It works. Midgie is very happy to follow Thunder and they all trot around the paddock while I get busy making a list of the things we will need for the Show. After all, it’s only six days away.
Chelsea rides over to the fence to see what I am writing.
‘What’s hoof black?’ she asks.
‘It’s special paint they put on horses’ hooves to make them look shiny for shows. I read about it on the internet. It’s expensive though.’
‘My dad’s got heaps of paint. I’ll see what’s in his shed,’ says Chelsea.
Maisy comes over. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a ride, Juliet?’
‘Umm . . . I’d love to, but I just don’t have time, sorry. I’ve really got to plan out what Midgie’s diet should be for the next week.’
‘Oh, of course,’ says Maisy. ‘Come on, Chelsea, I’ll show you the creek.’
As they ride off I look down at my notepad and try to concentrate on the list I am making. Chelsea is bouncing around so much on Thunder’s back that I’m sure she’s going to fall off, but I can hear her laughing.
I smile, too, but I get a funny feeling in my stomach. When we first started hanging out with Maisy it was great, but now I’m not so sure. Chelsea and Maisy seem to be having lots of fun together.
I hope Mum will come and get us soon.
On the ride home in the car, I don’t really feel like talking. I think I’m really tired. Chelsea’s telling Mum all about how she rode Thunder and how she even rode Midgie. Mum seems pretty impressed.
I pretend I’m busy making more notes in my book.
Chelsea goes home and doesn’t come back to help with my afternoon rounds, but I don’t really mind.
The next day Chelsea comes over to walk to school with me. She tells me about how Maisy rang her to discuss what the horse rug should look like because Chelsea’s mum has agreed to sew it. They are going to make it out of some old curtains or something.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, when I don’t really say much.
‘I’ve just got a bit of a headache,’ I shrug.
Maisy is excited when she catches us just outside the school gates. She tells us that this morning she got up early and rode Midgie around the paddock without Thunder and without food! She really is working hard to get him ready for the big day.
‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘Will you practise all your events every day after school this week? He has to perform like a champion as well as look great.’
We all chat excitedly for a few more minutes. I know one of the cows has some stitches in its leg that Mum needs to check, so we agree to meet back at Maisy’s farm on Thursday after school. Only five days to go until the Show, but things are looking good!
That afternoon I don’t go next door to Chelsea’s. I want to help Dad. He’s building a chook pen in our backyard for our new chooks to live in. It is very nice of Dad to do this, because he doesn’t like animals very much. I still think it’s pretty funny that he married a vet!
Chelsea and I have decided to call our chooks Muffin, Pikelet, Cream Puff and Cupcake. They are so cute and the names suit them perfectly because they love their food. They are scruffy little bantams in a mixture of colours.
Muffin is a black Silkie bantam, which means her feathers are more like fluff. Pikelet, Cream Puff and Cupcake are called Frizzle bantams and their feathers all curl backwards so they are really puffy-looking. They even have feathers on their feet!
Dad’s an architect, so he’s designed the coolest chook pen you’ve ever seen. I’ve drawn it in my notepad so I can show my teacher at school.
Dad says he wants to make it very secure, so he builds a really high fence around it.
‘Is that to stop dogs and cats from getting in?’ I ask, impressed.
‘No,’ says Dad, ‘it’s to stop the chooks getting out and pooping all over the verandah.’
Now it makes sense why he is going to so much trouble!
‘You don’t have to worry, Dad,’ I reassure him. ‘I’m nearly a vet, you know. I’ll take care of everything.’
Dad shudders a bit. I hope he’s not remembering the little problem we had not so long ago with escaped rats and roosters crowing at dawn.
When Mum and I arrive on Thursday afternoon, Maisy and Chelsea are already down in the paddock with Thunder and Midgie practising the events. They’ve found a few old barrels in the shed and they’re trotting around them – although Midgie keeps veering off to munch on clumps of grass or daisies. It looks like fun.
‘You’ll definitely have a chance in the events now,’ I call out.
Maisy smiles, but she doesn’t look convinced.
