A horse and his boy

Wayne had never really encountered horses before we moved to the country. Oh sure, he'd bumped up against them occasionally in the past (his father had a few racehorses from time to time and Wayne would sometimes help out on race day), but that's not the same thing.

(And do NOT get me started on the racing industry... it's one of those things I will always chafe against, like the stupid neo-pronounciation of Oamaru, that ANYONE could be so stupid as to trust or vote for "Plastic Winnie" Peters, and other of life's little annoyances).

Anyhoo (stepping off the soap box, LOL), now we had land of our own I couldn't wait to have horses again. In hindsight I shouldn't have rushed into it but a 'friend' talked me into letting her find me some free horses, as she was in the know and was sick of seeing perfectly nice horses getting destroyed for lack of good homes.

Being a snob of the first order, only Thoroughbreds would do. I'm a bush brumby by heart, and had 'been there done that' with Tb's in my youth, and was not that keen on getting any more of the mad buggers. Oh don't get me wrong - if you're 17 and bullet proof and ride 6 hours a day, AND you want a showy dressage horse that might have a jump like a gazelle, then a TB might just be the horse for you. But if you're 38 (15 years out of practice) with a raw beginner adult underfoot, and want something low and slow to get your muscles and balance sorted again, a TB might not necessarily be what you'd look for.

(Yes yes yes I know. There are such things quiet TB's and lazy Arabs and clumsy Warmies and every other exception you can think of. I'm speaking in generalities of course, so take your spurs off before you leap all over me. You horsey folk know what I'm getting at.)

Via this 'friend' we soon met Westie and his soon to be ex-owner, Adrienne, who was moving to suburbia and couldn't take him with her. I soon realised that far from 15, Westie was actually 20, but that was okay as an older horse is often more sedate than a younger one. He was sound in himself, he just needed some light work and lots of cuddles.

And company. The one thing he needed more than air was companionship. You see, he'd lived the past decade or so completely alone except for a sheep, and if you're a horse there are few things more miserable than a solitary life.

Soon (via the same 'friend') we were put in touch with Dusky, who was being replaced by a young Cleveland Bay. Dusky was 15 (yes actually), and was almost identical to Westie in colouring and type, except Dusky was a lot taller and had the most amazing swinging walk. It was a lot of fun trying to meander around the farm on these two - Dusky striding out in long comfy swings, Westie desperately mincing along behind and getting more frustrated as he kept falling behind until finally he'd race to catch up, then overshoot... which would make Dusky want to race and ... oh shit cut it OUT fellas! Neither of you is Phar Lap, and we're not jockeys!

Wayne and Westie hit it off from the beginning. For all his silliness under saddle, Westie was completely safe on the ground. (Except the time I was lungeing Wayne to teach him how to rise to the trot, and Westie got a fright and went into his famous accelerated reverse.. and I held on to the lunge rein and ripped all the skin off my palms. I didn't let go though! Wayne would probably have been okay, but at the time I felt the only thing between Wayne getting carted off by a bolting horse with a long-line hanging from his bridle was my grip.)

But other than that, you could trust Westie to be a gentleman. You could sit underneath his belly in a thunderstorm and he'd probably not trample you. (Not that anyone would test this theory with a high-strung born-again equine teenager!) Wayne could and frequently did visit Westie in his paddock early in the morning, and curl up and have snuggles with him as he lay snoozing on the ground.

They had a wonderful bond, and loved each other.

Don't let anyone tell you horses have no sense of humour.

When we were planning the eventual paddocks in the large block of empty farm, we used a theodolite and marker pole to get the paddocks square and exact. Wayne would fiddle with the theodolite, and it fell to me to stand absolutely still with the marker pole as Wayne sighted the line.

Sounds easy, eh.

Now YOU try doing that with two horses crowding you, saying "Whatcha got there, Mum?" "Can we play with that, Mum?".

I'd be down the hollow and all Wayne could see was the top of the pole. Instead of staying still, it would be wildly weaving around like a drunken sailor as I tried to wrestle it away from the 'big brown fools'. I could have chased them off but it was pretty hard to be all serious and annoyed when I was laughing so much (and I laughed even harder when Wayne's screams of outrage and frustration floated down to me on the breeze.. I'm perverse like that).

Whenever it was time to be shod, Westie would want to undo the farrier's apron and make all the tools fall to the ground. John was very good to Westie, and always gave him a tiny head start by tugging the strap a little looser so that 'Old Lippy' could get some purchase on it.

Westie's most enduring nickname was Westiefarts, and to know him was to smell him.

He would store up a real beauty until John had reached the hind feet, then he'd shift and let rip something green and noxious. The sound alone made you reconsider your glass cover in your insurance policy. It was too often on cue to be accidental, and it got to the point that if you were going to do ANYTHING down that end (undo his cover, brush his tail, pick out his hind feet, etc) you knew what was coming.

One day we were putting covers on for the night, and again expected to be graced by a Westiefart. On this occasion however, the well was dry.

He looked as surprised as we did, then strained a little. Nothing. Not even a pheep. The whole time we were covering the horses he kept up his search for wind, but kept coming up empty.

We were in the paddock some time that evening, but on our eventual departure we got as far as the gate when we heard the sound of hoof beats coming up behind us, fast.

We turned to see Westie charging towards us. Just in time, he propped, wheeled, presented his bum and FARTED.

We burst out laughing at his expression of satisfaction as he smirked at us, then headed back to his mates at a spanking trot.

Don't tell me that horse didn't know exactly what was expected of him.

We had to send Westie over the Rainbow Bridge a couple of years ago due to cancer and advanced arthritis. He's buried not 40 feet from where I sit typing this, and a big shady tree is planned when we landscape the garden around him, some day.

(Btw the more observant of you would have noticed the qualifying punctuation marks around the 'friend' who found us Westie and Dusky. This person turned out to be no friend at all, and she had lied both to us and to Dusky's former owners, causing a major misunderstanding and blowout that led to Dusky being ripped from us in a thoroughly unpleasant custody battle. Poor old Dusky ended his life as a trekking horse due to this woman's perfidy, instead of having a loved and gentle retirement with us and his dear friend Westie. Westie, for his part, never got over losing the first friend he'd had in many years, and it's fair to say his heart was broken. Moral of the story: Never trust the word of a 'friend', get everything in writing and if someone offers you a horse or anything they might later claim to be "of value", give them something for the exchange, even if it's only $5, and get a RECEIPT. And never, EVER trust a middle man.)

These pix were taken in '99 (Wayne pre-beard, LOL!), and are beaut viewed in sequence.



Pic 1: The horse and his boy.


















Pic 2: Westie licks Wayne up the side of the face, in affection.
















Pic 3: Yuck! Change your aftershave!

(Btw, we don't have any Thoroughbreds on the farm now, just five very sweet and wonderful Standardbreds. Not that I'm sorry to have known and loved Westie and Dusky, but give me Standies any day.)