Whisky

I was born in a large country stud. My name was Whistler.
"Small 'un in' 'ee?" My owner said.
"Ah, don't worry, the best things come in small packages!" Said my new
groom. I nudged my groom for food, but she just patted my nose.

I ran my first proper race two years later. I stood trembling with
nerves in the starting gates. My jockey pulled the reins up tight.
Hurting my mouth!
The starting gates sprang open and I leapt out, slightly stumbling in
shock as the jockey whipped me hard. I was soon over taken. A large bay
was rushing ahead of me. My jockey was thrashing me frantically.
"Give it up! You've got no chance shorty!" The bay shouted at me above
the pounding hooves. He kicked some mud at me!
I rushed on, not tiring at all. I felt the blood pumping through me
and the saddle rubbing on my back. I overtook the bay who was tiring
fast from his spurt of energy. The bay couldn't stand to be beaten by a
"shorty", so he tried to trip me. I tried to move on, but the horses in
front shoved me back. The bay was at my side and clipped my hoof with
his! We tumbled over and over and I saw my jockey land ahead. I lay
still, not wanting to be hurt. The bay fell squealing next to me. The
racers passed on ahead. A few minutes later a man in a white coat and
my owner came up to me. I saw pointing and my jockey limping away, and
the gun being held to the bay's head. The shot rang out and the crowds
went silent. The thrashing of legs stopped next to me. I saw the gun at
my head and closed my eyes. I opened them when a man ran out of the
crowds. I saw him talking to my owner, and money changing hands. I had
been bought. I hoped I never had to race again.

I had broken a leg. I had been taken to a small stable, and from what I
could gather from my neighbours, we were rented out for special
occasions, like weddings or funerals. I was saved because I was black
all over (for funerals) and had been box rested until my leg
healed.
My neighbour was also black, and also a thoroughbred. She was called
Blackie. Not very original, but that's people for you. We were
harnessed up for the first time to a funeral cart. She was taller than
me. Long legs and a proud, high head carriage.
"Now behave, you've been put with me because I'm good at my job and
you can show me up if you want, but you won't be here much longer."
Said Blackie.
We trotted out of the yard, and went together terribly. I had only
just been broken to harness. I could not keep up. She had long strides
and held her nose out in front. I made small quick steps in order to
keep up. I arched my neck. We were different, and looked funny, but
people at funerals tend to cry a lot and not take much notice of us. I
can't understand it, we carried a box and everyone cries and wears
black&;#8230;Why???
I enjoyed weddings most. People gave us all kinds of
treats&;#8230;which makes it all worth it. At one wedding, the
people had things that popped and banged, one young person held one to
my head and the stuff inside went all in my ear! Blackie was calm, but
I couldn't stand it! I tried to bolt, but the cart and Blackie held me
still, I reared and Blackie's neck snaked out and bit me!
"Fool! I liked you, I thought you were capable! You're all the same!"
She squealed. She was lashing out at me and everyone was shouting at
me, I broke my reins and the tack holding me and ran down the streets!
I was chased, but reached fields before they caught me. I jumped fences
and scared sheep until I got tired. I wanted to lick my wounds, but I
was too tired and hungry. That night I regretted running off.

A farmer had found me and gave me to his kind daughter, who tended my
wounds and fed me well. I was named Whisky. She trained me for dressage
and games.

She got me up early one morning, and groomed me over and over until I
gleamed and my skin tingled! She washed my tail and bandaged it up, my
mane was plaited and I was tacked up. She was more smart than usual,
with new clean clothes. She trotted me along country roads and fields.
It started to rain. We trotted on. My plaits flopped down and came
undone. The rain turned to snow. The snow rose to my knees and finally
we stopped. She jumped down and looked around calling for help. I stood
shivering. She got a long raincoat out of her pack and gave me some
sugar. She led me to a rock and mounted again. She pushed me on. We
passed rocks and sheltering sheep, which got sparser and sparser. The
incline got steeper and I became aware we were climbing a hill! I
noticed her responding less and less. We were both soaked through and
she didn't have a fur coat like me. I worried as I walked on. She was
slumping down and eventually I could carry her no longer. I dropped to
my knees and she slid neatly off and rolled into a dip beneath a large
rock. I sniffed her and knew she was not dead, but in a deep sleep.
Something inside told me this was dangerous. I lay down carefully next
to her, knowing that people were fragile and I could damage my friend.
I lay my head over her and fell asleep. When I woke up, there were
shouting people all around. The snow had gone. I was bundled into a
horsebox and taken home. She was carried off in a flashing van. I had
my picture taken many times with her when she eventually came home. I
sensed a deep trust within her. Like I could do anything to her and she
would be quiet and let me do it and not hurt me back. I did not wish to
hurt her though. I never did. I trusted her. Even picking my feet
up.
I saw her children growing up, and helped teach them how to
Ride well. (I hope!)

I am now too old to be ridden. But still she takes me for short walks
with the children's ponies, who I look after in the fields. I am glad
that man saved me, on that racecourse and am forever grateful to him. I
am grateful to the farmer's daughter who trusted me on the hills in the
snow.