........a few months on

In a mere matter of weeks the weather finally cleared to a fine drizzle which was positively clement for our particular corner of the world, so the time came to turn Blue and Oscar out in the field. It was decided early on in our acquaintance that Pilgrim the Post wrecker was unsuitable to be turned out in the big field due to his preoccupancy with destruction. So having read a million different do's and dont's of introducing horses to each other I spent roughly 3 days painstakingly fencing off a portion of the field for each horse, ensuring each had some shade, water, access to the sun, each other, the moons gravitational pull and every other thing possible with electric fencing. Those familiar with electric fencing will know it takes a particular type of horse to be fooled by it and for those horses it is a genuis invention. You could in essence put a circular pen in the middle of the slow lane of the motorway, caravans and sunday drivers permitting, and said horse would not escape for fear of the stinging fence. However, once educated on the weaknesses of such a fence, the more cynical horse who has by nature questioned everything you have so far told him, will quickly learn that he can come and go between boundaries as he pleases. So to be on the safe side, 'the mother' and I spent a fortune on special extra tall posts with four rows of tape on, the fencing equivalent to the Berlin wall circa 1989. After 6 hours of tape attaching we were ludicrously proud of our achievements, with a gate to each compartment and all looking neat and tidy. Blue was the first to be released and reacted predictably: galloping round at full belt with mud flying, screeching at the top of his unaccountably high voice, bucking, rearing, snorting and with the rolled eye of a lunatic. No change there then. So after he was settled and back to his ever-present pacing, Oscar was introduced. No mean feat, as the field was the other side of the village. He behaved impeccably all the way, partly due to my expert handling, and partly due to there being little traffic in my sleepy village at 5am on a sunday morning: we were taking no chances! On reaching the field he was deposited into his section with little trouble and the mother and I stood back to silently gloat on our horse-handling efficiency when they spotted each other. Blue opted for a faraway glazed aura, akin to a captain surveying a battlefield from a safe distance. Both advanced like cats to the adjoining fence for the moment of truth, Blue with the air of a pit bull advancing in a fight, Oscar just out of pure curiosity. There was the mandatory nose sniff and all seemed well for a second or two until Blue let out a squeal like a stuck pig and struck out with his front leg, a classic dominance sign. Oscar to his pure credit didnt make a sound or gesture and just let the histrionic Blue continue his latin themed dance along the fence. The absolute foil in our plan however was that Oscar loves grass. So naturally, he dropped his head and starting munching with a vengeance. Sadly he gave our masterpiece of a fence not even a glance as he calmly munched his way under the bottom tape, so his head was through to Blue's side. The mother and I had gone from gloating to a sense of impending doom, whilst knowing we could do nothing to prevent it. Far from the large electric shocks that were now (supposedly) coursing through his head, it was the noise of his rug rustling on the tape that caught Oscars attention. Which naturally made for a swift head rise, and in doing so he neatly pulled our beautiful fence up by its posts so the tape adorned his ears like some kind of pagan headdress. Having assessed the situation and its possible outcomes for a second or two he calmly ambled underneath it into Blue territory. Along with the dread that filled me at the potential deathmatch, a little detached portion of my mind had to hand it to the little man. He had swiftly despatched with years of product research, development and production without apparently even noticing. Genius.

.....meanwhile....!

Around the same time as the aforementioned colic attack, another little man was - in the far depths of France - saying goodbye to a part of his anatomy that he was (as most males are) particularly fond of. Anyone who has spent time around horses is most likely aware that a stallion appears in a different category of horse ownership and despite previous experience of handling them I felt it right to do the sensible thing and have him gelded. Stallions are unpredictable and may become dangerous if not handled properly so as it was the unknown arriving and he could be as big as Pilgrim it would have been foolhardy at best to risk it. I very much doubt he agreed with my decision but thankfully I wasnt there as the face of the betrayal so he doesnt hold it against me! He was officially named Souci (rather alarmingly means Concern in french) but that doesnt really roll with Blue and Pilgrim so I named him Oscar, much to the Mothers disgust. Horses shouldnt have human names apparently!



