Darling Dolly. She's 27 now, but still thinks she's a teenager.
10 years ago my husband Russell went to a garage sale and decided to buy a saddle. He was keen to go riding again, now that we lived in the “country” and were nestled against beautiful forest riding trails.
The garage sale lady asked, “Do you want the horse that belongs to that saddle?” Dolly seemed fairly docile, even though she was 16 hands and an ex-racehorse, so Russell said, “Sure!”
It took 4 burly blokes to shoehorn her into the horsefloat for the journey to Wattle Flat. As I waited outside in the dark for the big arrival, I could hear the most unholy banging coming from up the road. It was a miracle that she didn't turn over the float. Once let loose, she took off bucking and protesting, like the hounds of hell were in pursuit. Not happy.
However, once we'd sorted out her dislikes (men, hats, umbrellas, the aforementioned horsefloat and actually being ridden…), she was fine. Russell still describes her as an expensive paddock ornament, but he spoils her even more than I do.
Her constant companion is Gladys the ancient sheep (munching next to Dolly in the photo), a cross Dorper who looks permanently dishevelled. There was also Non-Gladys (don't ask) who is no more.
I grew up in an industrial town, and until Dolly joined our family, my closest contact with equines was via a rocking horse, or a shetland ride at a fete. I remember my Dad anticipating my horse obsession, but the gene skipped a generation and landed on our daughter (also nicknamed Dolly), who first sat on a horse at age 2. By the time she was 8 her bedroom was covered in horse posters, she'd made stables for all her Barbie horses, and most weekends away included a ride at Daylesford's Boomerang Ranch.
Now she's a mum, and I know that when they all visit at Christmas, her darling baby will get to pat Dolly and fall in love. I can't wait.
Loving your writings xxx