Goodbye, Cherokee

It's funny, isn't it, how you remember specific snatches of your childhood. How years and years of being a child become snapshots; how only certain memories of your early childhood and adolescence are kept.

I've sometimes wondered why we keep certain memories and not others...why, for example, I distinctly remember climbing out of my cot, aged 18 months, and walking into my parents' bedroom very early in the morning. I was looking for my wooden chicken. It was dark, and my Mummy got cross. Understandably.

I suppose, rather than retaining a photographic record of childhood in our brains, we keep feelings. All of the hugs given and received, all of the stories read, all of the birthday cakes baked, all of the ordinary days spent doing ordinary things, all of the happinesses and sadnesses - they all combine to form a conglomeration of emotions that colour our childhoods.

The luckiest people are those whose childhoods were happy. It is what every child deserves, and hopes for. This is the story of a horse who coloured my family's life in the best possible way, and who made my sister's childhood magical.

My brother and sister and I were (and are) among the luckiest kids on the planet. We had what you could call an idyllic childhood. Even though our parents weren't wealthy, they gave us love and attention in spades, good food to eat, fresh air and a big back yard to run in, and an extended family of pets.

Even before I was born, Mum and Dad had two dogs and a pussy cat, and over the years the menagerie grew. Thanks predominantly to my sister Miffy, at various points in time we had dogs and cats (always!), rabbits, guinea pigs, canaries, mice, hermit crabs, fish, blue tongue lizards and horses. My mum drew the line at ferrets. (Fair enough, too.)

My sister's obsession with horses began in the womb, I'm sure of it. Stables of My Little Ponies were groomed and trotted out by two-year-old Miffy; our dog Tubby was saddled up a few times until Dad rescued the poor dog; and even the back of the couch was commandeered as a pretend pony. I remember getting quite upset when my sister took some of my knitted dolls' clothes and cut them up to make blankets and rugs for her ponies. Some would call her artistic and inventive - I called it plain old destructive!

Miffy learned to ride from a very young age, and always had the natural ability of someone who understood animals completely. She was at ease on horseback, comfortable in the company of horses, and always happiest when covered in horsey muck.

So when Mum and Dad bought Miffy her first horse when she was eleven, she was the happiest girl alive. Cherokee was a 16 year old Appaloosa, a beautiful, gentle old boy with a mottled brown and white coat. He had what Miffy described as an 'optimistic' face, because he always looked pleased to see you, in his own quiet way.

Checks, as he soon became known, was as honest as the day is long. He and Miffy rode happily together for years, and Mum never worried (and amazing occurrence in our house, believe me!) when they were out on a trail ride. I can remember a time when Miffy's favourite outing was to Horseland, and she would spend ages looking at all the bridles and saddles, dreaming of kitting Checks out in gorgeous new gear. Every penny she had, she spent on him.

For as long as I can remember, my sister would be popping out to take Checks' rug off, or put it back on; she would fret if the weather changed and he might be too hot or too cold. He was fed every day, talked to, groomed. Dad used to laugh that Cherokee would greet him by practically frisking Dad for treats in his pockets - I remember him coming home one night from feeding Checks, saying that he had removed the car keys from Dad's pants and looked quite disgusted when he couldn't eat them!

Pony Club was a huge part of my sister's childhood. She and Checks (and Mum and Dad) spent practically every weekend floating Checks to various meetings. He would have his mane braided, his tail groomed, his coat brushed until is gleamed. You could tell Checks enjoyed the outing as much as my sister did - it didn't matter if they were jumping, or doing dressage, or simply riding. They were together.

When Cherokee damaged his leg in a fence, Dad and Miffy spent months bandaging it twice a day, every day. When he grew too old to be ridden, Mum or Dad, or sometimes both, would go with Mif just to feed the old man and say hello. During his retirement, Checks lived with several other horses on a lovely local property. He was happy, whinnying to the others horses when he felt like a chat, or simply standing under a tree for a quiet dream. Many, many times, we joked that he was like another big, friendly dog, just like Dad's pups at home.

As my sister grew older, she acquired a beautiful mare, Prisma. Prissy has since given birth to three foals, and two of them survived. So at the age of 28, my little sister had a menagerie all of her own - two dogs, a one-eyed, three-legged kitten, a duck, and four horses. And of course, just before Christmas she added her own little bubba to the farm, which meant that feeding time at the zoo became quite chaotic.

Last year, it became clear that our old man was beginning to fail. Although he was happy in himself, he was losing condition, and Miffy suspected something was wrong with his stomach. She fed him up as best as she could, and saw him every single day. But even the best veterinary care in the world could not reverse the fact that Checks was 35 years old - positively ancient in horse years.

On Sunday, Cherokee was taken to Mum and Dad's place, and put in their huge, leafy back yard with the two dogs for company. Mum said that he'd settled in so well, it was a shame they hadn't done it earlier. Checks kept coming up onto the back deck, looking for munchies in the flowerpots, so in the end Dad had to shut the gate. Checks just hung his head over the fence, looking straight in the kitchen window at Mum. It was like having her own Mr. Ed, she said.

I saw him there yesterday afternoon, clopping around under the trees, drinking out of the dogs' water bowl because he preferred it to his own. He whinnyed at my sister to hurry up with his food, and stood champing on it hungrily, always lifting that same front leg to paw at the bucket. He was the same old Checks from our childhood, just very, very old, way too thin, and extremely tired.

Only the luckiest people experience nineteen years of love. Miffy and Cherokee were best friends and partners in crime for nineteen magical years. With him, she grew from a little girl into a woman, and finally a mother. With her, he experienced a lifetime of companionship, love and trust. I cannot imagine a time when my sister will be without her beloved boy, but now I have to.

We said goodbye to Cherokee under the trees, in my parents' backyard. He went as peacefully as he lived; quietly and with dignity. My heart is breaking for my family, but mostly for my little sister, who knew that her beautiful boy could not be asked to go on any longer.

Thank you Cherokee, for being a part of our family. You gave so much happiness to all of us, and we will miss your soft eyes and nuzzling nose. We will miss your bossy pushing and the smears of grassy slime up our shirts. We will miss having our pockets searched. We will miss the loud greeting whinny, and the canter over to say hello. But the time has come for you to gallop up to the big paddock in the sky, where the grass is always lush and green; where you can eat as many apples as you like; where the sun and the shade are just how you like it. The time has come for you to rest your old bones, my friend, and know that you have lived a life of love. Goodbye, Checks. We will always love you.