Ozzie: The Story Of A Young Horse

This book follows Ozzie´s life from being bought at the sales in Goresbridge as a 5yo and his time in Tipperary being restarted. Early reviews have described this book as:

"Beautifully written, fantastic, totally addictive reading."

"I could have read on forever, almost forgot this was a real life story for a moment!"

"Elaine captures you and drags you into her world. Fabulous, I loved this. I can hear the soft brogue as you speak."

"What came across to me from Ozzie's story was that there's so much learning that happens on both side of the horse human partnership. Having young horses could become addictive, it's such a gift being able to watch them grown and learn, I'm loving it."

5 star Amazon review Jan 4th 2009, S. Cheeseman:

"I got this book for Christmas and subsequently spent every free minute for the next 5 days engrossed in it. It is extremely funny and very interesting, Elaine Heney has an excellent writing style that makes it very easy to read (It was very good bedtime reading). As well as this, it is extremely informative and would be a great book for anyone wanting to bring on a young horse, whatever its background. Thoroughly recommend this book to anyone."

Below is the first chapter. Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1: The sales

‘Lot 24: Grey geld. five yrs. About 14.3h. Broken and riding.’

The black and white catalogue entry was brief and basic, buried amongst two hundred similar entries. Not that we had paid much attention to it yet.

Dad and I had left earlier that morning from Tipperary and we had arrived in Kilkenny just after 12.30pm. I would often come to the sales when I was younger, tagging along after Dad. We spent days looking at horses of all makes and models. Some were well trained and confident and some green as the grass they ate. Some weren’t too pretty, some looked great on paper and the lucky ones also looked good in person. I was never too picky. If it had four legs and a tail, looked like a horse and smelled like a horse it was good enough for me. We would walk around all two hundred stables, peering into the darkness to see what each contained. I usually had my own opinions on the various horses we saw.

‘Dad, I really like the nervous bay one. He’s pretty skinny and I kinda feel sorry for him....’

I was usually correct, but luckily Dad was more discerning. He had a natural eye for a horse. When he found a big scopey horse he liked, that horse was usually pretty special. They were often amongst the best trained jumping horses out with the Scarteens.

‘I see what you mean,’ Dad would reply, ‘but he’s back at the knee and his back legs are a bit hooky. We’ll have to keep looking. What do you think of this chestnut?’

And so we’d march on, assessing every horse we met until the day was over, or if we were lucky, until we found what we had been looking for. Buying the right horse was never easy.

Two weeks previously on a freezing February morning, I had flown back from sunny Brisbane. I had spent December and January working at a yard in the Southern Alps, and most of February training horses in the tropical heat in Caboolture. My head was full of training Australian horses, and at the ripe old age of twenty-nine I wanted to buy myself a young horse to use the horsemanship I’d learned out in Australia and New Zealand. I was looking for a young green horse between 15 and 16 hands with good conformation, beautiful movement, not much done and a clean vet’s cert. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack but I knew if the right horse was here we would find him.

**********************

The ponies were being sold in the sales ring as Dad and I stood patiently outside in the yard, enjoying the warmth of the spring sun. Nearby, two mature ladies who had both seen their fair share of weather were leaning over the arena rails, each smoking a cigarette. The dark haired lady rested her arms on the wooden rails. She didn’t look too happy.

‘What did I tell you, he’s a rough bugger that horse. He nearly killed me there last week. I showed him though,’ she smiled bitterly. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of him.’

Even in her glamorous green jacket, expensive gold watch and dark sunglasses, I got the feeling that you wouldn’t want to meet her alone on a dark night. As she lifted her cigarette towards her mouth, I noticed her hard hands matched her horse. The streaky blond nodded in agreement.

‘You’re as well off. He needs a good sorting out. If I sell my two and we go home with an empty box this afternoon, I’ll be happy.’
The blond was of fairly robust stock too.

‘Yep. They seem to be selling so hopefully we’ll be in luck,’ the dark haired lady continued.

