Neigh Lads

There are times, like today, when I have been up to my eyes in something, and the thought of blogging doesn’t enter my mind - until something suddenly presents itself and I think “Why not, that would be easy enough?”

In this case, today's daily paper was lying open on the kitchen table as I went to clear it for our weekly Curried King Prawns and Boiled Rice. A short piece headlined “The Blazing Saddles Crew” and featuring a picture of a life-size fake horse, caught my eye, and I paused to read how a County Fire and Rescue Service has bought the model, with cash from the local RSPCA, to practise rescuing stricken animals from swimming pools and ponds.

It would attract some critics, I knew that, but having attended a few such ‘shouts’, especially during my first two years of service in a County Brigade before transferring to the Metropolitan outfit where I served for the following 29 years, I had to smile. But I wasn’t deriding the idea at all. It took me back to my very first horse rescue. I was a 20 years old probationer with only a month or two in the job, physically fit and always raring to go.

Four of us turned up at this farmer’s field by the roadside in just the one appliance (standard attendance for animal rescue), and the motorist who had called us out pointed to the incident. There was a pond about 100 yards into the field and we could see a horse stood in mud almost up to its lower chest. It was about 30 yards in and was clearly trying to pull itself forward and out of the pond.

The sub officer in charge looked at me, the youngest, skinniest and keenest, and the conversation would have gone something like, “Right, Geordie, you’re on.” The drill was that a couple of lines (ropes) would have been brought out of a locker, with me instructed to tie the end of one around my waist as a safety line, and take an end of the other out to loop around the animal’s neck. We would see what a spot of tug-o-war would do.

I didn’t need a second telling. It probably took me only a couple of minutes to half-wade and half-crawl through the mud before I got there but it seemed longer. I wasn’t being too inspired by the panic in its eyes, however, and wondering whether horses ever bit their would-be rescuers with those big teeth.

Anyway, I skirted a little and approached it from the side somewhat cautiously, placed the loop over its head, and began to make my way back. The other three began to heave almost immediately but they hadn’t budged it one inch by the time I joined them. Helmets and fire-jackets came off and my reservations about maybe choking the poor horse soon disappeared as we kept slithering onto our arses and getting up again.

Then, the farmer turned up. “What are trying to do?” He asked, rather stupidly, I thought. Without waiting for our obvious reply, he went on “You’ll never get her out like that. Let me past.” And he advanced two or three yards into the pond and started to repeatedly shout at his animal to “Here girl, here!”, while beckoning it forwards with his arms, and clapping his hands and smacking his thighs.

We looked at each other. Then, after about the first three or four “Here girl’s”, the horse, who knew who was boss, really increased its efforts and, within no time at all had freed its feet and lower legs from the bed, and literally trotted out onto dry land. The relieved farmer quietened down and said “Thanks lads, but to be fair I don’t think she could ever have done that for you, do you? Would you like a cup of tea, or maybe a bottle of beer, at the farmhouse?”

We were still panting for breath, covered in filthy mud .and feeling quite stupid. “No, no thanks, we have to get back to the station in case we are needed for more heroics some place else,” said the Sub, with a sardonic shake of his head.

“Come on, lads.”