Don Hitmeyer New Year's Eve 2025/26

Hello, this is Don Hitmeyer. Happy New Year, everyone. So, did you get off to a good start? Good resolutions? Or are you “punchless” happy, as my riding man puts it with his unmistakably extremely subtle sense of humor? I can only say that if 2026 turns out to be as tingly as my tongue on New Year’s Eve, then good night! No, no sparkling wine, no crémant and certainly no champagne.

Instead, Ivermectin, vintage 2025, south-facing slope, somewhat austere on the finish. And, no, not served in a glass either, but applied spontaneously from a tube. The attack still pisses me off. Thank you, riding man, never again will I think, “put a bit of pressure on the tube” when you realize at the last moment that “someone” has probably wound the bandages the wrong way round. Keyword tube: There’s this JU TUBE that everyone is talking about, I’m sure there’s a tutorial on how to wind the bandages correctly. And because it’s a video, you can also play it at a slower speed. For those whose windings already have a problem with winding.

So, here’s to the New Year! By the way, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that “ivermectin” starts with “IHHHHH!” I wasn’t the only one in the stable aisle facing the fate that, around New Year’s, people didn’t associate me with “happy” and “new,” but rather with “raw” and “disgust”—or, to put it more nicely, with parasite prevention. At least people are thinking of us. You have to give them credit for that! Just look how worried they looked on Christmas Day! I did suspect that my rider’s choice of gifts might have turned out to be problematic. Between us, let’s be honest—putting the cookbook *Finally Tasty Advent Cookies* under the tree for your own mother—you’ve got to have some nerve to do that. I certainly don’t give him a T-shirt that says “Riding Right Is Enough (When Will You Finally Get It?)”.

But no! It wasn’t the sixth dumpling in roast goose gravy or the chocolate mousse from the day before that caused the depressed faces. It was: New Year’s Eve! Fireworks! Bang, boom, bang, hiss! Every year, but this time everyone was particularly scared of them. The reason: Gundel. Gundel, actually Adelgunde Baroness von Bangenhofen. She is a middle-aged lady (as she describes herself) who moved in with her 24-year-old Shagya Arabian Shania a few months ago. Shania is a good rider and has her owner well under control. She only whinnies when she hears the third “SCHÄNAIIIIIIIJA” from the parking lot towards the stable lane. And she only whinnies really loudly when Gundel raises her mare to the nobility, “Well, my little princess, you little queen”.

Shania says she starts twitching just before Christmas at every little bang. When the first firecrackers go off between the years, she raises her head and widens her nostrils. Then, she says, she is sure that Gundel will turn up on New Year’s Eve with several 5-kilo bags of carrots “so that my comtesse can cope with this wiiiiiiiiiide noise to some extent”.

So far so good. Other PuBs (horse owners) thought New Year’s Eve in the stable lane was a good idea, so there were plenty of carrots (which put the ivermectin attack into perspective). But there was also champagne. And it popped when uncorked. Which triggered a short twitch attack in Shania and a longer screaming fit in Gundel. “SCHÄNAIIIJA, my Principessa, stay calm. Calm down! Easy!!!”

Because it was by no means the first bottle of champagne of the evening and a Ballermann playlist was blaring from a mobile phone, it actually got louder and louder in the stable lane as midnight approached – much to Gundel’s discomfort. “What infernal noise! That’s madness, that’s hell!” Her serious objection was promptly taken up by the spontaneously formed “Stallgasse von 2026” choral society: “Hell, hell, hell”.

Well, what can I say. Happy new year!