‘People take these shows really seriously, you know,’ she says. ‘Maybe we should all just go and watch.’
‘No way!’ I cry. ‘You’ve got the perfect team here. I’m nearly a vet, Chelsea’s nearly a famous animal groomer, Midgie’s nearly a horse, and you’re nearly about to win a blue ribbon.’
Maisy laughs and looks down at Midgie. She pats his neck. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s go and have a drink.’
The next morning the chook pen is ready. I’ve already weighed each of the bantams and checked their claws, feathers and beaks for any signs of disease.
Max is sitting in the new pen with me. For once he isn’t holding a dinosaur.
‘Did you know, Max . . .’ I say, happy to have an audience because I’ve been reading Mum’s textbook on chickens. ‘You can tell if a chicken is healthy by the comb on its head.’ I bring Cupcake a little closer so that he can examine the fleshy red skin on the top of the chook’s head. ‘If it’s limp it means the chook is unwell.’
‘Wow,’ says Max, touching the comb. ‘It’s a bit like the frill around a Triceratops’ neck, only softer.’
‘How do you manage to make everything about dinosaurs?’ I groan. But secretly I’m quite amazed that he knows so many facts, even if they are useless ones about dinosaurs.
It’s Saturday. The day of the Show is suddenly here. We have done everything we can to get ready. Chelsea’s mum is putting the final touches on the rug for Midgie to travel in, I have his meals for the day organised and my Vet Kit for a last-minute check-up, and Maisy has been working hard training Midgie all week.
My alarm wakes me at five a.m. Sometimes vets need to get up really early.
I see the lights on next door. Chelsea must be up, too. I creep out the back door to do my rounds. The chooks are very happy to see me and come rushing over for their breakfast.
I notice the guinea pigs haven’t eaten any of their food from last night and suddenly I’m worried. Are they all right? I lift the lid of their cage and catch my breath.
‘They’re here, they’re here!’ I yell as I run inside and up the stairs, not caring that it’s five in the morning. Who wouldn’t want to know my news?
I race into Mum and Dad’s bedroom and leap onto their bed.
‘Twiggy and Lulu have BOTH had their babies!’ I yell.
Mum laughs. ‘Oh how lovely, darling. How many are there?’
I stop to think. ‘HEAPS! I haven’t counted them yet. Will you come and see? Will you check they are all okay?’
‘Yay,’ says Dad as he hits me with a pillow. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted . . . heaps more guinea pigs!’
I laugh and roll off the bed.
Then I race back outside and scoot across the lawn. Mrs O’Sullivan is doing Chelsea’s hair in the kitchen.
‘They’re here,’ I yell over the fence. ‘Twiggy and Lulu have both had their babies!’
Chelsea leaps off the chair with her hair half brushed and bursts out the back door.
Mum is leaning over the cage. As the sun’s first rays light up our backyard, we look down on my nine new baby guinea pigs. I grin at Chelsea and she grins back. It’s going to be a glorious day!
I race back to my room to pack my Vet Kit and notebook and get changed. I rummage through the pile of clothes on the floor and pull on my jeans and look for a shirt.
‘We’ve got to go, Juliet,’ Mum’s voice calls from the front door as I shove a piece of toast into my mouth. I can’t be late today. Mum is the vet on duty at the Show.
As we drive to the dairy, Chelsea and I make a list of possible guinea pig names. We don’t know if they are boys or girls yet, because Mum said it would be a good idea to leave them for a day to get settled in before we touched them.
When we get to the Browns’ dairy, we leap out of the car and run over to Maisy. She has Midgie tied up to her Dad’s old horse float and is brushing him. He looks great.
‘Maisy, we’ve got nine baby guinea pigs!’
We all dance around happily for a moment, but then we have to get to work. We’re running behind schedule because of all the excitement.
‘Have you got the hoof black and the rug?’ I ask Chelsea.
‘Sure do,’ she says, grabbing a very large bag from the back of Mum’s car.
‘Now I know you said “hoof black”, but Dad didn’t have any black paint so can it be “hoof blue”? I think it could look really cool.’
She holds up a can of bright blue paint.
