The foal is out of hospital and back home. To recap: the foal cost £600 and her first veterinary bill, sustained when she threw herself on top of a fence post, cost £768. That’s fine. I know horse owning makes no sense. I’m coming to the conclusion that life in general makes no sense.
What I’m slightly less sanguine about is the fact that no sooner had we put little Darcy in her stable and shut the door than one of the others started limping.
Gracie, the skewbald sports pony, came out of her box lame for no apparent reason, though when we examined her it seemed more than likely she had an abscess brewing in her right forefoot owing to the slimy weather. So we bandaged her up and put her back in the stable next to the foal.
The two of them are bored senseless being on box rest but try to keep each other amused by sticking their heads over the partition and biting each other’s faces. I suppose this is no worse than what goes on in most NHS wards.
Grace, who is on a shavings bed, has also taken to stealing mouthfuls of Darcy’s straw. With too much time on her hands, she has come rather neurotically to the conclusion that the service she is receiving is less salubrious than that afforded Darcy, even though shavings are more expensive. Every time I walk into the block, Gracie looks at me accusingly as if I am deliberately running a two-tier system.
When I pet Darcy, Grace, who has never before shown the slightest sign of aggression, lunges at the partition and tries to take a chunk out of her. When I say, ‘Hello, Darcy’, Gracie neighs hysterically as if to say, ‘What about me? What about meeeeeeeee!’
The only way to pacify her is to totally ignore the yearling until I have stuffed Gracie’s stable full of hay and petted her for ten minutes.
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