me exhibiting my version of what was described as the 'Oliver crouch' in a showjumping book from the 1960s. Apt, since I'm on Oliver. Ollie's perfect bascule must have been because the photographer was there. We were at a Pony Club area comp, and we probably didn't win!I'm an absolute pita for nostalgia, well, in my own head I am. The best - and worst, by far - year of my life was 1999. I judge my life in 'years where something significant happened' or 'songs that remind me of something that happened in such and such a year'.
For example, 1999 was the first year I qualified for the British winter novice championships in flat and jumping classes as well as the summer open championships. It was also the year we had to say goodbye to Ollie. I've never written about it, so I don't know how it'll go, but i'll give it a try.
One ghastly dark and raining February evening we'd gone to bring in the ponies. Frankie was hustling the others at the gate as usual, and Ollie was hanging back, as usual. I squelched in to go put on his headcollar and started leading him away to get back to the light, warm stable. He wouldn't budge. I shouted my Mum to tell her and began checking him over. He was shivering and would not move a muscle. She quickly took Frankie in and came back to help. He still wouldn't shift and I found a large gash on his off hind, about half way down the inside of his upper leg. I was a bit panicky at this point and mum told me to run and call the vet. On the way, I met Liz, the wife of the yard owner and hurriedly sobbed a garbled explanation. She rounded up her husband and very tall sons and headed down to the field to help.
I told our vets we had an emergency and they said after they'd been out to a horse with a hole in its head (yikes) they'd send someone. I ran back out to see the guys carrying Ollie through the yard. I think at this point, everyone knew what was what. We got him in the stable and cleaned him up, tried to get him to feed, but he'd lost a lot of blood it seemed. I can't write about the first vet visit or the first night, because that's too painful, but the next morning when our regular vet, our trusted vet, Richard Phillips, came, we knew the truth. His leg was broken. Shattered. The inexperienced vet who had come out initially had cruelly given us hope, told us to keep it bandaged and he on box rest, and she would follow up.
It took Richard one look.
I am eternally sorry for him that he had to do that. Not only was he telling two people - clients he knew pretty well - that their beloved pony would not make it; he was shattering the hope that she had given us when we were so worried. I know it's not right, but I hated her that day. We never saw her again, and I can't imagine her guilt when Richard told her her mistake.
He didn't even have to explain what a broken leg meant. I knew. I ran away. Frankie was stabled next door, but I didn't like Frankie. Liked him even less now I wouldn't have Ollie. I ran to Luke, big, gentle Luke who was on the horse yard. I hid in his stable and howled into his neck. Luke and Ollie were best buddies. He would understand. Luke's neighbour, Wolfie, was owned by Carol, who looked like Debbie Harry. Unsurprisingly, she could hear me through the thin tin walls. I didn't know what to do, where to go, how to unleash my anguish. I wanted my pony and I couldn't have him and it HURT. Carol let me hurt for a while (I don't know where my mum was at this point, I wasn't thinking) and then she let herself in to Luke's stable. Upon seeing her, I told her everything. I remember her trying to comfort me, although understanding that that was impossible. She said some standard, comforting stuff, and then that I needed to try so very hard to be strong, for myself and for Frankie. Frankie? Now that got my attention. She may have just been searching for something to say, but taking something that I hadn't thought of and giving it to me to focus on made me think. She didn't say 'for your mum' or 'for Ollie' which would have made me cry more, but something utterly different. I calmed a little, although not much, thanked her, and set back off to the grim task of saying goodbye to my best pony buddy. Richard was still there, poor guy, and I got to say a semi dignified goodbye - Ollie wasn't very cuddly, but he appreciated the treats - and as a kid, my biggest relief about the whole situation was the injection, not the alternative. When younger, I'd known of horses and ponies being euthanased and it terrified me. This was a bit calmer.
I remember one moment amidst the chaos where I was outside Ollie's stable and he was perkier because of the drugs, and he was looking out with his ears pricked, looking utterly gorgeous. Perfect to my eyes. I willed that image into my brain, and I still have it now, a little fuzzy, but still there.
I tried to be there for him, right to the end, but to a 12 year old, there are some things that are just too much and I ran away again.
