Bobby's Story

J

JenHunt

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It's almost a year ago, and I still haven't had a day where I don't think about him. And, I still haven't shared his story with you... so here's the start of it...

(OP is here btw)

Bobby’s story doesn’t have a beginning. We don’t to this day know how it starts. But I can tell you from where we come in to it.

A friend of the family, R, had recently lost a horse to a twisted gut, and needed a companion to her old hunter. Mistral was arab x welsh and a big girls blouse when it came to being on his own. R wanted a pony who would be easy to keep and might be able to go on the occasional short hack. A few visits to see horses for sale, and to the sales, an old hunting acquaintance called her to say she had a pony R might be interested in. When R went to see him she found a terrified, skinny welsh cob, matted mane, straggly tail, covered in scrapes and grazes. She was told that the lady had paid £50 for him in York sales as he wouldn’t go in the ring and the owner couldn’t afford to take him home.

Bobby went home with R that day. He had to be manhandled up the trailer ramp, and off the other end. She spent weeks gaining his trust, feeding him and letting him be a horse with Mistral. Soon he would let her put a hand on the halter, clip on a lead rope and take him onto the yard with Mistral. He was putting on weight with regular feeding and some good grass, but his mane, tail and coat were still matted. It took another 6 months to be able to groom him, and he wouldn’t tolerate a comb in his mane. The scrapes he came with faded, except one, a circular scar the size of a 50p piece, which would forever be mistaken for ringworm, right on his buttock, next to his tail, which never grew any hair back. Also, the scars on the front of his hocks, which did grow hair back, remained ridged and furrowed.
 
Inside a year Bobby was happy to be shod, and be tacked up. R tried to lunge him and long rein him but he’d panic, go up, bolt, turn himself inside out to get away. Instead R would ride and lead, using Mistral to teach him the commands. R’s daughter came home from uni that summer and helped to back him, leaning over gently, sitting up, and taking those all important few steps. Bobby wanted to learn, to be praised, to please people. Once R could ride him, she hacked out, got him seeing the world, and enjoying life. She started to introduce him to the trailer, and started to take him on pleasure rides with a friend or her daughter who would ride Mistral.

The following spring Mistral didn’t bounce back from the winter, and I was growing out of the pony that R had given us previously. After lengthy discussions with my parents R decided that she would have me come and ride Bobby a little to see how we got on, and if it worked out and Mistral still wasn’t improving that he would be PTS and Bobby would come to us.

So one cold May morning, I was taken up to R’s house and installed on Bobby. He was such a big change from my 13hh pony. At 15hh he was huge, but also narrower! We had a little stroll around the last remaining stubble field from the previous summer, then a trot and finally I was allowed to canter him back up the hill towards the farm. After Buzz’s choppy pony stride I felt like we were flying. He didn’t (couldn’t) jog like Buzz, instead he went from a long smooth walk into the biggest welshest trot imaginable, and from there into a wonderful canter. I loved him instantly. 4 weeks later a very unhappy Bobby was delivered to our house – he’d lost his friend and had his world turned upside down in one morning.
 
That first week he didn’t know what to do with himself, he barely ate, and went back to wind-sucking (which he hadn’t done for some time). Bobby wouldn’t let my Dad catch him, he’d run round the outside of the 8 acre field rather than get close to my dad. He’d warily let my mum approach, but happily walk up to me. He lost a bit of weight again that first week, but found a kindred spirit in my old pony Buzzy. The old man showed Bobby the ropes, taught him how to lean over the fence to reach mum’s vegetable patch, and about winding up the horses that trot past on the road. Buzzy at this point was in his mid 30’s but never behaved like it.

Over that summer Bobby and I got to know each other, and I started to teach him to jump. My instructor told my Mum off for letting an 11 year old kid teach a pony to jump, but when she saw how Bobby would try for me and how honest he was, changed her mind.

