LIFE
Real life
Melissa Kite
Once upon a time, in a country that didn’t
run itself, a horse supplement company
invented a cure for laminitis.
This cure, let’s call it LamiSafe, was
like the holy grail of horse-care products
because when administered to ponies who
previously went lame on lush summer grass,
LamiSafe prevented lameness and the pony
was suddenly once again able to graze safely.
I bought this miracle product after my
farrier recommended it and, though scepti-
cal at first, for I have rarely found a supple-
ment of any kind that did what it said on the
tin, I was amazed to find that it worked.
Gracie, the skewbald pony, was suddenly
as sound as a pound in a limited grazing pad-
dock even though she is the greediest little
pony in the west and can stuff her face until
she’s lame on the smallest amount of grass.
‘Hallelujah! Behold a miracle,’ I told my
farrier when he next came to shoe her and
found her tip-top. I bought bottle after bot-
tle of the stuff, administering a dose each
morning in her feed and Gracie thrived in
her paddock for the first summer I could
remember — and as difficult conditions of
sun and rain produced ever more fresh grass.
I told all my horsey friends about the mir-
acle: a cure for laminitis that didn’t involve
stabling the pony had been found at last.
In fact, I would go further. I think the
product cured the underlying systemic mal-
function that is increasingly thought to be
behind a lot of laminitis, namely equine
metabolic syndrome. This baffling condition
stops some ponies from metabolising sugar
to the extent that even if they are not over-
weight, the sugar in grass still accumulatesold mongrel bitch. The waiter ceased his trou-
sers-on-fire acrobatics and darted over elabo-
rately to greet us in turn with double kisses. In
these kisses there was more than politeness —
there was definite solicitude. Catriona showed
him her bright pink scarring. The waiter’s
glance was polite rather than prurient. I loy-
ally repeated to him an apt phrase I had fortui-
tously found in a dictionary of French slang: ‘le
maire me fait chier’, which means, apparently,
‘the mayor really pisses me off’.
The village was en fête with a funfair and
live rock bands, but now tiredly so towards the
end of the usual enervating, frantic August. At
6 a.m. we’d heard a ragged, drunken ‘Marseil-
laise’ emanating from one of the village bars.
Judging by the sagging posture of the man
opening the shooting gallery ten yards away,
his voice was lifted patriotically among them.
Drinks arrived immediately. Oscar’s Coke
came in the classic old-fashioned bottle bead-
ed with droplets. Mine was a tall, narrow
pastis glass, green to halfway, and a heavy bot-
tomed glass pitcher of iced water; Catriona’s
her usual jug of ice-cold pale pink house rosé.
While we sipped and took in the lively crowd
around us, le patron came sideways through
it to present his ruthlessly shaved cheeks
for another round of double kisses. Unused
to being kissed by unknown old men in res-
taurants, Oscar shrank from his. ‘Ah,’ said le
patron gallantly. ‘He kisses only young girls. I
understand this.’
Unsurprisingly the food took an age to
arrive, but we were in no hurry because there
was plenty to look at and comment on and
Catriona is connected to the village gossip
grapevine. That young woman over there, she
said, pointing with her eyes, was until recently
engaged to someone considered by the village
to be most unsuitable. ‘Was it broken off?’ I
wondered. Then a piercing shrill made Oscar
stop his ears and the same fire brigade van
that had taken Catriona to hospital passed by,
siren going, lights flashing. The young driver’s
face was heroically stern, as if he and his crew
were on a rendezvous with death at some dis-
puted barricade.
Next to us, at the second best table, sat a
calm elderly couple. He was a man of uncom-
promising reserve; his wife atoned for this by
darting friendly eyes at Oscar. A small boy, a
grandchild perhaps, appeared and flung him-
self headlong into her lap. The old woman
bent and lovingly kissed the back of his head.
Catriona leant across and asked the boy in
French how old he was. His head buried still in
the old woman’s lap, the boy stretched out all
five fingers. The old man maintained his silent
dignity. They say that we forfeit three quarters
of ourselves to be like other people. Not the
French.
Enfin the grub arrived — steak, chips and
ratatouille for me and Oscar, scallops and
cod for Catriona — accompanied by a rov-
ing squadron of intelligent house flies. The old
mongrel bitch came to life and set about kill-
ing them but they were too many and she gave
up and allowed them to settle on her nose and
even use it as an assembly point.
After our swim then nosh we sat on at our
quiet table with a peace that passeth all under-
standing. The waiter came and took our empty
plates. Dessert? Coffee? Just the bill, please,
we said. Catriona had flogged a landscape the
day before so insisted on paying. Then the
three of us walked hand in hand up the fes-
tive street.and inflames the soft laminae in their feet.
Even though Gracie is as fit as a fiddle, she
develops strange fat pockets round her rump
and in her neck. It really is most perplexing.
But now the summers of stabling, stuff-
ing haynets and fretting were over. Gracie
roamed free.
One day, however, my miracle supple-
ment arrived on the doorstep and it had
changed colour. It was now not brown, like
molasses, but yellow. And it no longer smelt
earthy and sweet but sharp, like cough medi-
cine. I put the dose in the feed and Gracie
turned her nose up. ‘Yuck, Mummy!’ she
said, and refused to eat.
I coaxed the stuff down her by hiding it
in more food, which wasn’t ideal, but I made
sure the food was sugar-free. A few days
later, she was lame. I went on their website
and messaged the company. ‘What has hap-
pened to your laminitis product? It’s not
working any more.’
Promptly, I received a reply. Several of
the active ingredients, certain phytochem-
icals, had been banned by the European
Union. This was on the grounds of insuffi-
cient ‘safety and efficacy data’, which in turn
means they do not comply with eventing
rules. I pointed out that Gracie doesn’t com-
pete in anything, except perhaps an ongoing
contest with my thoroughbred Darcy to see
who can stuff the most grass in their face.
What’s more, I’m not sure many ponies
do compete at international level. Eventers
are usually stabled warmblood horses. Sure-
ly you could produce a non-competing sup-
plement for leisure ponies living in fields?
The answer came back: no. Their market
was European, so they were only making the
EU-approved version, without the banned
enzymes. However, the lady said I might be
pleased to learn that, instead of these chemi-
cals, the company had put some wonderful
natural ingredients into the new formula,
producing marvellous results. These ingre-
dients were grapeseed and cinnamon.
Cinnamon? You’re telling me cinnamon?
It’s a pony not a hot-cross bun! She replied
that cinnamon contains chromium, which
manages blood glucose. In that case, I said, I
think I’ll just go down the cash and carry and
buy a catering pack of spice. I’m not going to
give anyone £29.99 to package up some cin-
namon in a fancy container.
She tried her best but the bottom line
was the EU had banned the cure for lami-
nitis, just in case a chubby pony tries to pass
itself off as a showjumper and enter the
Olympics. Gracie thinks this is stupid, by the
way. I asked her and she said she can’t be
bothered to leap over poles. She said she is
looking forward to 31 October when we will
be free of this nonsense.
I am toying with the idea of making the
old formula myself and selling one of the
first products in the UK that you can’t buy
in Europe. ‘Not Available In The EU’ will
be my tag line.After our swim then nosh we sat on
at our quiet table with a peace that
passeth all understanding