I had to give up in the end; my legs were killing me, my head was starting to ache and I was really bummed out. This was supposed to be fun!
I babbled some excuse to the seller and dragged mum back to the car.
“That didn’t go very well,” she commented wryly.
“Ya think?!” I didn’t mean to be rude, I was just so disappointed.
“So what happened?”
“I have no idea, the advert didn’t seem to be very accurate,” I replied.
She agreed…my mum might be non-horsey but the graphic designer in her meant she had a good eye for detail.
“Do you still want to go see this other horse?”
Was grass green? Of course I did! Besides, you should never buy the first horse you look at and I’d had my hopes pinned on the chestnut from the start.
My heart sank when we got to the second place. It was a run down dump with sad-looking horses tied up (by the reins!) to a wooden fence.
“Ooohhh, this looks a bit dodgy!” Mum muttered.
I was dismayed…what happened to my wonderful horsey weekend? Was buying a horse supposed to be this complicated? Was nothing as it seemed in the ads?
An elderly man approached, his grubby trousers held up by bailing twine.
“G’day, me name’s Jim…which ‘orse have you come to look at?”
I looked across at the horses, there were three chestnuts. When I explained which ad I had phoned about, I wish I could say the man led me to the horse of my dreams. What I saw was a shaggy chestnut around 16.2 hands with two rear stockings and a large star. He stood dozing, eyelids half closed, lower lip hanging. He also didn’t look anything like his photo in the advert!
“Make a top show ‘orse he will,” Jim told us. “Won over $10,000 in prizemoney as a racehorse!”
The chestnut didn’t look very flash, but beneath the shabby exterior could lie my potential show hack. I looked the horse over and he seemed okay conformation-wise…the only blemish I could see was a faint scar on his off hind. Plus the price was right. I wanted a horse of my own so badly!
The stock saddle the chestnut was wearing was torn and lumpy and I could see the bit was too high in his mouth. I walked him across to a bare, manure-riddled paddock and using a rusty feed bin as a mounting block, started my ride. He certainly seemed quiet enough and I felt very comfortable but had trouble getting him to move forward with any great enthusiasm. I had to work hard to get him to trot and after much kicking, finally managed a canter. He struggled through a few rough strides…I think he might have been disunited…before stumbling back to a walk.
“Don’t worry about that luv,” Jim shouted. “It’s just left over from his racin’ days. You’ll soon train it out of ‘im!”
I kept walking around on the chestnut for ages, imagining him at home in my paddock. My very own horse! Sure, he looked a bit…tatty…but he would soon fatten up and I could have lessons on him. We could learn together! Plus he seemed very quiet and did I mention that the price was right? What girl can resist a bargain?
“I’ll take him,” I said to mum and Jim.
“Bewdy!” Jim beamed.
Mum frowned. “He’s no oil painting Sarah,” she said, (that graphic designer thing again!)
“But he’s got so much potential!” I replied in what I hoped was a convincing voice, leaning forward to stroke the chestnut’s neck.
So mum made arrangements with Jim to buy Solomon’s Gold, or ‘Goldy’ as he called him. Blah, think I’ll switch that to Solo, which sounds way cooler!
So that’s how I bought myself a horse.
For an extra $100, Jim delivered Solo to our property the following weekend. Solo stumbled down the ramp and stood dejectedly, seemingly uninterested in his new home, before lifting his tail and christening our driveway.
“Hoo roo luv,” Jim called. “Oh…I forgot, there’s no warranty with this ‘un!”
I put Solo’s new headstall on (Jim wanted his tatty old one back) and stood there holding the leadrope. My own horse at last. I buried my face in his mane and inhaled his horsey smell. Solo sighed deeply.
Jordan came out for a stickybeak.
“How much did they pay you to take him off their hands?” he asked, raising his eyebrow.
Typical, I decided…he’s just jealous, so I kicked a dollop of horse poo over his Nikes.
I had Solo’s paddock all ready with fresh water and a couple of biscuits of hay. He had a brief drink before wandering off to nibble grass. I was itching to groom him but decided to let him settle in a bit first.
I planned to spend the following day getting to know Solo, but he seemed to have undergone a personality change overnight and I was confronted by a snorting, flighty dragon!
What the heck?
After about two hours, I managed to catch him with the intention of grooming him, but he kept whirling around me.
“Woah boy,” I tried to reassure him, but he wasn’t listening. I hoped he just needed more time to settle in.
But the next day he was the same and although by the third day I could at least tie him up, I had to admit something was seriously wrong.
I needed help, and urgently.
I had no idea who to turn to and it was mum who suggested I contact the local Pony Club. She phoned around and eventually got hold of their chief instructor, who offered to come around and see Solo.
I groomed him as best I could in preparation, but he was still fidgety and wouldn’t stop pawing the ground.
The instructor, Judy, visited around 5pm.
“Where did you get him?” was her first question and when mum told her, Judy’s eyes widened in horror.
“Was the seller’s name Jim McCormick by any chance? And did he mention some racehorse name?”
Uh oh, I had a bad feeling about this!
“Ummm……..”
“He’s a crook,” Judy said. “A dealer who buys horses cheaply at stock markets and sells them to unsuspecting buyers, usually young girls like yourself, for huge profit. His trademark spiel is telling prospective buyers they are ex-racehorses. The reason Solo was quiet when you went to try him…and when he first got here now I think about it…is because he was probably drugged.”
She said it’s likely Jim came up with the name Solomon’s Gold trying to pass him off as an ex-racehorse, but to be sure, I can check on the name at the Registrar of Racehorses website. (I later did just that and while there was a Solomon’s Gold listed, the horse was grey).
She went on to explain that I should have taken along an experienced horse-person when looking for a potential mount. To add insult to injury, she pointed out he had ringworm, a contagious fungal skin condition, and after a quick check of his teeth, said he wasn’t six as claimed by the dealer, but closer to 10 years old!
“Don’t even think about riding him for, oh…I don’t know…probably a month or two,” she advised.
“He’ll need his teeth seen to by a dentist, and placed on a good worming schedule.”
No arguments from me there, although I was bitterly disappointed this had all gone so pear-shaped. That’s what you get for rushing into things, which is fairly typical for me. Monkey-see, monkey-want, as Jordan loved to tease. But what the heck, I had a horse at last and I’ll do whatever it takes to get him