I had an interesting afternoon today, visiting the stables I used to teach at here, now under new ownership, but with many of the same horses and people still there, and whilst the new owner was explaining the whole deal with Abba and thus my connection to the place to one of her clients, I learned what actually happened to the pony during her dark days.
That working hypothesis I have about her being used in bush racing?
Well, some days you may be intellectually satisfied that the hypothesis was correct, but heartbroken to learn the truth.
Abba was a bush racer. It is why her mane and tail were hacked so short - it was not mere malnutrition causing her mane to fall out, but standard practice to prevent opposing jockeys from grabbing the mane and tail to slow her or unseat her rider. It is also why she was locked away: she was presumably successful and valued by her owner, and he needed to keep her safe so nobody would steal her. So the trauma she experienced by living in a shed until it was time for her to run was a mark of his care for her, not neglect.
And as for the running, she was raced on every conceivable surface, from sand to dirt roads to tarmac. She apparently had an excellent start as well, and could hit full gallop within strides. It was trained into her by hitting her repeatedly behind the saddle.
And now I have more of the missing pieces I need to understand the tragedy that made her what she was. Now I know why she bolted every time a rider sat on her. Now I know why our first canters saw us achieve a flat-out gallop in three strides. Now I know why she freaks out in company, particularly if another horse comes up from behind. Now I know why she goes into a blind panic if you wave a whip off her at another horse.
Five years. Five years to undo the damage done in one.
No wonder she has been the most difficult horse I have worked with in all my years around horses. The treatment she experienced, the conditions in which she lived, the constant hunger and pain and fear, all of that was seared into her. What she went through kills other horses: it killed one Thoroughbred in the space of a weekend last year: but that little iron mare survived.
And yet - and yet - once I thought her old owner was cruel. But now I know that he cared for her, and even if he did not do right by her, he kept her safe, he kept her alive, he did not run her until her legs shattered or her heart gave out. And he was proud of her.
I am glad she is alive. I am glad that in five years she has not known a hard word or a blow. I am glad that she has a herd and good feed and so much space and freedom. She has come so far, physically and mentally, and while she may never come wholly right, she is a much happier horse. And that is what really matters, her happiness.
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