Saturday, April 28, 2018

Ex-Racehorse Crosses Rainbow Bridge


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.


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