I remember little of the time afterward, just a haze of tears and sorrow and people offering their sympathies. I'd had a lesson booked at Ian's, on Ollie, the following Saturday. When my mum rang him to tell him what had happend, I asked her to see if I could take Frankie instead. Seeing Ian was exactly what I needed. He'd understand and work me through the pain.
And I needed to be strong for Frankie.
For example, 1999 was the first year I qualified for the British winter novice championships in flat and jumping classes as well as the summer open championships. It was also the year we had to say goodbye to Ollie. I've never written about it, so I don't know how it'll go, but i'll give it a try.
One ghastly dark and raining February evening we'd gone to bring in the ponies. Frankie was hustling the others at the gate as usual, and Ollie was hanging back, as usual. I squelched in to go put on his headcollar and started leading him away to get back to the light, warm stable. He wouldn't budge. I shouted my Mum to tell her and began checking him over. He was shivering and would not move a muscle. She quickly took Frankie in and came back to help. He still wouldn't shift and I found a large gash on his off hind, about half way down the inside of his upper leg. I was a bit panicky at this point and mum told me to run and call the vet. On the way, I met Liz, the wife of the yard owner and hurriedly sobbed a garbled explanation. She rounded up her husband and very tall sons and headed down to the field to help.
I told our vets we had an emergency and they said after they'd been out to a horse with a hole in its head (yikes) they'd send someone. I ran back out to see the guys carrying Ollie through the yard. I think at this point, everyone knew what was what. We got him in the stable and cleaned him up, tried to get him to feed, but he'd lost a lot of blood it seemed. I can't write about the first vet visit or the first night, because that's too painful, but the next morning when our regular vet, our trusted vet, Richard Phillips, came, we knew the truth. His leg was broken. Shattered. The inexperienced vet who had come out initially had cruelly given us hope, told us to keep it bandaged and he on box rest, and she would follow up.
It took Richard one look.
I am eternally sorry for him that he had to do that. Not only was he telling two people - clients he knew pretty well - that their beloved pony would not make it; he was shattering the hope that she had given us when we were so worried. I know it's not right, but I hated her that day. We never saw her again, and I can't imagine her guilt when Richard told her her mistake.
He didn't even have to explain what a broken leg meant. I knew. I ran away. Frankie was stabled next door, but I didn't like Frankie. Liked him even less now I wouldn't have Ollie. I ran to Luke, big, gentle Luke who was on the horse yard. I hid in his stable and howled into his neck. Luke and Ollie were best buddies. He would understand. Luke's neighbour, Wolfie, was owned by Carol, who looked like Debbie Harry. Unsurprisingly, she could hear me through the thin tin walls. I didn't know what to do, where to go, how to unleash my anguish. I wanted my pony and I couldn't have him and it HURT. Carol let me hurt for a while (I don't know where my mum was at this point, I wasn't thinking) and then she let herself in to Luke's stable. Upon seeing her, I told her everything. I remember her trying to comfort me, although understanding that that was impossible. She said some standard, comforting stuff, and then that I needed to try so very hard to be strong, for myself and for Frankie. Frankie? Now that got my attention. She may have just been searching for something to say, but taking something that I hadn't thought of and giving it to me to focus on made me think. She didn't say 'for your mum' or 'for Ollie' which would have made me cry more, but something utterly different. I calmed a little, although not much, thanked her, and set back off to the grim task of saying goodbye to my best pony buddy. Richard was still there, poor guy, and I got to say a semi dignified goodbye - Ollie wasn't very cuddly, but he appreciated the treats - and as a kid, my biggest relief about the whole situation was the injection, not the alternative. When younger, I'd known of horses and ponies being euthanased and it terrified me. This was a bit calmer.
I remember one moment amidst the chaos where I was outside Ollie's stable and he was perkier because of the drugs, and he was looking out with his ears pricked, looking utterly gorgeous. Perfect to my eyes. I willed that image into my brain, and I still have it now, a little fuzzy, but still there.
I tried to be there for him, right to the end, but to a 12 year old, there are some things that are just too much and I ran away again.
I remember little of the time afterward, just a haze of tears and sorrow and people offering their sympathies. I'd had a lesson booked at Ian's, on Ollie, the following Saturday. When my mum rang him to tell him what had happend, I asked her to see if I could take Frankie instead. Seeing Ian was exactly what I needed. He'd understand and work me through the pain.
And I needed to be strong for Frankie.
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