Writing for Fun
December 2017
Mistletoe - Jan Norman
All hell had broken loose at Redlands, the most prestigious equestrian centre in Surrey and home of Demos the most prolific and profitable steeplechaser of 2017.
Head trainer Ash was furious. ‘What the hell got into you today Terry? You crammed Demos at the last fence and he’s cut his fetlock. You know damn well that he will be running on Boxing Day at Kempton Park and that’s only two weeks away. He’s favourite to win and if he does he will become a legend and our yard with him.
I never thought you could be so careless Terry. To make amends your only task from today will be to get Demos back into full fitness ready for Boxing Day. Your personal life is cancelled, mister and if Demos is still lame on that day and misses racing then you will be out of a job in the New Year. Is that clear? Now send for the vet and follow his every instruction to the letter. In fact you will even sleep in the stables and tend Demos day and night.
Terry was furious at the onslaught from Ash. He had worked long and hard, has fought his way up the rank and file of stable hands to become yard groom and personal handler of Demos and he was appalled that one small lapse in concentration might end his career. He was determined to do all it took to heal Demos and redeem his status.
Demos was a highly strung animal and after the not so tender ministrations of the vet was feeling very sorry for himself and greeted Terry with a gentle nuzzle of his soft velvety nose and a soft whicker. Terry caressed his muzzle and made soothing noises and when calm fed and watered him ready for sleep.
In the next empty stall Terry spread his sleeping bag and belongings and listened anxiously to the noises from next door until hearing Demos snore gave himself up to the land of dreams.
Two days passed and the horse seemed to have made no progress, in fact to Terry’s experienced eye the leg, although bandaged, seemed to be swollen and giving Demos pain so he sent for the vet yet again.
The vet was not encouraging and, declaring that the wound had become badly infected, redressed it with antibiotic soaked bandages and gave poor Demos a painful and very expensive injection in his rump. Terry had strict instructions to change the dressings every evening, again reapplying the antibiotic cream he had left for the purpose.
During that night Terry was awoken by Demos moving around his stall limping badly and neighing softly as if in pain.
What he saw shocked him. Demos was sweating, restless and edgy. To Terry’s touch the fetlock felt hotter than ever. Was Demos allergic to the antibiotic? It certainly did not seem to be helping.
Terry was in a dilemma. He should call back the vet but he seemed to be in no hurry to cure, only to charge for more medicines. Reluctantly he went to the stable office intent on ‘phoning him when he saw Sam’s huge bunch of mistletoe hanging in the stable doorway. Incorrigible Sam had brought it in only this morning to try and cajole kisses from all the stable girls but especially Rita, his dream girl.
Wait a minute . . . Terry suddenly remembered old Ruben, a neighbouring farmer, long since dead, once telling him that he did not hold with these fancy vets but used old country remedies. For infected wounds he used a hot poultice made from crushed mistletoe berries. Without a second thought Terry grabbed the huge bunch of mistletoe and rushed to the preparation room where he made the poultice.
Demos, once his wound had been cleansed and bound again this time with the hot poultice, seemed a little easier. Terry, being a little superstitious and needing every bit of luck, tacked the rest of the bunch of mistletoe onto the wall of Demos’ stall as a pagan healing charm and then went to his bed.
A few hours later he was woken by the sound of retching. Demos! He rushed into his stall in time to see him vomiting. A lot of messy green sick! Terry glanced around the stable to see that the bunch of mistletoe was gone. He went hot and then cold. Some say that mistletoe is poisonous if ingested – dear Lord what had he done? Before he could act Demos rushed to his trough and drank vast quantities of water. Sated he turned to Terry and wetly nuzzled his face, whickering softly. He seemed happy. Terry checked the wound and to his amazement saw no signs of infection. Nor did the horse appear to have any temperature.
Terry did not believe in miracles, did he? To make sure he brought in his sleeping bag and sat wrapped up in the corner. He kept vigil the rest of the long night ready to call the vet and confess his quackery – well-intentioned but quackery all the same if Demos sickened. If this happened he knew his punishment would be severe.
As dawn broke Demos walked over and nudged Terry; he wanted his breakfast. Excited Terry re-examined the horse’s fetlock. There was a clear clean wound healing well. Terry sank to his knees thanking God, for he could not believe his mistletoe madness had worked the magic, could he?