Though the ex-racer farm seems to have
come through this long wet winter pretty well, there has been one big
sadness; we lost Magic in January.
Magic was the big, bay lug of a chaser,
who had the conformation of a show hunter (middleweight!) and the
lower legs of a war zone. No problem, he was sound as a pound despite
all his old battle-scars, and we all loved him dearly. He was a
gentle giant, 16.3 hands and built like a bullock. In the field he
liked to think he was herd leader, though in fact he was only No 2 to
H, delegated to do all the strong-arm stuff with any newcomers or
upstarts. But with people, Magic was gentle, sweet and kind, and
always willing to do whatever you asked him. Even if he wasn't quite
sure what you wanted or how to do it, he'd give it a go for you
anyway. He was especially good with children, who could, and did,
climb all over, and under, him, sing songs to him, brush him and feed
him endless titbits, all of which he thoroughly enjoyed.
Magic was nineteen years old. Not a bad
age for a Thoroughbred. TB's as a breed seem not to be as long-lived
as tough little native ponies. (Although some do live amazingly long
lives. National Hunt fans will remember that brilliant chestnut,
Olympian, who managed the rare feat of winning both the Imperial Cup
at Sandown and then the Coral Cup at the Cheltenham Festival both in
the same year, 1993, when trained by Martin Pipe. For the past 20
years Olympian has been an ex-racehorse in enjoyable retirement on
the farm of Alan and Sue Williams. Sadly the old boy contracted colic
a few days ago and had to be put to sleep, at the grand age of 31.
Not a bad innings!)
Our Magic had summered well, as usual,
being so fat at rugging-up time in October that we had to lengthen
all the straps. He was hale and hearty, even though for eighteen
months he had been developing sarcoids, various types in various
parts of his body. They didn't bothered him at all, but then an
especially big and ugly one appeared on the inside of his stifle, and
it began to bleed every few days. The vet refused to operate, partly
because Magic was old and a general anesthetic would be risky, and
partly because, the vet was adamant, the sarcoid would soon come back
again, worse than ever. And there was no telling what nasty stuff was
on the inside of it... “Leave well alone,” was the advice. “Just
keep it clean. Magic's a happy horse – let him enjoy his
retirement.” Which he was certainly doing, his life consisting
mainly of eating, sleeping, petting and Polo mints. He didn't race
around the field in giddy sessions quite as much, but then his
field-mates – some even older than him – didn't either. The
equine geriatric wing was all contentment.
One morning, a mild one for January, we
found Magic laid dead beside the big hay bale, his field-mates beside
him. It must have been recent. And quick. There was no sign of any
injury, nor any struggling or scrabbling on the ground – he had not
died in pain. It looked like he had eaten his fill, laid down and
dozed off – for ever. Since eating and dozing had become Magic's
favourite activities, it was a fitting way for him to go. And it was
a small comfort to realize that he had not been in any distress, and
falling asleep on a full belly with your mates beside you is not a
bad way for an old ex-racer to go out. Even so, there were many
tears. He was not the greatest racehorse, but he was loved. And in
his honest, lumbering way, he did a lot of good for the people around
him. We will all miss our Mr Magicals.
Magic never did Wimpy Thoroughbred....
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