NOT MOVING ON

Bloggiana has taken temporary leave of her senses. After the last fiasco with Nag, when I did not call the vet and her horse nearly died, she has called the vet. This is because Nag, being a thoroughbred, ex-racecourse, with a brain not much smaller than a marrowfat pea, has done it again. This time, I’m thankful to say, Bloggiana was here. And this time, it was her decision, against her normally formidable better judgment, to call out the vet.

Of course, as these things go, Nag has managed to injure himself at peak-rate time. That means not on a Tuesday morning or indeed on any other weekday morning – but on a Sunday evening, when the vet is tired after a long day in the pub and a big afternoon in front of the telly and will only emerge (in his best 4x4) if you make a substantial contribution towards his second timeshare property fund.

Nag seems to have pulled something. It looks serious – because the horse seems able only to pivot on one leg rather than moving on four – but on the other hand, there is nothing on the outside to be seen. We run our hands down tendons groping for small areas of heat. We spin him in small circles round his stable, although this seems a little unwise after a moment because if Nag doesn’t fall over soon, it seems likely (we had rather an epic lunch) that both his swivellers will. We pick up his foot and tap it, looking to the uninitiated no doubt like a pair of water-diviners who are vaguely in pursuit of a new well. But it doesn’t matter whether we ressemble experts or winos or nature freaks because the fact remains that Nag, when left to his own devices, remains resolutely planted on the spot.

When the vet finally does turn up (and he does so not before our mid-afternoon hangovers have matriculated into something jolly murky indeed), it turns out that we have been allocated the cow vet. But where is the horse vet? expostulates Bloggiana, small rain clouds of fury gathering over her by now increasingly foggy brows. Called out to a cow emergency, comes the reply. The cow vet takes a look at Nag and chews on a mouthful of imaginary cud. He says little, although when he pats the horse in a recalcitrant kind of a way and the horse jumps in a who on earth do you think you are kind of a way, the cow vet jumps too. As though he were not used to handling creatures so flighty as horses. Which indeed he is not.

Hmmm, he says, glancing at his watch, hmmm. Touch of colic, I reckon, he pronounces sagely (which, for those of you not in the equi-know, means a hiccup of some kind in the horse’s internal digestive system). Think I’ll just give him a large dose of painkiller, see how he goes overnight and you can talk to my colleague in the morning if he doesn’t seem much better.

By this time, Bloggiana’s late afternoon hangover that matriculated into murky early evening pain has now evolved into brain-ache of the most befuddling kind. That must be it. What other explanation could there possibly be for the fact that she allows the cow vet to tell her that her three-legged horse has lost the use of one limb because he ate something that disagreed with him? I too am befuddled. I fail to say anything. And Nag, after a hefty dose of tranquilliser mixed with anti-inflammatory drugs and who knows what else, stands on the exact same spot, only now he has a dreamy look in his eye. And could, I swear it, be ever so slightly swaying.

Hazily I tell myself we haven’t heard the end of this. Gratefully I wave off the cow vet. Guiltily I say to my friend that all will be well and climb into bed as fast as my dream-boost sleep-enhancer (or electric blanket, as I like to call it) will allow - and before the Old Girl has a moment to reflect on exactly what has just taken place.