As it happens, we didnt get quite the second huge beast we were expecting. Although listed as 3 years old he was actually at most around 18months and as the transporter opened the ramp a tiny, folorn looking little boy stood blinking back at me. He had the worst respiratory infection I have ever seen and for the first few hours strangles was suspected. Thankfully, my vet was positive it wasnt as a case of strangles as severe as that would have rendered the horse unable to move. As it was, it took me half an hour to get him to follow me down the alleys and various paths to his stable and by the time we arrived there I was in love (again!!!). He was quiet, shy and looked like he needed a lot of love and attention, which considering he had just lost the aforementioned 'pom poms' as a friend has labelled them is hardly surprising. He was in a stable with a half wall so he could see Pilgrim but with an empty stable between the two of them and he proceeded to snuffle, whinny, snort and head shake in an attempt to gain Pilgrims attention. A more solitary horse than Pilgrim you never did see and Oscars attempts produced nothing more than a cursory glance. The ever-present vet administered a ridiculous amount of 4 weeks of anti-biotics (which were admittedly needed) and by the time he had finished them the endless stream of goo that was escaping his nostrils, eyes and various other orifices thankfully dried up. He eventually started to be aware of his surroundings and we were soon rewarded daily with a shout for breakfast. He has since that first snotty arrival never had a sick day and despite becoming (somewhat unfairly I might add) the Mothers Bete Noire due to a slight lack of manners and a tendency to barge he fits into our little family very well and looks better every day.

....the neverending walk

So then it began. the walking. The painkillers and various other varieties of medication was keeping the pain at bay temporarily but if he didnt dislodge whatever was blocking his gut the colic would just re-occur in 4 hours time. So naturally the only way to keep his innards moving was for his outers to do the same. I dont think I've ever walked so far in my life, although considering my aversion to exercise thats not particularly impressive. Round and round the sand school we went, fuelled only by a Pizza Hut special delivered by a certain special someone. Despite his complete aversion to horses and an important golf competition the following day my beloved stayed with me all night, albeit sat in the car, from which I could see the steam of disapproval rising! It was immediately apparent that I was to be gaining little sleep that night and so on we paced until it became obvious Pilgrim was propping me up as opposed to vice versa, so we stopped. I sat on my deckchair with a throw and a huge dinosaur head hanging over me, and slept for half an hour or so. Although it was obvious he was exhausted from the pain and walking, I have never felt closer to anything before or since than having that huge head stood right over me, resting his lip and snoring gently in my lap. He could have stepped forward and knocked my chair over or worse stood on me (he's not that great with personal space) but he didnt. Whether you believe in animals ability for emotion or not, I know without a doubt that he was glad of my company that night. Sadly, the calm wasn't to last and around midnight I had to drag my vet out of bed to drive an hour and administer more pain killers. I felt faintly embarrassed and ever so sorry for him. That was until I received the bill a week later obviously! By my calculations he costs more per minute than Johnathan Ross pre 'Sachsgate'. More walking was prescribed and off we went again. It was around 2:30 in the morning when it was time for another rest on my part, as semi-supporting 850kilos whilst walking up and down a slope on sand is more than a match for anyone. Pilgrim went down quite quickly and seemed to sleep in a relatively comfortable position so I joined him in slumber.

It was a lovely wake up call in that the following day was an absolute scorcher, so it was one of those rare occasions where you wake up with the warm sun on your face and the light is so lovely it warms your bones. Which quickly rose to an uncomfortable flush when the walking resumed. Around the 53rd lap Pilgrim stopped dead, proceeding to lift his tail and produce the loudest, longest expulsion of air I have ever heard. I wouldnt doubt it could blow the titanic up from its murky depths. Shortly after that he began to take a keen interest in the left over contents of the Pizza Hut box, and I felt it safe to assume he was over the worst of it. As the world woke up and he received various guests he transformed from a meek, pathetic looking specimen to something akin to a polish pickpocket. He decided he was ravenous and promptly wolfed a half haynet (his maximum ration on strict instructions) in a record 4 minutes. He spent the rest of the unseasonably hot day dozing under a tree while the mortals in his life flinched at every groan and move he made. He had a mild re-occurence of the colic a week or two later and it was decided he more than likely had worm damage from unsuitable pasture at an early age. 'The mother' then burst into action and scoured the net for a suitable product to aide the delicate and precise digestion of a horse that weighed the best part of a ton. A niche market if ever there was one! Thankfully she found a brilliant product and aside from a slight re-occurence when he over-indulged on rotten apples (we were entirely unsympathetic as he broke through 2 fences to get at them) it appears to have kept any further attacks at bay. Speaking of bays, the star of the show has been conspicuous by his absence in recent posts but never fear; he knows how to create a scene should he have slipped out of the limelight so he shall re-appear shortly!

