Nic and I planned a funeral. It didn’t go well.
It has been a year since Jac, Nic’s 30-year-old palomino, died. He had an inoperable tumour, was euthanised at home and then taken to be individually cremated. And so we thought it a good time to scatter his ashes, and also those of my ponies, Benji and Dream. Nic would buy the flowers, I would bring the champagne. We chose the ideal spot: a fallen oak tree in the middle of their favourite paddock.
The ashes of horses are not like those of a cat or dog. They take up a huge wooden box and are extremely heavy. I chose a poem, The Horses by Ted Hughes, to read and had it ready on my phone: ‘But still they made no sound. Not one snorted or stamped, their hung heads patient as the horizons.’
We carried each box down the very steep hill. I kept yelling at Nic not to drop her end. ‘Pivot! Pivot!’ We finally set the three boxes down by the tree. I thought of my mum’s words, as I sat with her in the limo, when she saw the hearse arrive bearing my dad’s coffin: ‘I can’t believe my darling is in that box.’
Nic arranged the flowers on the grass, and I opened the champagne. Using a screwdriver, she took the tops off the boxes.
I thought of when Benji arrived in 2007, in a trailer with my rescued racehorse, Lizzie. I had taken him sight unseen, as he was to be shot within the week. He and Lizzie had enjoyed a speed date along the M4 to Somerset. I unloaded him: a wide, white blaze, white socks. I led him into his stable – prepared at great expense and with immense care – alongside Lizzie. Within two hours he was fighting for his life: sweating, unable to breathe, legs buckling. I called the emergency vet. I stood at the gate to my farm with a flashlight. I’d only owned him an hour or so and he was dying!
I have a friend who has asked me to rehome his springer spaniel, Alice. I told him I need to wait until I no longer have Mini, but then it feels like I’m counting down the days. Alice is really sweet. And so tomorrow I’m taking her on a trial walk, along the river by my house, writes Liz Jones
It turned out he had COPD, which is like asthma, and was severely allergic to straw and hay. No one had warned me. His insurance was invalid, as I had owned him for less than two weeks. It was in the small print.
But he was worth it: the steaming of his hay (to make it allergy safe), the dampening of his shavings. He never needed even a head collar. He would call when he heard my footstep. Dream was also a rescue. Again, sight unseen; she had broken her pelvis as a youngster so had a strange, crab-like gait. She was small, but you would never cross her. Sometimes she would just corner me in her stable, threatening to bite me at one end, kick me at the other. And now here they are, piles of ash. Jac, well, his previous owner’s boyfriend had stabbed him in the neck in a fit of jealousy; he bore the scar, physically and mentally. He was afraid of cows, so his last owner stuck a cardboard cow in the stable next to him. He never recovered from the fright.
We began to scatter the ashes, Nic sobbing her heart out. I thought of all the animals I have lost and will lose. Then, suddenly, Boris, Nic’s beagle, and my Teddy started doing zoomies in the ashes, rolling and wriggling and squirming. ‘No! No! Noooooooo!’
Nic tried to catch Boris and promptly fell over. I lost my grip on the champagne bottle and the ashes became something Mary Berry might knead into a dough. Oh dear god. I thought again of my dad’s funeral, how my eldest sister almost stumbled into his grave. We both started laughing, which is odd at a funeral, but not as rare as you might think.
I have a friend who has asked me to rehome his springer spaniel, Alice. She is six, he has had her since she was a puppy, but his wife and daughter have become, just like Benji, allergic. He doesn’t want to surrender her to a pound. I don’t want another dog. I can’t afford another dog. I told him I need to wait until I no longer have Mini, but then it feels like I’m counting down the days. Alice is really sweet. And so tomorrow I’m taking her on a trial walk, like a blind date, along the river by my house, to see if we bond. The only beings in the world who love me have fur. One more can’t hurt.
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Now I have rechargeable hearing aids, I have lots of spare batteries. I asked my GP surgery if they want them to give to pensioners. ‘Oh no, we won’t be able to use them,’ the receptionist said. It was the same when, losing my home, I had to dispose of my sofa and armchairs. I contacted a charity. ‘They’re not matching,’ they said. ‘No one will want them.’