In July Bobby and I went to pony club camp, with Bobby jumping about 2 foot at that stage, and having been with us for about 6 weeks. The first night Bobby got panicked in his stable and jumped out. I heard him calling for Buzzy (who was there with my sister) and him replying. The lady who ran camp found him leaning into Buzzy’s stable, and the pair of them scratching withers over the door. She put him back in but he jumped out again once she’d gone and went straight to where Buzzy was. After that Bobby was allowed to be outside Buzzy’s stable at night, in a little corral.

We learnt so much that summer, and at the end of camp came away with the most improved pony title, and a show jumping prize for the biggest leap over the smallest fence (after he jumped both parts of a 2 foot high bounce in one go!).
 
The months rolled by, and we tried hunting. Bobby wasn’t sure what to do and got quite anxious, but was quite happy to do as he was told. Once he got the hang of it we discovered that he would prefer to trot whilst other, bigger, horses were cantering on. And he’d be keeping up! He was a little star, always returning home safely and always happily jumping or standing or whatever we were doing with no fuss.

My family had always had native types, and they had always lived out, even when they were hunting. But Bobby didn’t do so well in the winter, and started to lose weight. We bought and fed sugar beet and barley until it was coming out of our ears, and for the first time in 30 year my parents had to buy rugs!

But, the care paid off and he came out of the winter thin, but healthy, shiny and full of beans. In fact, too full of beans. He almost became difficult when the grass came through, going up if you put too much pressure on him to do something he wasn’t sure of.

My instructor thought it was spring grass fever and advised us to give him some time off. When we caught him jumping out of the field to follow a mare up the road we had him tested to find that he was a rig. Not a true rig, but showing signs of it. The vet thought he would grow out of it, and the chances were he’d only been cut a couple of years before. Bobby didn’t like the vet, mostly because he was male, unfamiliar and smelt funny. He tried to boot him, tried to bite him and tried to flatten him against the wall.

The farrier however, was a different propostion. Bobby seemed to realise that the farrier was there to help, and tolerated him. The farrier was an elderly gentleman, with a fabulous handlebar moustache, a pipe and a brilliant, old fashioned manner about him. Bobby treated him with respect most of the time. But on one occasion got a bit cocky and picked him up by his belt when he’d put one front foot up on the stand! The farrier couldn’t do anything except dangle there until Bobby decided he could put him back down!
 
When we brought him back into work after his little break we went back to having regular lessons, doing pony club rallies, competitions, cross country schooling. You name it, we probably did it. Bobby was so honest, so kind, and if he didn’t understand what you wanted he’d try something until you praised it. You’d ask again and he’d got it. He learnt so quickly.

I remember teaching him to jump into water. He tried climbing into it one foot at a time, he tried sliding off the edge of the step, he tried going round it and finally, once he realised I wanted him to jump off he jumped in and stopped dead, not sure what to do next. We did this a lot until he realised that I wanted him to keep trotting out the other side. Once he got that we were away. The same with a big brush fence, it took him a couple of goes to realise you didn’t have to jump it all, and that the brush bits at the top would move!

Camp that year (we were both 12) we had a lovely lady teaching us who thought Bobby was the best thing since sliced bread, and he seemed to like her too. She gave us lots of things to work on to help Bobby to get the right canter lead each time, and to help him to shorten the giant trot to get a better canter transition. All the hard work paid off and we won the end of camp Novice show jumping. I was so proud of him that I cried.

My mum rang R to tell her how well Bobby was doing, but got the dreadful news that R was very ill in hospital following an accident. Mum wouldn’t allow me to go and visit, but did go herself, with the pictures of Bobby and I from camp, and the little keepsake trophy we had won.
 
R did recover, but it was a very long, slow process, and just as she recovered her personal life fell apart. But that’s a whole other story.

Bobby was selected for pony club show jumping teams that year too, and we were one of only a handful of individual triple clears at area level. Unfortunately the team didn’t qualify, but we learnt a lot. That was the first time I’d ever competed at such a big show, and my nerves go the better of me but Bobby must have been watching the course and took me round without a second thought. The pictures that came out were hilarious – there’s a look of terror on my face but Bobby’s little curved ears and bright eyes just said “yippeeee!!”