Chelsea and I start laughing.
‘Well, I guess new fashion has to start somewhere,’ says Maisy, but she seems a little unsure.
We paint Midgie’s hooves and put on his new rug. Chelsea’s mum has gone to a heap of trouble. She’s used one of Chelsea’s brother’s old curtains from when he went through his fluoro phase. The blue, purple and orange swirls match Midgie’s hooves perfectly.
‘Now for the finishing touches,’ says Chelsea as she ties a large blue bow around his forelock (that’s his fringe) and some pom poms at the top of his tail.
Midgie looks gorgeous. We definitely have a very good chance of winning something in the grooming event at least – especially if they give marks for creativity.
Mr Brown comes over to help us load Midgie and all his belongings into the float. He looks quite surprised when he sees Midgie.
Mum gives Mr Brown a big smile. ‘Doesn’t he look . . . bright!’
‘Mmm. Very,’ nods Mr Brown.
Mum drives us because Mr and Mrs Brown have to take their prize bull in the truck. As we head towards the Show, I run Maisy through some horse-handling tips on the way.
I’ve never been to a horse event before. The first things I notice as we pull up are all the fancy new horse floats with beautiful, shiny horses tied to them. Their manes are plaited into little knobs all down their necks and their tails are magnificent. Some of them even have checkerboard shapes combed into their rumps. None of them have pom poms or bows. Although I do see a poodle with some.
The girls and boys are all wearing the same clothes – black coats, cream leggings (I find out later that they are called ‘jodhpurs’) and long black riding boots. I didn’t realise you had to wear a uniform.
I look over at Maisy. She is looking down at her jeans and blue shirt.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ she whispers.
‘Of course you can! We’ll do it together. You’ve worked too hard to not try,’ says Chelsea, putting her arm around Maisy’s shoulder.
Maisy smiles. Briefly.
I feel a little flicker of something not very nice in my stomach when Maisy gives Chelsea a big hug.
As we unload Midgie, a hush falls over the riders and their parents. They are obviously all incredibly impressed with how beautiful Midgie looks. I can see some of them whispering behind their hands. No doubt they are wondering where we bought our ‘hoof blue’. Their rugs are so boring. Ours radiates with colour. I recognise Porsha, Maisy’s friend from school. I wave and smile but she doesn’t wave back. Maybe she didn’t see me?
All the stables are already full, so we look for somewhere to tie Midgie up.
‘What about the tent post at the back of that stall?’ I suggest. ‘It’s in the shade and right near a tap, so we can fill his water bucket.’
‘Juliet, you’re full of good ideas,’ beams Chelsea.
I mix up Midgie’s ‘calming’ food for the first events and he munches away happily. I read on the internet that grassy hay is best for this and Mr Brown had plenty in his barn.
I look at my watch. ‘We still have a bit of time before your first event, Maisy. Want to have a look around?’
I think Maisy is glad to have a distraction. She looks a bit nervous.
We decide to visit the Bull Pavilion. We find Mr Brown grooming his best friesian bull, Ramadan Windslow the Third. He looks fantastic.
Mr Brown says the judging will be just before lunch and we promise to be back to watch it. I glance over at the other bulls in the stalls and feel quite confident that Ramadan has an excellent chance because of his massive size and strong neck.
‘We’d better start heading back,’ says Chelsea. ‘They’ll call the first event soon.’
We sprint back to the main arena to get Midgie ready for his first event, ‘Best Groomed’. As we round the corner, I realise we might have a problem. I guess we should have checked to see what kind of stall we had tied Midgie up to.
Who knew horses would like toffee apples?
‘Oh dear,’ says Chelsea as we look at pieces of chewed stick on the ground.
Midgie’s lips are red and sticky. It almost looks like he has lipstick on. He has obviously stuck his head under the back of the tent and helped himself to the apples that were sitting on a crate as the toffee dried.
I put my finger to my lips as we quietly untie Midgie and slip away before the owners of the stall figure out where all their apples have gone.
‘Oh Midgie,’ scolds Maisy. ‘You are such a pig. How are you going to run now?’