‘I’ve had my eye on a four year old of Mark’s down the road. Broken and riding, been out hunting and jumps likes a stag loose over a metre ten. I reckon if I can get him at the right price I might have him ready for Dublin next year.’

They paused to watch the bay jumping an oxer, and then the dark haired lady pushed her long fringe away, glanced at her watch and sighed.

‘Come on, we better get going. We’re jumping in half an hour in the indoor. I want to bring that horse out and run him over the practise fence outside a good few times to warm him up a bit. When he’s gone it won’t be a minute too soon.’

‘Grand,’ said the blonde, ‘let’s go.’

The two ladies walked off towards the stables, and were quickly lost amongst the milling crowd.

**********************

There wasn’t much else happening in the yard and it was now approaching one o’clock. We had another good half hour to spare before the horses started to come out, so we decided it was time for lunch.

In the dining room the steam was heavy and rising as the ladies behind the counter carved industriously. We ordered our food, paid at the till and sat down. As conversation flowed around the room, the PA system from the nearby sales area mingled with the light smell of fresh horse manure. It was the usual mixture.

Dealers with hard eyes, short arms and deep pockets, local farmers who bred a few horses to subsidise the farm, hunters, competition riders looking for new young stock, riding stable owners looking for suitable good value steeds and maybe something flash for themselves, and horses to be sold.

As we ate, I browsed through the photocopied catalogue pencilling in some of the young horses in the 15 hands to 16 hands category which were going to be sold later that day. The sales ring was quite busy with ponies and a female dealer from England was doing a brisk trade in various models from her position at the perimeter of the sales ring. Many of the horses sold today would find their way across the Irish sea that night.

The dining area was beginning to empty a little, and with our meal over it was time to head back out and look at some new bloodstock. A little skewbald pony, with the body of a twelve hand pony and the legs of a pony half that size, was making its way around the ring. It was probably the equine equivalent of a dachshund dog, but never the less extremely cute.

Amongst the animals in the yard we spotted a light fleabitten grey which according to the catalogue had very little done.

According to the number on its rump, it was about to go into the ring for auction. Dad and I decided to go over for a look.

‘Hi, how are you?’ Dad introduced himself. The seller nodded and shook Dad’s hand, then glanced towards me. He quickly assessed the situation and then shook my hand as well.

‘Arra, I’m good thanks, you?’ He had a Cork accent and wasn’t slow off the ball.

‘Yeah, grand thanks.’ Dad looked more closely at the equine which stood in front of us. ‘What kind of horse is this?’ The horse wore a saddle and bridle and looked quiet enough.

’He’s fifteen hands, grand horse, nice and quiet, he’ll do everything. Been riding him myself’.

We took this knowledge with a pinch of salt.

‘You wouldn’t be able to trot him up for us?’ We attempted to appear completely disinterested, as if we were only passing the time.

‘Sure. You wouldn’t be able to just wave him on a bit would you?’ he replied.

‘No worries,’ Dad replied.

I stood to the side to watch the horse’s movement as Dad jogged around behind the horse and started waving his arms towards the horse. After a few attempts the horse trotted on badly. His strides were fast and short. He was definitely not one of the most elegant movers amongst our list of potential prospects. I scratched his number out in the catalogue. We thanked the owner and then left the area. The whole procedure had taken less than two minutes.

*********************

As we walked back through the crowd, a steel grey horse wearing a saddle and bridle, with a number 24 sticker displayed on his rump, stood quietly near the entrance of the sales ring. At this stage the lot number being sold was approaching 40, so this little horse appeared to be lost. But then the only reason a horse will stand outside the ring is if someone is trying to sell him. On closer inspection he looked well put together, if a bit skinny. Dad and I walked up to his owner to see what the story was.

‘How are ya.’ Dad introduced himself and we both looked over the horse.

‘Grand,’ the owner replied, as he nodded at me. ‘Not bad at all.’ The owner tugged on the horse’s lead rope, and the horse cautiously took a step over towards us.

‘Emmm, has this horse been through the ring?’ I asked, as I checked the catalogue. ‘He’s number 24 isn’t he?’

