Just lift his tail up!
Chapter One: The Joke
May’s eyes widened in alarm. She looked sceptical. And everyone laughed …
‘He can’t kick if you pick his tail up.’
That’s what the vet had said as Caesar, a big chestnut gelding, who was being treated for a tendon injury, picked his hind leg up and showed every sign of kicking out. May, her assistant, was having none of it. She stepped sideways and pulled a face at the vet.
I laughed with the others and said to the vet,
‘If you’re so confident about that, you stand behind him and pick his tail up.’
She didn’t.
It had become a standing joke. ‘I don’t know why I’m paying for a sedation. You said all you needed to do was hold his tail up - and he wouldn’t be able to kick.’ Everyone laughed…
… and the sedative injection went in. Not one of us really believed it was worth the risk of getting kicked by a horse’s hind leg. None of us were prepared to put the vet’s assurance to the test .. including the vet.
Chapter Two: The Contest
It felt like an Olympic final. The three competitors stood, poised, muscles tensed and ready to spring into action, waiting for the starting pistol.
In one corner stood a plastic bucket containing the vaguely pink liquid which told of diluted hibiscrub and distantly smelled of disinfectant. In another, a roll of ruffled up cotton wool. Its dishevelled state indicated the hasty way it had been torn into lumps. Each competitor gripped a hank of soaked cotton wool.
In the centre stood Caesar. His head drooping, his eyes half closed and his front feet slightly splayed: the sedative was working.
Almost …..
The crowd gasped. The lights seemed to dim. ‘It’s coming,’ yelled May. And, sure enough, a pink plug began to emerge from Caesar’s sheath. We dived, hands outstretched like slip-fielders in a cricket match, our wet cotton wool dripping into the shavings.
We missed. ‘Oh no! It’s gone.’ It was a false start. And, as the vet’s fingertips missed the target by millimetres, the right hind leg lifted ominously.
We resumed our starting positions: the vet, May … and me. Three middle-aged women clustered around Caesar’s hind quarters, ready to move when the signal was given. The crowd howled with laughter as, for the second time, that elusive pole began to emerge - and we were off!
Damn! Another false start. No sooner had it begun to poke out, than it suddenly retreated, leaving the runners flailing at empty space with their cotton wool bats. The right leg lifted again, and the vet stepped swiftly backwards.
We were supposed to be cleaning Caesar’s willy. He did not like anyone touching it. As soon as a hand even came close, his back leg would shoot up in warning. ‘You come any closer’. It said, ‘and I reserve the right to defend myself.’ Even under heavy sedation, it seemed, those autonomic defences remained on high alert. I knew that feeling only too well.
We stood fixated. The frustrated tension now began to mount. As soon as there was even a hint that the penis might be about to make an appearance, our anticipation reached a crescendo. It was like waiting for the main act to arrive on stage. We would pounce, only to see it vanish before our eyes.
We’d gathered a delighted audience. People began to laugh at the absurdity. It was as if we were watching a magic show and the magician was about to make the big reveal: the rabbit he’d conjured out of thin air was about to emerge from under his red silk handkerchief. Spectators began shouting encouragement. Someone began taking bets on which of us would win the coveted honour of victory over this stubborn and shy willy.
Throughout, Caesar was happily oblivious to the spectacle. He did not see the growing anxiety on the vet’s face, every time he lifted his right hind leg in her direction. He did not see how the cotton wool began to disintegrate into shreds and dripped disgustingly from our hands. He did not sense the rising tension or realise how much he was taunting us with this ‘in-out’ strategy. It became less like a sprint and more like a game of ‘whack-a-mole’.
Then, suddenly, his willy dropped to its full length: a fleshy protuberance unrolling from a dark tube and oozing from its sheath. All three of us pounced! I got there first. I grabbed hold and swiped my shredded cotton wool over the surface, removing thick chunks of grime in the process. Whooping with a joy that was far in excess of the accomplishment, I lifted my manky trophy aloft in triumph! I was standing on the podium and punching the air in glee.
The crowd hollered their approval. Trumpets were blown. Fireworks flared and ticker-tape fluttered. A banner unfurled across the doorway announcing my victory. A crown descended on my head. I was the champion: the winner of the inaugural gold medal for competitive willy-cleaning. The vet, and May, bowed in obeisance, acknowledging their defeat.
Caesar snored.
Even then, and still under heavy sedation, his back leg rose, threateningly - but the vet was closer to it than I … so I didn’t hesitate. ‘Just lift his tail up’, I said ‘you’ll be OK.’
Chapter Three: Change is good
Later, Caesar and I were alone. He was contentedly munching his hay while I polished my medal. The crowds had gone. The vet had been paid. The job was done.
It had been an ordeal and, despite being the kind of rare entertainment which all the spectators had agreed had definitely been worth the price of admission, it was one I did not fancy repeating any time soon. There had to be a better way. I decided that I would apply myself to solving the problem of cleaning Caesar’s willy.
It was, I pondered, analogous to life. No matter how horrible an experience had been, there had to be a better way. The future was not determined by the past. I needed to win Caesar’s trust: to convince him that I was no threat. I needed him to realise that my touch, wherever it landed, indicated safety, comfort and healing. I needed to alter his mindset, just as I needed to alter my own.
Life had not been good to me. I’d been too risk-averse: too afraid to take a chance and scared to trust. Like Caesar, I’d been on high-alert, defensive and ever-ready to lash out if anyone came too close. I desperately needed to change my life. Watching Caesar happily grazing, I realised that change shouldn’t be seen as terrifying. The future needn’t be as bleak as the past.
Maybe I should make a slight alteration to the old proverb:
‘Where there’s a willy, there’s a way.’ I laughed…. and that felt good.