Melissa Kite Melissa Kite

Real life | 1 November 2018

‘This isn’t so bad,’ said my friend, as we knelt at my old mare’s side as she lay on the ground beneath a tree growing weak.

Aged 33 in horse years, or ninetysomething in human years, Tara had been enjoying an extraordinary renaissance since Darcy the thoroughbred had been turned out to live with her and Gracie the skewbald pony.

My old girl had taken to the young racehorse to the extent that the pair became inseparable and Gracie had to leave them to it and pootle off around the field to graze on her own.

Tara and Darcy shadowed each other day and night and even walked to the water tank together. Having been lame and stiff, the renewed walking did Tara so much good that after a week she didn’t need painkillers and for the first time in years she was medication-free.

She even galloped again. She and the youngster took to racing each other towards the fence when I arrived with their breakfast each morning. Tara lost the extra weight she had been carrying from malingering in the field shelter and started to look completely sound.

And then, suddenly, I arrived one day and she was lying down. When I went to see what was wrong, she whickered at me, rolled on to her side, stretched her head out and lay still.

I sat on the ground with her, stroked her face and neck and felt tears welling in my eyes. She made little neighing noises, very faint. She looked so weak and helpless.
A girlfriend who has a horse in the paddock next door arrived and ran from her car to help. A grave look on her face, she knelt beside me and together we petted Tara and talked to her. She was in no pain.

Already a subscriber? Log in

Keep reading with a free trial

Subscribe and get your first month of online and app access for free. After that it’s just £1 a week.

There’s no commitment, you can cancel any time.

Or

Unlock more articles

REGISTER

Comments

Don't miss out

Join the conversation with other Spectator readers. Subscribe to leave a comment.

Already a subscriber? Log in