I grew up passionate about horses. From the time I was a small child all I ever wanted was to own one. When I had children of my own, I wanted them to have this same passion as I had, but I didn’t want them to endure the suffering I was made to endure in order to own one. Not only did I own horses, but my children had horses and the love my son Chris had for them led to us becoming amateur horse trainers.
The horses that went through our hands regularly kept us quite busy. They would arrive in a wild unruly state and leave docile and manageable. I wondered how many chilren would manage to keep their mount in order, and for how long.
Chris’ bank balance grew, but I had no idea he wanted the money to purchase a motorbike. I was not a willing parent of a kid with speed on his mind. Perhaps that’s why his motorbike dream wasn’t realised until well into the future.
These days, if you’re in the market for a new horse, there are numerous options online and the ability to post as many photos as the seller may see fit to make public. However, when we had horses the only way to discover what was available was to buy the New Zealand Herald and peruse the Horses and Vehicles column.
After working all week in an accountant’s office, I looked forward to my Saturday morning lie-in while there were no gymkhana or show commitments, but I also wanted to read if there were any ponies available. There was only one option. I’d get up, don my dressing gown, then drive down town to the self-serve honesty box, hoping no one would see me, but of course there was always at least one person who was up and about at an early hour. I’d scuttle back to the car and drive home, then with a cup of coffee in hand, I’d climb back into bed with the appropriate section of the Herald by my side.
Occasionally there was one or two horses that warranted further investigation, but on this particular morning I didn’t get far down the column when something caught my eye. It was in the Bs. Now that’s pretty close to the top of the page. It read (and I can still remember the advert almost word for word):
Ben d’ Or. Dark brown full size pony with a wealth of experience under his girth. This wonderful pony had passed his first flush of youth, but is fit and healthy, and ready to continue his career with a keen young rider who he will take to the top in his or her chosen field of horsemanship.
I jumped out of bed and dialled the number. I fully expected to hear an engaged signal on the other end, but no, it rang through, and a lady by the name of Mrs Duff answered. We chatted briefly about this paragon of equine virtue, then I asked the all important question. “How old is he please?” The reply came as a surprise. “He’s 17. I could tell you he was 10, and you’d believe me, but I’m well known in horsey circles in Auckland, and I cannot tell a lie.”
My heart sank, if I paid top price for a 17-year-old pony my husband would tell me I was nuts, but as she spoke about all Ben d’ Or’s great deeds, I knew I had to at least go and have a look at him.
All thoughts of a lie-in deserted me that morning and I called Chris. We put saddles and bridles in the car and set off. Mrs Duff had told me not to take the float, I would not be able to take him off the property that day if I bought him. She would be too upset to see him go. If we wanted him, we’d have to pick him up from a neutral spot, probably in South Auckland to make it easier for us. Her husband would deliver him.
We were soon (give or take a couple of hours travel) turning in at their gateway. At the end of the driveway were two horses, I took one look at the smaller one and commented to Chris that if that was Ben, then I’d bought him before we even got out of the car.
Sure enough, it was! After the preliminaries of grooming and saddling him, Chris put him through his paces. He was fantastic. The fact that he was 17 went straight out of my mind. Money changed hands and we agreed her husband would meet us the following Saturday. We didn’t get invited in for a coffee, she probably went inside to shed some tears. We drove home talking non-stop about that wonderful pony’s virtues. The next Saturday couldn’t come fast enough.
Being the gentleman he was, Ben walked onto the float without hesitation. No shilly-shallying around for a seasoned pro like him, in spite of it being a strange float. An uneventful trip saw us home mid-afternoon and Ben was given the chance to familiarise himself with the property while we went in for lunch, then waited for husband/father to come home from work.
We were ready for the demo as my husband walked home through the horse paddock. I legged Chris up and he rode quietly round the paddock. After a reasonable length of time he was going to canter around the perimeter of the paddock then jump a couple of obstacles that we had set up. My husband drew my attention to something in the distance and we looked away. We turned to look back only to see Chris picking himself up off the ground. I called to him, “Did you fall off?”
“No, he bucked me off, a real buck, not just a play-around pigroot,” Chris said. I was shocked.
We discovered that if Ben wasn’t ridden at least three times a week, he would hump his back and put his head down by his knees. Only a cowboy could ride a buck like that. We weren’t told that vital piece of information. Under other circumstances I might have made a request to return Ben, but there were several reasons why I didn’t. Chris would have to learn how to control him so that he didn’t get his head down to a point where the only outcome would be a sudden meeting with the hard ground. I was glad I didn’t have to prove just how good a rider I was.
We were back into the showing scene. Every weekend saw us at a show or gymkhana and an armful of ribbons draped around Ben’s neck at the end of the day. Ben knew it all, dressage, showing, jumping, cross country, he was what was known as a point and shoot pony. I almost felt a fraud, presenting him for classes that we were pretty well certain to win.
The good thing about him was that he was big enough for me to ride as well. He may not have been particularly tall, but he was chunky, what’s known as a weight carrier. He was wonderful to ride. It was time for dressage competitions at our own light horse club, I didn’t have a horse that was suitable, you know what I wanted … I challenged Chris to a competition, whoever could ride Ben in a figure of eight, and change legs in the middle as is required, would ride him in the dressage competitions. I would be in the senior section, he’d be in the pony section. We could possibly have both ridden him, but I didn’t want to have the rule book thrown at me. Of course, I won the competition against Chris and also won the dressage competition.
All good things must come to an end and what a sad end it was. Chris came home one afternoon with a very lame pony. He had challenged a kid along the road who drove a stock car to a race. The ground was hard and rough. Ben pounded along to his best ability, but the conditions beat him in the end and he finished the race with bruised soles of his feet. All four of them. He didn’t know which foot to put down and which to rest. I loaded him up into the float and took him to a farmer friend where he could graze for as long as it took.
That was the last time Chris rode him. I was thoroughly disgusted. I’d threatened a few times to give him away to a girl by the name of Trisha, and he scoffed, thinking he knew me best, that I wouldn’t give away that wonderful darling pony, but he had proven he didn’t deserve Ben. I knew Trisha would never treat a pony the way Chris had treated him, in fact this was the second time he’d all but ruined a pony through impetuosity.
When Ben recovered I called Trisha to come and have a ride on him. He was far too much horse for her, but after a week of riding every afternoon I thought she was ready to go for a gallop in a big paddock. We rode to a sheep farm where the paddocks were huge. She handled him like a pro and I told her to take him home. She was hesitant, but I was sure, she was to be Ben’s new owner.
Her mother, of course, said they couldn’t accept him as a gift, so I said to send down a dollar. He would be paid in full.
I had a number of horses myself after that, but Chris never rode again. Then I received the phone call that no animal lover wants to receive. Trisha was working for a racehorse trainer and they had been to the track. She’d arrived home to find Ben standing on three legs, he’d stepped in a rabbit hole and broken the other one. We cried over the phone, but the terrible job had to be done. Her boss took over and arranged for a grave to be dug for him and Ben was buried in the paddock he had spent his last couple of years in, with his best mate Battle Heights, a rather well-known retired racehorse. RIP Ben d’ Or.