Responsibilities

My sister has gone gallivanting and has left me holding the baby, figuratively speaking. In addition to the grey mare, I am responsible for her four: three ex-racehorses – the cheeky orange one, who has the tenacity of The Terminator when there are sweeties around; the dark prince, black, beautiful, bright as a button, but oh-so-sensitive; the leggy, loving bay one who follows you around like a giant Great Dane; and the speckled, semi-retired Clydesdale-cross who is happy just to be. They must be checked, patted and Polo’d. She has given me £3 for the Polos.

The responsibility hangs heavy upon me. Some years ago, my sister went to the Badminton Horse Trials for the weekend and left me in charge of her previous black Thoroughbred. He had white socks on his forelegs and face like Black Beauty. I adored him.

On the second night of my patting and Polos stint, I found him looking very sorry for himself. Suddenly, I realised that I couldn’t see his white socks. They were dark with blood. He had caught and ripped both front legs on wire. It was a Bank Holiday and the vet on call was novice and nervous. It was a good job it was a woman; he wasn’t very fond of people he didn’t know at the best of times - but he simply loathed men. It didn’t help matters when an onlooker kindly informed her: “I’d watch him, he got hold of a jockey by the neck once.”

The horse sedated and stitched, I considered what to tell my sister. “Don’t say anything to her,” was the consensus, “she’ll only worry.” I sidestepped her text messages with questions about the weather. Of course, she went crazy when she came home.

I just hope she’s told this lot to be on their best behaviour while she’s away.