The owner looked under pressure. He was about forty, business like, and in the usual attire of dealer boots, dark coloured trousers and a moderately worn coat. He took his cap off, wiped his forehead, put his cap back on again, sighed, and then looked directly at both of us. He had been around horses for a while.

‘Aaahhh no, he hasn’t been yet. We arrived late so we’re going in after the next horse.’ The grey horse stood patiently, looking past us towards the warm up arena.

‘Oh right. What has he done?’ I asked. He was a bit small for what I was looking for.

The owner replied: ‘I bought him from a lad in Kilkenny six weeks ago with nothing done. He’s a grand fella. Broke him in Wexford. He could do anything. Brave horse too.’

The last horse I heard was brave walked up onto a dung heap and jumped off over a wheelbarrow. I reckon if horses could talk they’d have some stories.

‘Is he ok to handle?’ I asked.

‘Grand’, the owner replied turning towards me. He held the lead rope tightly under the horses chin and then proceeded to rub the horse energetically around his head and ears. The horse didn’t look too impressed and pulled against the tight lead rope but there was nowhere to go to.

‘Nothing a bit of handling wouldn’t sort out,’ the man in the dealer boots informed us confidently.

He was probably right. But you would never guess that this horse couldn’t be touched or caught, distrusted humans, was scared of everything, unridable, couldn’t pick his feet up, bolted over all small fences and that even something as simple as putting a headcollar was a major event. On a good note though, while the horse was small and skinny, his conformation wasn’t bad so he was worth a look. Small horses tend to move like small horses so we weren’t expecting much.

‘You wouldn’t mind just trotting him up for us, would you?’ I asked politely, pointing towards the small rubber based track which had been built beside the stables.

‘No bother at all, just give him a bit of a whoosh on to get him started,’ the owner replied.

He lead the horse over to the trotting lane and off the grey went without too much fuss. Our eyes opened wide as the horse trotted very nicely. It was an elegant trot, with lots of air and scope. This horse had potential I thought to myself. We immediately asked the owner to stop and come back over to us. We had seen the lovely movement, but we didn’t want other people to see it too.

‘Thanks for that…. aahh … he doesn’t have a vet’s cert by any chance?’ I enquired.

‘No he doesn’t, but he’s clean enough,’ the owner replied. That was a pity I thought.

‘Great, well good luck with him anyway,’ we replied. We began walking back to the sales ring, with the images of the unassuming dark grey horse still in our heads. He was definitely a prospect. We just had to wait and see how much he started at in the ring. I crossed my fingers and circled in his number in the catalogue.

Over the PA system the light fleabitten grey cob with the choppy movement was called into the ring. Out of curiosity we followed him in to see how well he would do. Five minutes later and he was sold for well over €3,000. On closer inspection of the catalogue it became clear why. Registered Irish Connemara. In his case the make was more important than the model.

As he waited in the ring, our steel grey horse walked in. Dad and I stood beside the sales ring, not saying a word, afraid we would give away our interest in buying this horse. I made myself concentrate on what the auctioneer said as my breathing got faster. Small, wide-eyed and nervous the grey walked anxiously around the sales ring, his front feet moving apprehensively through the fresh yellow sawdust. Bidding started quickly, with the English lady leading the buyers triumphantly from the ring side. €500 quickly turned into €1000 and at €1500 he was officially on the market and would be sold. We quietly put in the next offer to the auctioneer’s delight and after two or three more minutes of bidding, it was only us and the English dealer left as the price climbed higher. My heart was in my mouth.

‘Going once, any more bids now’? The auctioneer’s question rang around the room, crackling on the loudspeaker outside. I clenched my fists tightly and stopped breathing completely.
‘Going twice, this is your last chance now……’ the auctioneer paused, hammer raised, as I wished and hoped and prayed simultaneously. The auctioneer took a deep breath, as he glanced around the room and then shouted ‘Sold!’ exuberantly, as the hammer flew through the air and crashed down loudly onto the dark mahogany counter.