.....almost a tragedy cont.

Upon the arrival of the vet (who even to my ludicrously young eyes looked like he had not long finished his paper round) Pilgrim soon resembled a pin cushion. Painkillers, anti-spasmodics and roughly 5 other things that I cannot pronounce. Added to the fact that he weighs around 850 kilos and therefore needs a double dose of everything his innards must have been swimming in medicine (and pound signs!) However he was so far gone by this point that it became clear he wasn't responding to the recently administered 'magic juice'. The vet began to mention that maybe it would be better to put him to sleep but there was no way on this earth any of us there (the previously mentioned non-speaking liveries had arrived to stick their oar in) were going to give up so with 5 of us in total we heaved, grunted, sweated and cried him into a lion-like position. Naturally, he had his front legs crossed and couldnt get up, so he was again heaved and tugged and sweated a bit more until he made a final effort (which I am convinced would have been his last) and got up. It has since been discovered that Pilgrim actually suffers from a little known disease called wimpitis, an affliction suffered by hypochondriacs worldwide, but on this particular occasion I fully believe he had given up on life.

......almost a tragedy

So things with the new boy went well for the first few weeks, Blue decided early on in the relationship he couldn't figure out quite what type of creature this hulking mammoth was, ergo he was beneath him and quite obviously not worthy of becoming an aide to his charismatic self. He had long hair for god's sake! (Blue is part of the immaculately trimmed to the point of perfection brigade) Thankfully the newbie had no interest in Blue or to be honest anything much other than food. He did appear a little shell shocked and quiet to the point of meekness in the first week he was with us, which we put down to the shock of the move and change of diet. Now for a name! I don't know about you, but I don't find that Quasi de Lunay particularly rolls off the tongue, and sounds all too close to Quasimodo. Which would fit him perfectly, but I'm not that mean. The gallivanting mother was now back off her holidays and after the initial pale faced greeting had quickly fallen for the not so handsome prince as per my cunning plan. She started musing over grandiose names like Arculf (a gaelic pilgrim or some such chaff, I think she could quite easily see herself galloping through the waves on her majestic grey steed). I favoured Tank. Still do, particularly after an all too regular toe-crushing foot stomp. To call him Arculf would have been like branding snoopy Count marqesta de La forna, so we came to a compromise of Pilgrim. Not either of our favourites, but better than Arculf! (not better than tank, but I'm not too bitter). After a week or so of owning 2 horses that were the complete antithesis of each other, we nearly went back to owning one. The mother arrived at the yard earlier than me to find Pilgrim drenched from head to toe like a hog on a roast, and groaning like a drunkard. I arrived to find him halfway into the sand school with his legs looking to buckle underneath him. It was colic. For those of you who don't know, horses cant be sick once they have eaten, and therefore any bad food ingested needs to go through the..erm...system. Unfortunately, should they eat something that disagrees with them, it can quite often ferment in their stomachs and produce a massive amount of gas and cause a blockage in their gut. This is extremely painful for them and they often lie down and thrash around to relieve the pain. There are several complications that can occur which I wont bore you with the details of, suffice to say its not a nice thing to see. I called the obligatory vet (first name terms) and after me rather embarrassingly wailing and blubbing down the phone at him he managed to ascertain where I was and would be with me in an hour. An HOUR!?! Surely there is some kind of teleportation device that can get a professional to an emergency immediately, does he fail to realise ones horse is the most important on the planet?! So we waited, with Pilgrim becoming progressively worse and in more pain.

