The Unlucky Horses
There’s a little black stallion at my stables. His name is McKenzie, he’s a Shetland pony, and he needs a friend. Not a girlfriend, mind you; we don’t want any hanky-panky going on up there, at least, not for the moment. We don’t want any fighting, either, so another stallion is out of the question. What McKenzie needs is a nice little, even tempered, sexually-snipped companion to help him keep the daisies and dandelions under control. He needs someone other than Chelsea, the fluffy white Swiss sheepdog, to play with him and race him up and down one of the vast, lush, impeccably fenced paddocks. Yes, McKenzie needs a friend, and yesterday, when my friend Steph (who owns the stables) and I hopped into the lorry and set off for a small village in Burgundy, about two hours from home, we thought we’d found him one.
It was while browsing a local equestrian website about a week that I came across a cute little blond guy named Rusty. A six-year-old Shetland pony gelding, Rusty was - according to the blurb - friendly, schooled in the basics, and easy to handle. Pretty photographs portrayed a happy, cheeky little fellow who looked like he’d be perfect company for McKenzie. What could go wrong? How could we be disappointed? It wasn’t as though we were expecting to be presented with an exceptional, elegant, riding pony. We were expecting…well, a Shetland. They’re small and stocky and rugged.
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There was a funny moment as we neared our destination. Stephanie frowned, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, then turned to me wondering whether there was something specific we should request when they showed us the pony. Should we ask to see it trotted up? Giggling, I suggested flexion tests (tests performed on horses by vets to evaluate soundness), and for a couple of kilometers we laughingly extrapolated on ways of ensuring Rusty came with a relatively clean bill of health. But it wasn’t an issue we were particularly worried about; what could go wrong with a Shetland pony?
Oh dear.
Our jaws dropped and our stomachs lurched when we arrived at the so-called “centre” and discovered a spectacle of equine desolation. Trotting anything up was out of the question; apart from one healthy looking little mare being saddled up for a prospective client (this horse clearly didn’t “live” there), the forty horses and ponies on that godforsaken property looked as though they could barely muster enough energy to plod across the field to their water trough. Toast rack ribs poked through pock marked, scabby coats. Long, cracked feet stumbled through thick, oozy mud. Heads drooped, flies swarmed, and desperate noses nuzzled the earth in the hope of finding a clump of decent grass.
We were introduced to Rusty. Maybe he wasn’t toast-rack thin, but he was heartbreakingly apathetic, and the state of his coat made us cringe. He was clearly suffering from some sort of skin disease as vast areas of his body were balding and rubbed raw. When we asked what was wrong with him, we were told the pony had recently been examined by a vet who had been unable to figure out what the problem was, and that therefore it wasn’t anything serious. But wasn’t it contagious? we wondered. Oh, no! Look at all the others; they’re perfectly fine!
Perfectly fine. Yeah, right.
Admittedly, at Steph’s stables, the horses lead extremely pampered lives. Their stables are impeccable, they receive top quality food, are groomed daily from head to toe, their bodies regularly scrutinized for the slightest booboo, their demeanor constantly observed for any sign of distress. They spend a couple of hours every day grazing in individual, regularly rotated, juicy green pastures. They’re shod every five weeks, and wear leg protections when out in the field or being exercised. They’re spritzed with fly-spray, with mane and tail detangling spray, or with whatever kind of spray their wellbeing requires at any given moment. Yes, they’re extremely lucky horses. They’re also happy horses; those expressive eyes and shiny coats don’t lie. Nor do those welcoming whinnies!
Of course, horses and ponies can do perfectly well without all the trimmings ours are fortunate enough to enjoy. The crazy thing is that the young lady who greeted us at the “centre” yesterday is probably a horse lover brimming with good intentions; she was clearly devastated when we regretfully informed her that we wouldn’t be buying Rusty because we couldn’t risk infecting our own horses with some obscure skin disease. I felt terrible, because chances are she was counting on that money to buy a few bales of hay, or a couple of bags of food for her skinny animals. But even if we’d bought that poor pony, the money we’d have paid her would have been spread far too thinly on the remaining forty horses. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and a part of me feels sorry for that misguided young lady, but, seriously, what is she thinking? As we stood there, stroking sad faces, she solemnly told us she’d recently bought nine young horses from Romania.
We drove away thoroughly depressed. I couldn’t help thinking of those sordid stories you read in the newspapers once in a while about animal protection services discovering cat-crazed individuals sharing tiny living conditions with hundreds of felines. Is Rusty’s “home” in Burgandy a case for the animal protection services? Probably. But there’s only so much the animal protection services can do, and most horse rescues are already overcrowded.
Should we have bought Rusty? Should we have taken on this sad, mangy looking Shetland pony, diving head first into mountains of vet bills in an attempt to nurse him back to health? Should we have risked infecting our healthy horses with some obscure skin disease? The passionate, idealistic, thoroughly incensed horse lover in me is jumping up and down screaming “yes”. But common sense and years of experience as a horse owner insist we were right to walk away from what was bound to become an emotionally draining, financially taxing, long term problem.
Lovely little McKenzie still needs a friend to help him keep the daisies and the dandelions under control. And one of these days we’ll find him one, through word of mouth, or via a reputable breeder.
xx Francesca
http://www.francescaprescott.com/