‘To the lady at the ring. Well done madam,’ the auctioneer articulated grandly in my direction.

The biggest smile spread across my face and I could have danced the whole way round the sales ring. The little grey horse was mine. The English dealer didn’t seem too perturbed and was already inspecting the next horse in her catalogue.

To be brutally honest, aside from what the horse looked like, moved like, and his rough age, we weren’t exactly sure what we had bought. Hopefully there wouldn’t too much physically wrong with him, and he had no obvious lumps or cuts. As he hadn’t much done I hoped we wouldn’t have too many problems when training him. It’s easier to build a house on a clean patch of ground than to have to demolish the old house that’s there first. Or that was my theory.

‘Well done!’ Dad said, grinning at me, and also delighted. ‘He could be anything but he’s got potential.’ I was still beaming. ‘I can’t believe it!’ I replied. ‘I was sure that English lady was going to outbid us. Lets sort out the money and head back out and have another look at him.’

We went into the office, signed the forms and handed over a cheque for the sale price plus commission and VAT, and then headed back to stable twenty-four to see exactly what we had just bought. We opened the bolt on the wooden door of stable twenty-four and peered into the gloomy interior.

Inside, crouched at the back of the dark stable was the little grey horse. He wasn’t much to look at, huddled flat against the white washed wall. A few attempts to offer him a hand to smell didn’t go well. It just resulted in him moving even further away from us so we figured he was a bit shy. As we closed his door I saw his previous owner walking up the yard with another horse to sell. That was the last time we saw him, so I never found out the new horse’s name. I would have to give him a new one.

Dad and I had driven up from Tipperary that morning without a horsebox, not really expecting to see a horse we liked. At this stage it was about 3pm so we figured the best idea would be to drive home, pick up the horsebox and then be back for about six or half six to collect the horse.

Three and a half hours later with our horsebox in tow and headlights on, we turned into the empty car park beside the sales complex. It was turning dusk and except for one solitary jeep in the yard, there was no other sign of life at all. The whole sales complex was shut and our little horse was somewhere in the middle of it - padlocked into his dark stable.

We headed back up the village, and as we drove down the main street, a dark saloon car drove up beside us and decelerated. A window was electronically rolled down in our direction.

‘Are ye alright there?’ the unknown driver enquired, peering into our car.

‘Oh grand yes thanks. We’re actually looking to get into the horse sales, we’ve a horse to pick up in there’. Luckily he didn’t seem too surprised.

We had just stumbled across one of the guys who worked in the sales yard, who had been curious about why a horsebox was wandering around the town looking lost, two hours after everyone else had gone home.

Kindly he agreed to meet us back at the yard and open up the gates for us to get our horse. Ten minutes later, we opened the stable door and inside our little horse was waiting. Putting on the halter in the small stable took about three minutes as he artfully evaded all human touches. He was very nervous.

Dad led him out through the empty moonlit stable yards, and the grey walked on lightly, loading into the box without too much hesitation. With gratitude for our gate opener we began the journey back home. The little horse stood quietly the whole way, and not once did we feel the car suspension move. You wouldn’t have known he was there at all.

An hour and a half later we arrived home and unloaded the horse without incident. As I lead the grey down the horsebox ramp I wanted to rub his shoulder, but his whole body was telling me that he absolutely didn’t want me to do that. He didn’t have a very high opinion of humans. I silently accepted the challenge and lead him into the stable without touching him. I undid the halter and he immediately moved away from me as I closed the stable door.

‘He does have a handsome head doesn’t he?’ Dad remarked as he unhitched the horsebox.

‘Yes, I think so. I can’t wait until I can start working with him. I’ll give him a few days outside first to get used to the place and then we’ll see what we will do. I’ll take it slowly anyway.’

As I looked at the grey over the stable door, the realisation of having my own young horse to bring on began to hit me. I started to realise how much of a responsibility this grey horse was going to be.

It took me hours that night to fall asleep, as training ideas and pictures of the grey filled my thoughts.

The grey horse had a new home.