.....the beast arrives

Now if you are reading this blog then I am going to make the assumption that you know at least a little about horses. My particular point being height. Now when a horse is described as 16hh, you generally take it to mean that he is 16 x 1 hh, as in 64 inches (4 inches in a hand, come on keep up!) to his withers (the equivalent of the middle of the shoulders on a human is the best I can describe it). So after convincing my lovely mother that he would be a perfect quiet plod for her to tootle round the village on we both waited with baited breath for his impending arrival. Said mother was off gallivanting in Dublin (pre-arranged and unavoidable apparently) when he arrived and I have to admit I was quite glad or she would possibly have bashed me round the head. The horsebox rumbled quietly into the yard mid-afternoon and I could feel the blood draining from my face. With robust derriere rammed against one window, dinosaur head rammed against the opposing one and ears brushing the roof my '16hh' hack had arrived. It is at this point I will admit that I had done a little research (after reserving him, naturally) into the Percheron breed and had read rather alarming reports which included the phrases 'draft horse', 1000kilos and possibly the odd 'largest horse recorded' but had donned my optimistic hat with a flourish and hoped for the best. I will never forget the day he arrived for the rest of my life. I send thanks to the god of the horses that I had by chance a huge stable already earmarked for him, but I cannot claim that as judgement just mere luck. I had not a headcollar that would even fit around his nose let alone his whole head! The transporter gingerly lowered the ramp to reveal the beast within and I think I actually gasped. To this day I am still astounded by his size and that first sight high up on the top of the ramp was....impressive. He is around 17.3hh minimum but its not his height that is astounding its his size. Its like he has been 'super sized' a la McDonalds or similar. He ambled off the lorry as if he'd been out for a meander round town as opposed to a 24 hour journey, pottered into his stable, quietly and immediately munched his hay. I'm astounded when I look back on it but I actually went into his stable and gave him a quick flick over with a brush and he never batted an eye. Now for the inevitable meeting of monster and mother!

.....the dangers of the Internet!

So we spent the next few months bumbling along in our own unique way and I began to enjoy the highs and admittedly not yet many lows of horse ownership (I think this is whats now known as a 'good run') when I found a website. No not THAT kind of website!! To have my lifelong obsession with horses quelled by a pre-occupation with Ken and Barbie copulation would be tragic, although even considering premium rate calls decidedly cheaper. No, with the eagerness of a bloodhound on a particularly pungent trail I stumbled upon a website which posted pictures and information about horses on fattening farms in France. The website is entirely non-profit and it assists in the organisation of rescuing a horse from said farms and transporting it back to the UK. Now I know even before I type that what you're thinking. Complete tripe. However it wasnt on my first visit that I was convinced. I posted on a horse forum asking fellow equine enthusiasts whether they thought it was genuine and if so how sad it was etc. Probably a month went by and I was as always immersed in my own neddy and his personal foibles when I received an email from the lady who set up the site. I wont go into detail as its entirely not my place but she personally went over to a france and a particular farm and saw for herself the reality of the situation. You will forgive my lack of not so ever present wit in this post as what she told me was appalling. I could post all manner of repulsive, sickening videos of the frightening and confusing journey horses endure to get to a final destination of death however I dont have the stomach to see them again. Enough to say it made me ashamed of the human race. The things she told me convinced me that she and the site were genuine (we are still friends to this day) and so I went back on more out of interests sake than anything else, one crazy mammal was more than enough for me. I think he was about page 14 and you can insert an appropriate cliche regarding love at first sight/heart stopping etc here. Quazi De Lunay was his name and he was to be mine. No matter that he had not had a vetting, was coming from more than questionable circumstances, could have any manner of not only life-threatening but also contagious diseases and to top that all was unbroken. There was also his 1500 euro price tag, almost double that of the other horses on there. I emailed the site and reserved him that day which I grant you is a little rash but he was listed as extremely urgent and just look at that face!