Spent the morning with my horses, cleaning, tidying and catching up on jobs that need doing before the winter. Had a gossip with one of the other liveries. She mentioned that her eldest horse is now on phenylbutazone every other day. My heart sank. I didn’t say anything, for some reason I couldn’t formulate a reply. After all having to resort to pain killers and anti inflamatories doen’t spell the end of a horses life, at least not for everyone.

When she left I tried to busy myself but it didn’t work, I was already taking my little trip back in time. The memories of Thomas, my beloved second pony, crashing down on me like a tonne of bricks and flattening my earlier good mood. For the first time since I had returned to the yard with my current horse, and had Dub put into the stable that once belonged to Thomas I really wished I wasn’t on that yard. Everywhere I looked there was a memory. I saw Thomas in the stable, on the yard and even in the field. Guilt.

Thomas was special. After my confidence was destroyed by my first pony Thomas stepped in to save the day. He wasn’t that special, his redeeming feature being his beautiful rich bay colour and fantastic character. He wasn’t a good boy either, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he could be the bossiest most stubborn pony you could ever meet. He bucked, he kicked (if you stood behind him with a crop that is) and he loved to eat especially when out riding!. But he had a heart of gold. 1 May 1989, May Day Show. That’s when it all began, when Thomas became all mine. I was so proud.

He was  20, with ringbone. That’s why he was on phenylbutazone, without it he was lame, with it he could live a full and normal life. For two whole years our relationship developed, we used to go hacking for hours. I hated it when people criticised him, he was special. I remember him bronking round the school, I encouraged it, I loved him when he was at his worst. It was more fun that way. I remember when people told me he would never hack out alone or canter on the correct lead. He did both. He used to try and steal my Mum’s hotdog when we were at a show, chasing her round in circles. He used to take her skiing, he was so strong she just could not hold him. My little power horse, Thomas the Tank Engine.

When Thomas first starting to go downhill I thought it was just the time of year or a chill. Then I found blood in his stable and my heart sank. Bute fed in excessive amounts like any drug can affect the action of the liver. We didn’t know then. Thomas’s liver was giving up.

At 16 horses were my life, my life revolved around Thomas. I didn’t have friends, at least not human ones. When I was asked to make the choice between letting Thomas fight with the risk of pain, or ending it there I was lost. This wasn’t a decision I wanted to make. I’d always thought Thomas would be there forever.

It was the sound of a gun two days later that confirmed I had in fact made the choice to end it there. For that I can never forgive myself. You probably think I’m mad, that the life of a horse is immaterial to the life of a human. But that isn’t the case for me. Thomas, he was as much my friend as any human, more so, because he could always be relied upon. When people tell you that the feeling of loss gets easier, they are lying, because it doesn’t. You just get better at putting it to the back of your mind and not thinking about it. For a long time after I had Thomas killed I couldn’t cope with being with horses. I kept seeing him and worse still I kept hearing that bullet. A year after his death I had a dream, I was hacking out on Thomas through the countryside. It was peaceful and quiet. There wasn’t any specific event in the dream, we were just hacking quietly along a pathway towards the stables where I kept him. I awoke the following morning and booked my first riding lesson after his death.

Every time I hear a gun, every time someone mentions his name I remember. I just wish it was the good times I remembered more than his death.

When I returned to horses it was to pursue a career with them. I eventually took a place at a well known equestrian college studying a HND Equine Management. On that yard was “Knocker”, a 15hh Cob with navicular (another condition where the use of bute is necessary in order to maintain soundness). Like Thomas, he was a character of some depth, another cheeky cob with a heart of gold. It wasn’t surprising really that I grew attached to him at a rate of knots. I used to fantasise about buying him. When I left for my year in industry it was Knocker I missed, not the friends I had made during my first year. During that year I fell for and purchased Dub who I still own. He’s a cripple too now of course. I am such a sucker.

I returned to college with Dub in tow, and the first thing I thought of when I set foot on that yard was Knocker, and there he was in all his magnificent glory. Each time I went on the yard I would go first to Dub, then to Knocker. I still thought of buying him, I knew it wouldn’t happen. When I first heard that the college was to cut costs on the yard I didn’t think much of it, hey it was just another cost cutting exercise wasn’t it?. It wasn’t. The cost they cut was Knocker. He was put down whilst I was on Easter break, put down, not because he was too ill, or in too much pain. But because he was not financially viable. The bute was too expensive.

Shortly after Knocker was put down I had a Science Lecture. They pulled Knockers leg out of the freezer. Passive as I appeared I realised then working with horses was no longer the job for me. I was, and still am, far too soft. Too guided by my emotions.

I finished the course. I never felt quite the same about the college or the equine industry after that. I can’t work in an industry in which we have to make such choices, finance over a life.