A sunny summer afternoon for a family wedding shower. Picnic tables and folding chairs placed around the lawn of the country home of my cousin. Gifts for the engaged couple, then food. Homemade baked beans, meatballs, ribs, cold meats, coleslaw, potato salad, macaroni salad, tossed salads of all kinds, an aunt’s homemade berry pies, peach cobbler, cheesecake, fruit jello.
Three generations telling family stories to each other and to the newcomers. A couple little 4th generation ones running around. Looking out over the fields and farmland behind the house. A barn over to the side, some cattle fencing around it. “Does anybody use the barn?” I asked my cousin. “It’s the neighbours’ – there’s a pony back there. She goes in and out of the barn.” I walked back, looking for the pony.
In a field the other side of the barn, I saw a little black pony. She was about the height of a Shetland pony but not as stocky. She looked at me with some interest but wouldn’t come to the fence. Then I saw she was 
tied, and the rope was tangled around low tree limbs. I looked for water – none within her reach. A couple buckets nailed to fence posts. I went to one – about two inches of mucky water in it. Other bucket, just slime fried on the sides. Hmm, gotta get water and get her untangled. Wonder if anyone would mind if I jump the fence. I saw parts of the fence that had come loose from the posts and were bent low enough hop over. Ok, that’s why she’s tied.
She turned a bit, and the sunlight caught her side. I could see every rib standing out and a too deep hollow
behind her rib cage. Bones were jutting out the side and top of her haunches, the vertebrae of her spine clearly delineated. Her hair was dry and dull, the remains of her winter coat hanging in patchy clumps. Her eyes were bright and interested in what was going on, though. A good brushing would do wonders for her, I thought, but the bones sticking out? While pondering whether or not to stick my nose in someone else’s business at a nice family event, ‘Pony’ started coughing – big hacking, wracking coughs. Green slimey snot gushed from her nose and puddled on the ground. It didn’t stop.
Back to the house I ran, to seek out another cousin, a horsewoman. She, mother of the groom, was organizing the cake cutting with the father of the bride. She told me to find her daughter, also a horsewoman. I found her with her cousins. They wanted to come too.
Our entourage grew in number as we went back to the field. Word got around there was a sick horse. My sister and her camera, my niece, a couple cousins and aunts. The men hunkered down where they were. My husband later said, “It was scary – three generations of your family’s women marching, on a mission.”
The pony’s nose was just dribbling when we got back. The horsey cousins hopped the fence and began feeling her all over. People were dispatched to clean and fill water buckets. The father of the groom returned with the full buckets. He and my aunts, all farmers, confirmed that, yes, this was one sick, ill-treated pony. We moved her rope so she could reach the water.
We returned to the house to discuss the next steps. The cake-cutting by the affianced couple had been photographed. Those still on the deck and lawn had eaten it and congratulated the bride-to-be as she and her family prepared to leave. The ‘pony brigade’ cut more cake and ate it while discussing “what now?”
Fast forward a week or two. The OSPCA became involved. A vet check of ‘Pony’ deemed her to be a “poor keeper”, meaning that she could not easily digest food and therefore needed more and better quality food in order to get adequate nutrition. Her owners promised faithfully that they would do so. They didn’t. The OSPCA said they could do nothing more. Yes, it was a case of neglect but not bad enough to warrant seizure of her. They’d keep on eye on her, the inspector said.
In the fall, ‘Pony’ was moved into the barn, with the doors closed. My cousin knew, from happier times, what the barn was like. It was an old cattle barn, unused for many years. No windows, drafty cracks, tiny stalls, concrete floor, no rubber mats. There was no straw or hay supply, and none was delivered.
‘Pony’ lived inside that barn for eleven months. She had very few visits from anyone. It was difficult for my cousin, indeed any of us, to get any information on her well-being from anyone. Summer came, no ‘Pony’ in the field. Summer went, and my cousin was told that ‘Pony’ had died, in that barn, of “old age”. She knew a fair bit about the pony’s history, including her age. She was 27, not old for a pony. The OSPCA said it was unfortunate.
So did we help ‘Pony’? We tried, but she died. She died, I think, of neglect, malnutrition and loneliness. In her life, she had taught a lot of kids to ride, including some of the ones in her final home. She had won ribbons in pony club shows. She had been a companion for children. But no one in her present home “had time for her” anymore.
Despite the fact that we found places where she could go, where people would have time for her, we couldn’t legally take her, and her owners wouldn’t sell her to us. And the OSPCA wouldn’t take her. Could we have pressed her owners or the OSPCA harder? Maybe, but we didn’t.
So she died alone in that dark dank barn, the only living creature in it except for mice or rats. Her “final reward” was abandonment by her owners, her former owners and the authorities who are supposed to prevent cruelty to animals.
The long-term effects of ‘Pony’s last year? I began taking riding lessons again and got better acquainted with my cousin’s horses. I 
sponsor an old Thoroughbred, Chief, at Brenda Hull’s rescue farm near Talbotville. There’s a novel at the St. Thomas Library, Flying Changes by London-born Sara Gruen, bought in memory of “a small black pony”. The owners of ‘Pony’ sold their farm and moved to town. My cousin, host of the wedding shower, no longer donates to the OSPCA. I have very mixed feelings about their efforts on behalf of animals. May you rest in peace, ‘Pony’. Your life, and your death, had meaning.
July 4, 2010