As the winter rolled in we got into hunting again, but we were prepared for keeping his weight on, and for the ensuing sillyness in the spring. But Bobby was growing up, and never one to avoid change, he was better this spring, not nearly so riggish. The colouring of his coat was becoming more marked each year too. If he’d been grey he would have been dappled, but he was dark bay, almost black on top, fading to cream under his belly, with huge dapples showing through. Mum always used to say he looked like a half cooked fruit cake.

Up until now my dad had been unable to catch him, but this spring Bobby changed his mind, and dad was now allowed in the same field as Bobby without him panicking. Bobby still wouldn’t let him go in his stable, but it was a step forwards.
 
The years drifted past, with Bobby getting better and better, and the year we were 14, Bobby was selected to compete pony club area horse trials, and area show jumping, and we won the Open show jumping at Camp. The horse trials was brilliant, the judge loved his little face and forgave his lack of flair for dressage, and by the end of the day we had beaten a young Oli Townend! He had flown round the cross country, not batting an eyelid at the fences that would have been scary two years ago.

For hunting, Bobby had graduated from the dutch gag to a loose ring snaffle and the buckle end, and would allow me to carry (but not use) a hunting whip. He would stand on point, or round up a loose hound, or follow on at the back with kids, or lead them over rails. He was a super hunter, knew what it was about and was as sure footed as they came. For going down very steep slopes he would lock his front legs and paddle with the back ones until the pile of mud was too big in front of him, then step over it and start again.

The year we turned 15 I ruptured knee ligaments running for the school, then got an infection in the joint. I spent about 6 months on crutches. I was told it would be a year before I rode again, but within 6 weeks of the cast coming off I was on. Bareback, but on. Walking or cantering, but riding. Bobby knew I couldn’t trot and tried his hardest to keep smooth transitions between walk and canter. I couldn’t stand for long and the crutches scared him so I would sit in the corner of his stable and he’s either lie down and put his head in my lap or lower his head for me to brush it.
 
That Christmas I came home from school and went to get the horses in (we had 5 at that point), and unusually had to go back for Bobby. He was standing on three legs, with blood pouring from a tiny wound on his hind fetlock. I called the vet, and persuaded Bobby to walk onto the yard. After he had been battered by Bobby the vet proclaimed that it was a punctured fetlock joint. He said that the next 2 or 3 days would be crucial and if he didn’t start to put weight on it that would have to be time called. Bobby was sound the next day, and had 3 weeks off to repair before coming slowly back into work.

I was growing out of Bobby really, at 5 foot 8, and a lot of that leg, I looked a little silly on a 15hh pony, but it took my parents a year to convince me that my sister could ride him and that I could move on to a bigger horse.

That last season (when we were both 16) was awesome, he was winning left right and centre, I passed my C test and he didn’t freak when someone else rode him, we jumped 1m35 in a chase me Charlie, and he surprised everyone by jumping an Intermediate BE height and width cross country fence to get back to me after I fell off when jumping bareback at camp. I got lost out hunting, dropped my reins to get out the brick of a mobile phone dad had lent me for the day, and found that Bobby had walked on and found the right path home.

The following spring my sister took on Bobby, and we bought a silly, spooky warmblood for me. He was lovely, very smart but very difficult and would never be my Bobby. Over the next 3 years my sister worked hard with Bobby on his flat work, and continued to improve, the results got better and better.

Then, when Bobby and I were 19, my sister outgrew him too. Neither of us could bare to part with such a wonderful friend, and begged my parents to let us put him on loan.
 
We found a family down the road who’s daughter had lost a lot of confidence on a previous pony, and would barely walk off the lead rein. She loved Bobby instantly, like I had. He spent nearly 4 years there, and by the time she out grew him the little girl was hunting up front with the best of them. The family helped us to find another suitable family home for him, and had 13 to choose from as so many people in their pony club wanted him. He went to a family who it turned out we knew from when I was competing on Bobby.

