The pony was given to my infant daughter by her godmother. Warning bells should have rung when the godmother lovingly added: "I used to ride him when I was little."
I should have done the maths, but I was sucked in by that other olde farming saying: Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
So without looking the gift pony in the mouth, or paying much attention to his grey hairs, lack of teeth or his sway back, home he came.
A few days later, he was lying down in the paddock and reluctant to get up.
I pushed and pulled and was eventually joined by Jim, the elderly retired farmer from next door.
"Bloat," he pronounced. "When the cows did that we used to stick a knife in them and let the air out. That fixed'em."
He had a glint in his eye and looked keen to demonstrate. I decided it was time to call the vet.
"Colic," the vet pronounced and gave the pony several injections. Pony got up, vet left, all sorted. Until a few days later when the pony was lying down again.
"Thought so," said the vet. "He's got a bowel obstruction - probably a tumour - he is over 30 after all, nothing we can do except put him to sleep."
With that, and as I reeled from finding out the thing was an antique, the vet whipped out yet another needle and dispatched the pony.
As he zoomed off down the driveway to his next call-out, I shouted: "What do I do with it now?"
"Well you can't feed it to the dogs," he called back. "It's full of drugs."
With that he was gone, leaving me with a dead pony and a slight problem.
I rang the dog-food people and they confirmed they couldn't take it. They suggested a nearby farmer may have an offal pit. I rang the nearby farmer and they didn't. They said the council had one.
I rang the council-yes they had an offal pit but it was really small and had a tiny opening at the top. A whole horse wouldn't fit in - but maybe if I cut it up? Ick. No.
I briefly contemplated getting out my shovel and digging a really big hole. I struggle to dig a small hole, so I got back on the phone. The digger people could come next week ... was that convenient?
Um, no. By now it was day two and the pony was looking a bit fatter and smelling a bit wafty. A cloud of flies was forming. I covered him in a tarpaulin so I couldn't see him from my kitchen window.
My family were full of helpful suggestions.
"Advertise him for sale as easy to catch, shoe and float," said my mother.
"Chuck him off the bridge into the river in the middle of the night," my brother suggested.
"Now that he's gone stiff, you can prop him up outside the council offices as a protest against their tiny offal pit," added my sister.
Day three: I was getting a bit stressed when finally, someone who knew someone who had some land and knew someone else with a digger came on board. A local tow truck operator was brought into the plan and, in a covert operation, the now reeking pony was winched on to a trailer and driven out of town.
I was so relieved to see it go that I failed to ask exactly where it was going.
So if you have bought any land about 2km out of town and find something odd when you're digging foundations - his name is Topper - enjoy.
Rachel Wise is a lifestyle-block owner and community newspaper editor.
