wanting to canter or gallop on through the trees. He loved to run.This day was no different; we crossed the main road and headed through the village to the road up the hill and the track that led up into the woods, Ollie dancing as we opened and shut the gate – he knew what was coming! We meandered on, picking up a trot on the softer trail, Luke’s fluid stride matching four of Oliver’s jittery ones. We never bothered with ‘fair’ starts since mum didn’t intend to race and I just wanted to go fast, so we picked up a canter side by side, the horses knowing from experience that the start of the incline was the time to go. As usual, as soon as I gave Ollie the rein and his head, he was off. I was up out of the saddle, over his withers, feeling the wind hit my face, whistle in my ears and the trees streak by all blurry. It was a good few minutes to the top, but Ollie was fit and he kept his pace well. It was therefore a massive surprise to me when a chestnut form appeared next to us, hovered briefly, then powered away ahead, giving me just enough time to see the huge grin on my mum’s face. Luke had found it in himself to GO. And go he did. Ollie tried his best, but like a truck next to a sports car, there was no chance. They were waiting for us at the top, Mum looking smug, Luke matter of fact, like it had been nothing. It probably hadn’t.

I got to experience Luke’s Ferrari-smoothness for myself one day at our next stables. Mum let me take him around a part of the tracks. At 14, she was beginning to trust me on him a little. He’s a fairly laid back guy, so I felt safe on him, at least on grass. We trotted some, up the first side of the field, then took the corner to our right, and I eased him up a gear – lovely smooth, long striding canter. There was another corner to go on the trail, so I didn’t want to be flat out there as sometimes dog walkers or pheasants or rabbits sat around there. I slowed back a little just to check, and seeing the path clear all the way, we rocked back up to a fast canter, and then with a squeeze, he was in top gear, the power from his hind end so smooth but efficient, and it’s honestly the fastest I’ve ever gone on horseback. The distance just rushed past, and all too soon, far too soon, I had to put on some brakes. He responded nicely, so I stroked his shoulder – patting is too violent for Luke, it makes him twitch – and ruffled his mane, as we headed back to the yard, cooling down and appreciating the setting sun as we went.

Settling In

After Frankie’s hair raising antics, things settled down for all of a couple of months, when some personality clashes in the yard meant that my mum decided it was time for a change of scenery. We packed up and headed to a new yard, right at the foot of the Cleveland hills. The only problem was that we were the only liveries. No other kids, no other ponies to ride, it was probably time to get serious. Over the winter that followed, I barely rode Frankie, instead my mum hacked him out and schooled him whilst I focussed on Ollie’s flatwork and jumping, which was improving, despite our fears he’d never lose his old ways. I would take him out on long hilly trails into the moors with the yard owner’s daughter who had a couple of eventers, and he loved to gallop and jump natural obstacles, which in turn gave him confidence to jump up to 3 foot in the school. This yard only had an outdoor school, and barrels and poles for jumps, which was a big come down from a competition yard, but the stables were indoors and spacious, the horses had a paddock to themselves and I couldn’t complain. It was while we were there that the yard owner took on another livery with 3 horses. Anne was disabled and competed in dressage, and she had a coloured mare that was being aimed at coloured and show hunter classes. It was Anne who saw the potential in Frankie for showing, which at any level higher than local was very new to me. By this point, we’d done more show jumping, and had been selected on pony club area teams, I particularly enjoyed cross country and I schooled him whenever I could at the yard Ian had moved to. Working Hunter seemed a logical next step, since at 14.3 he could not jump in pony classes and at 11, I didn’t fancy moving into horse classes.

We did our first local-ish show in the summer of 1998, coming I think 5th out of 6, or something, but more to the point, I’d enjoyed it, Frankie had behaved beautifully – he seemed to enjoy the attention, and we hadn’t looked out of place. However, at a higher level, his confirmation would let him down, which I soon began to realise. A long back and not being a natural weight carrier would mean he’d never get placed above a typey, chunky, short coupled cob. We’d entered the Great Yorkshire Show Welsh class and been pulled in 15th or so, which we never managed again! So, we tried working hunter. He de-noviced himself in his first ever class, winning easily. We also qualified for the British Show Pony Society winter championships, in working hunter and flat classes. This would be our first ever trip away that involved staying overnight, which seemed a pretty big deal to me.