Their youngest daughter wanted to do PC teams, and to hunt with her older brothers. Bobby was now 23, but still going strong. He would happily hunt all day, or go round an open event course. He was a pony club mothers dream, safe, sensible, talented. He was there for the final 5 years of his life, barring a couple of months.
 
In June 2009, the family called us to say that they’d like to find a new home for Bobby as their daughter was going to uni in the September. They thought he needed a slower pace of life as the fetlock that had been punctured was showing signs of arthritis. They helped to put us in touch with a lady who just wanted a pony to hack about on. We went to see him before he moved. He called out to me and trotted across the field. He still had the beautiful face he’d had when we got him, but it looked old now. His summer coat hadn’t come through properly, and he moved slowly now. I just wanted to take him home, but our boys would have been too rough for him.

He went to the lady, a beautiful old fold yard, rolling green fields, a totally idyllic place.

In the September she rang and said he’d lost a lot of weight and seemed to be losing the sight in one eye. She said she had the vet coming out, but she wanted to keep us informed. She rang back a week later. He’d been seen by the vet, and it wasn’t good news. The little warty thing he’d had above his eye since R bought him and which had never changed, had grown inwards and strangled the optic nerve, reducing his sight in that eye to virtually nothing. The weight the vet put down to diet until he scoped him, and found a mass of tumours around his intestines, starving him. They made the decision to let Bobby have one last week, in the late autumn sunshine before calling time.

In the end Bobby did what he did best, made his own fate. He died quietly in the field overnight a few days later (6th October 2009) . Aged 28.

he had been best friend to so many little girls, with all their hopes and dreams. But he was always mine. A horse in a million. a horse of a lifetime. Happy hunting lad.
 
I'm glad he had a happy end to his life after his suffering, not all horses get that. R.I.P Bobby, happy hunting up there in the sky x
 
What a lovely story. I like to pretend to be unemotional and all that, but I have a tear sitting in my eye now.
Lucky Bobby to have fallen upon such a patient and caring new owner in R, and lucky both of you to have enjoyed such a formidable partnership. Friends such as those are few and far between. Treasure your memories.
x
 
amazing - he sounds like an amazing horse and you sound like a lovely girl too. Thank you for sharing this

I am crying - such a softy!
 
I have very few pics of him on the computmatator... and those I do have are poor quality really.
our first hunter trial (and yes, I am going cross country wearing a barbour!) in 1994
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hunt ride 1994/5
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june 2009
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he was, and will always be a very special pony to me. After naughty know-it-all ponies like Buzzy, Bobby made me realise why I love horses.
 
thank you for reading guys. I found that really hard to write, it dredged up a lot of memories and heart ache. And, infact, guilt which I thought I'd got over. I still wish I'd brought hime home in the June instead of letting him go out on loan again. :(
 
Lovely post i,m sure you found that hard to write as just reading it has tears streaming and a lump in my throat. It would make a lovely book.
 
"I still wish I'd brought hime home in the June instead of letting him go out on loan again."

Don't ever wish things were different - you'll end up never forgiving yourself. You did exactly the right thing. As you said, your big boys would have been too rough with him. Instead he went to a lovely peaceful place with a very 'on the ball' loaner. He passed away in his own little patch of peaceful heaven. You did absolutely the right thing for him. If you'd have bought him home it would have been for you, not for him. Instead you put him first, and you should be proud of that.
 
hobo said:
Lovely post i,m sure you found that hard to write as just reading it has tears streaming and a lump in my throat. It would make a lovely book.
Click to expand...

thank you, I am already considering it, and have written the first couple of chapters of it.

tickety_boo - I know what you're saying, and my head agrees, it's my heart that doesn't! I know I can't change things now and that the decision was the right one at the time.
 
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