We throw his saddle onto his back and try to tidy him up. Even though he must have just eaten at least twenty toffee apples, he still keeps ducking his head down to eat grass. As Maisy rides him out into the ring, I can’t help noticing the dry grass that’s stuck all over his lips. It makes him look like he’s swallowed a cactus.
At first, all the horses walk around in a slow circle with the judges standing in the middle of the ring. One at a time they call each horse into the centre and inspect it carefully. Midgie is still circling. He hasn’t been called yet.
‘Looks like they are leaving the best until last,’ I say, nudging Chelsea.
Then something very odd happens. The judges tie beautiful, long, shiny ribbons around some of the horse’s necks. Porsha smiles primly. Her horse is wearing a blue ribbon. She has won first place. I gasp. But they haven’t even looked at Midgie!
Everyone slowly leaves the arena.
Porsha leans towards Maisy as she is trotting past and says something. Then she laughs.
Maisy slowly walks Midgie over to us. I can see she is trying not to cry.
‘They’re all laughing at me. Porsha said Midgie looks ridiculous and the Show is an event for real horses and I should go home before I make a fool of myself.’
I turn and look around. Porsha and a group of girls, some of them from school, are in a huddle a little way off, whispering and giggling. When they see me looking they all pretend to be looking at the ground.
How stupid do they think we are?
‘I can’t go out there again,’ says Maisy. ‘I want to go home.’ She looks around for her dad.
‘Maisy, listen to me,’ I say as we walk over to the bull judging. ‘We’ve made a mistake. I can see that these judges don’t value creativity, but between us we have more courage than any of those girls put together. We saved Shredder. We got Midgie ready ourselves without any help from anyone else.’
I point behind me at all the parents fussing over the horses while the girls stand around talking about us. ‘We came here to do a job and we have to finish it. You can do this, Maisy! Ignore them all.’
Maisy tries to smile. ‘I guess Midgie does look like he’s going to a disco,’ she murmurs. Then she starts giggling.
Chelsea and I look at each other in relief. Then we all start laughing so hard we can�
�t stop.
When we finally get to the bull judging, we see Mr Brown’s bull with a Grand Champion sash around his neck. It’s three times as wide and twice as long as Porsha’s ribbon! We cheer excitedly and drape it around Maisy’s neck.
The next event on the schedule for Midgie is the ‘Best Girl Rider’ class. The girls on their beautiful, tall horses trot around the judges in a large steady circle. Their bottoms rise and fall into the saddles without a sound. Because Midgie is smaller, he trots a lot more quickly. As Maisy uses her stirrups to try to rise and fall in time with his quick pace her saddle squeaks. It makes quite a good beat. Pfft, pfft, squeak, pfft, pfft, squeak.
Everything is going well until Midgie starts cutting across the middle of the circle. At first I think Maisy is doing it to give the judges a closer look at her skills. It is only when one of the judges has to leap clear that I realise that Midgie is just trying to take a few shortcuts.
Yet again Midgie comes away from the ring without a ribbon. Porsha wins, of course, and rides past Maisy with her nose in the air.
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassure Maisy as I pour oats into Midgie’s feed bin. ‘That’s it for the formal events. The next ones are all about speed, so you’ll be fine.’
Chelsea nods in agreement as she removes the pom poms from Midgie’s tail. ‘We don’t want anything to slow him down,’ she says.
Maisy told us that flag races are timed. The goal is to see how quickly the rider can turn their horse around a series of poles with flags in them. As they round each pole the rider collects the flag and returns it to a bucket at the start. Midgie was very good at this when we practised on the farm. He can turn sharply and he isn’t afraid of the bright flags flapping in the breeze.
Maisy’s face is a picture of concentration as the hooter goes off.
She kicks Midgie and they gallop towards the pole. Midgie turns, right on time. Maisy leans forward and grabs the flag. Then she races back to the bucket. Chelsea and I are going crazy as he bolts for the second and then the third flag. The judges hold their stopwatches in front of them at the finish line. This is going to be a brilliant time. Midgie gallops straight for flag number four.
At the Show Page 2