In the end, David apologised. ‘I am, as you texted, a t***. It’s my job to look after you and I’m sorry I let you down. I’ve been living with my deep regret and embarrassment since. I still love you, despite myself.’
Hmm, I was reading this, and the missive that the woman he was referring to, the mysterious Lydia, was in fact the wife of the friend he is staying with in France, when I got a text from Nic.
‘Dream is sweating, not eating. I am calling the vet.’
I got in the car and drove to the stables. It was a Friday, my most stressful day. I wasn’t overly concerned, as we have been through all this before. When I took on the little New Forest pony in 2007, after a reader emailed me some photos, saying she could no longer keep her, Dream* was already compromised. She had broken her pelvis, which made her walk sideways, like a crab. She had already suffered from laminitis, like gout in humans.
But this summer she seemed fine. She had been on a rough patch of grass. She had been taking regular walks in hand. She had been in, all day, off the grass, on soaked hay, since spring. Then, five months ago, she started paddling with her front feet. Her hooves were X-rayed. She had laminitis again.
I got to her stable. The vet injected a painkiller, but it had little effect. That weekend, I spent 12 hours with her each day, while Nic slept in her car overnight. On Sunday, she finally lay down. A good sign: if horses feel they will never get up, they continue to stand, eyes crusty from lack of sleep. She had breakfast in bed.
I spent the day with her on Monday, as usual, then went home to work. I put my phone on charge. At 5.30pm, I heard a noise. I finally worked out it was the landline. I answered it. Nic.
‘Richard the vet is here to give Dream another painkiller, but he really wants to talk to you about how we go forward.’
‘I don’t have any petrol.’
‘He wants you to come. Now.’
I set off with the dogs. It was dark and cold. Dream was on her side. You could see she was panting with pain, flanks heaving, heart racing. The vet tried to explain what was happening, but I couldn’t hear him, nor see his lips move in the gloom, so Nic translated. ‘Her pedal bone has rotated, it is pushing through the floor of her front feet. The vet says she is at the top of the dosage for pain. It will take 12 months for her to grow two new feet. He says he cannot leave her like this.’
It was Sam, all over again. The vet gathered a tray of drugs. Nic knelt at her head, and I told her Mummy is here, and what a good pony she had been although that wasn’t true; at every opportunity, she would try to reverse into you.
In ten years, Dream had always done as she pleased. She was never told off. She was never allowed to be cold or wet or hungry or alone. Her middle name was Princess. She was an equine Hilda, really: no concept she was supposed to be a pet. Her flanks were covered in sweat, her coat like a conker: she had been on special flowers and herbs from the Alps in Switzerland. I gathered a handful of her low-calorie Swiss treats and even as she died, she kept nuzzling for more.
Dream had always done as she pleased. She was never told off. She was never allowed to be cold or wet or hungry or alone. Her middle name was Princess
The stable had been filled with her naughty presence, but suddenly it was flat. The vet listened for a heartbeat, but there was none. The sight of her four tiny hooves, dangling, was vulnerable, final. I took off her little headcollar and sat with her while the vet called the man who would collect her. ‘I don’t want her pulled around,’ I told him when he arrived 20 minutes later. ‘I don’t want her cremated with anyone else, or muddled up. I want all of her back home with me.’ I texted David. I had to text someone. ‘What a sad few years you have had,’ he said. ‘I wish I could hold you.’
I was sent away before she was moved. I was told this was something I didn’t want to see. The top doors of the other stables were shut, so no horse could see her leave. I can only hope she galloped off wonkily to be with Lizzie, who will have greeted her with a wicker, and they will have given each other a good old scratch and a groom.
*Nic took over the cost of the ponies when I lost my job at the Daily Mail in 2014; Dream wasn’t even worth £5