In which I celebrate the amazing Benji

I’m so sorry to write this on Christmas Eve. I know you are all excited and twinkly. Happy. I hate to spoil the festive mood. But today I lost my beloved pony, Benji.

I only got him by accident. I had rescued a racehorse, Lizzie, in 2006. I didn’t trust the livery owner where I installed her outside London, and so I bought a farm in Somerset. As you do. You can’t keep a horse on her own – they are sociable herd animals – so the woman looking after her suggested I take Benji. He was 12 years old, but was due to be shot that week for being unrideable. He had already had 12 owners, doubtless horrible children who kicked him in his ribs. I agreed to have him, sight unseen. He travelled down with my racehorse, as though on a speed date. I got the stables ready, feeds made, paddocks fenced. Safely unloaded, I just enjoyed watching them eat. It has always been my dream to own a horse. Benji was the spitting image of the pony on the flyers for the WH Smith Win a Pony Short Story contest, which as a child I entered every year but never, ever won.

But then, after owning him for barely an hour, Benji started to sweat, cough and hang his head. His nostrils were flared, sides heaving. I called the woman who had recommended him. ‘Perhaps the stable lights are too bright,’ she said. Idiot. After I called a vet, Benji was diagnosed with asthma, and acute breathing problems or COPD. He could never be allowed to have dry hay, or be on straw. As I had owned him for less than two weeks, his insurance didn’t cover him.

But in the 17 years since that night, he has never put a hoof wrong. He has never been yanked, or shouted at, or indeed kicked in the sides. I got on him once; he promptly bucked me off, and he has lived the life of Riley since. He loves my assistant Nic’s horse like a brother. When I walk to the yard each morning, he hears my step and whinnies to me.

Last night, I went to check the horses late, something I always do. They usually live out but have been in due to rain. I run a hand down each neck. When I got to Benji, his neck was moist. I texted Nic, who has looked after my horses for 15 years. She is an equine behaviourist, and I employed her as Lizzie the racehorse was at first downright dangerous. ‘Benji is sweating.’ And then, he did something he never does: he laid down on the shavings while I was in the stable. Horses don’t do this. I sent Nic a photo. She arrived within 10 minutes. And called the vet.

Benji was given pain relief, muscle relaxant. The diagnosis was colic. I lost Lizzie to colic when she was only 12, so the fear was rampant. Benji was put back in the stable and then, to our horror, he weed a torrent of blood. The shavings turned red. The vet came back. Nic spent the night in sub-zero temperatures watching him, wrapped in a horse rug, while I got two hours’ sleep. This morning I made her coffee, and went back at 5am. A huge owl flew inches above my head.

Benji was obviously in pain, sides heaving. He kept going down. We discussed taking him to an equine clinic, but the vet thought he wouldn’t survive the hour-long journey. Surgery might have been an option, but he is just shy of 30. Recovery is long and arduous. He would have been stressed and frightened, away from his little loving herd; his girlfriend, my horse Swirly.

And so at 4pm today the vet came back. She said she had only given the strongest painkiller she had just injected him with to two other horses in her entire career. And still he was pawing the ground, circling. I’d rushed his blood samples to the equine clinic that morning, and the results showed sepsis. I had no choice.

I asked the vet not to hurt him. We walked him out to the little paddock, and he was so trusting, ears pricked, eyes shining. I hugged his warm neck. He’s like a woolly teddy bear. I told him he is my best boy. The best pony in the world. I told the vet it felt worse than losing my mum; but she had wanted to go. Benji didn’t. He loved his life. There wasn’t a day when he was cold, or hungry, or alone, or bored. That was my job. I owed him that. And I owed it to him to let him go.

I got on him once; he bucked me off, and has lived the life of Riley since