My horror horse story didn't happen to me, but to my sister, Frances.
She and her friend, Shaun, had taken their dressage horses for a trail ride as a rest from serious work. Dawdling along a bush track, they were surprised when a small car confronted them and the driver gestured impatiently that they should get out of his way. There was nowhere for them to go except to jump a barbed wire fence (which only a maniac would attempt), so while the girls dithered about what to do, the bloke began pounding repeatedly on his horn.
This put the wind up our anglo-arab, Tristan, who promptly reared and dislodged Francie, who phlumped flat on her back on the ground. In his fright, the horse fell! Right on top of my (depressed) sister! In his haste to get up and put distance between himself and the awful noise, he trod upon Francie's face with his off fore-hoof and kicked her in the back of her head with his near hind-hoof (that was the one that did most of the damage). Then he p*ssed off into the sunset while the disgruntled bloke finally got his right-of-way.
Shaun wisely chased after the horse and caught him, bringing him back to my groggy sister so she could mount and ride out of the bush to the main road. In her stupor, Francie rode to the doctor's surgery, hitching Tristan to her (the doctor's) letter-box and weaving her way into the waiting room. By now, she had yellow spinal fluid running out of her ear and down her neck. She vomited unobtrusively into a large potted plant in the corner and then passed quietly out on the waiting room floor. The doctor called for an ambulance, whose arrival spooked the horse again and caused him to decamp forthwith, taking possession of the doctor's letter-box in the process. Thankfully, he bolted back to his stable, where Shaun unsaddled him and put him up for the night. She returned the doctor's letter-box the next day.
I got a phone call at work to say Francie's nose, skull and pinky finger were broken and that she was in Maitland hospital. I fled out of work and leapt into my car, gabbling Hail Marys all the way up the highway until I finally burst into Francie's hospital room. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed with a smoke hanging out of her mouth and bellowing at her poor husband to go and check the horse for cuts and bruises instead of wasting time. She had a headache for a while, her nose lists to the left these days and she can't straighten her pinky finger, but other than that, she's fine!
The interesting twist to this story is that the previous year, Shaun had been schooling Tristan in the long grass behind the stable-yard. Someone had tossed a beer bottle into the paddock and the horse trod on it, shattering it. This caused Tris to stumble and Shaun to fall off. As he regained his balance, Tris had clipped Shaun on the side of her head with his hoof,
breaking her skull. Neither incident was the horse's fault in any way, however his nickname became 'Headbreaker' after that.
Tristan was one of the prettiest horses I've ever seen! He was 15.2 hands (bit short, but never mind) and a gorgeous blood-bay. He had the large, romantic-looking head of his thoroughbred father and the lovely dished profile of his arabian Mum. His coat gleamed in strong sunlight and he had a knack of standing in a stately pose wherever he happened to be. He was a real film-star horse!
Years after, Tris got his hoof caught in a loop of barbed wire during the night. By the time we found him, he'd been bleeding for hours and was lying near death with his foot still tightly bound in wire and nearly severed. The vet wanted to put him down, but the old bloke who hot-shod all our horses told us to pack the wound with stockholm tar and bind it tightly, then hose-pipe it (wash it with running water) every morning and evening for half-an-hour a time. We did that and the wound healed in just weeks! Tris would never be sound for competition again, however, so we gave him to a little girl who just wanted to do Pony Club with him. She moved away, so we lost touch with Tris. I hope he had a happy life: he was my favourite of all our horses!
PS. For those who know this story, the unmistakable imprint of a #5 cob horseshoe can be clearly seen on my sister's face to this day. The toe-clip left a scar between her eyebrows and the calkin-holes did the same on either side of her jaw. She was not an attractive-looking young woman during the healing process (black, blue, lumpy and
furious) and I have to say her overall demeanour hasn't improved one bit in all these many years. :22_yikes: