Raja, Story of a Racehorse (17 page)

“Beth, I got the worst of it, but these feet are in terrible shape. It looks like he was last shod over a year ago and shoes stayed on until they fell off. I think we should wait until they grow out a bit before putting new ones on.

“The farrier wiped the sweat off his brow with his muscular forearm before taking off his leather shoeing chaps and putting his tools away in the rolling box now blocking the barn aisle.

I stretched my nose toward the shelf next to the cross ties where the brushes were kept. A bag of carrots lay just out of reach next to a dandy brush.

Just a little farther…

Beth laughed and took a carrot out of the bag, breaking it in pieces and placing it on her palm for me.“You think you are so clever, carrot thief. You're a smart one, Slim.” She turned to the farrier. “Thanks — those feet were unbelievable. Poor thing, he's a bit of a project.”

She paused to grab a broom and continued speaking while she swept the hoof trimmings into a little pile and shoveled them into a nearby muck bucket. “We'll fatten him up and get him back to looking like a real horse. I've been waiting to ride him until he's in better shape.” She unclipped the cross ties and started to lead me back into my stall. “I have two more for you to do — are you ready for them? Some visitors are due in a few minutes, so I'll get one of the girls to hold them for you.”

At that moment, a grey truck pulling a horse trailer crawled up the driveway and pulled to a halt. Two women got out and walked into the barn.

“Hello, you must be Ellen and Katie,” Beth smiled, tying her long brown hair up in a ponytail and grabbing a rub rag hanging nearby on a stall door to wipe her hands. She walked over to them and shook their hands.

“Sanchez, the grey horse in the video I sent, is all tacked up and ready for you. He's a lovely mover. I think he'd make a fabulous dressage horse.”

I leaned over my stall door, watching Beth ride him around in circles, helping him figure out how to stretch his neck and back and accept the contact with the bit.

I know dressage! Michelle taught me — take me.

They came back into the barn a few minutes later. “You're right. He's a very good mover. We'll take him. He seems willing and smart, too. You know, I have a weakness for Thoroughbreds. They try so hard and have such a good work ethic, such heart. How could you not love that?”

“There's nothing like a Thoroughbred,” Beth agreed, her eyes smiling, “Diana and I run this rescue program because there are so many lovely young, sound horses that aren't working out at the track but can go on to have second careers.”

She put Sanchez on the cross ties while Katie began to wrap his legs with thick shipping bandages and Ellen fed him carrots.

“I'll bet that you didn't know that a third of the horses entered at Rolex this year are ex-racehorses, off-the-track Thoroughbreds. I looked up their race records for fun. Most of them won about $300 when they raced. Several ex-racehorses are on the short list for representing the U.S. on the national equestrian team.”

“Really?” Ellen answered. “I thought eventers were mostly Warmbloods.”

Beth nodded in confirmation and smiled. “More and more people are realizing that Thoroughbreds make great event horses, even jumpers. Not as many as 20 years ago, but you have to admit they're great value. You can't buy a nice Warmblood for less than tens of thousands of dollars but you can adopt an ex-racehorse for very little and you might have a superstar on your hands. You'd be shocked at how many nice racehorses are abandoned or sent to slaughter when they don't work out for racing. But Thoroughbreds are so smart and wonderful for all kinds of horse sports. We've placed our rescues with trail riders, fox hunters, polo players, Hunter/Jumper riders, eventers, you name it.”

“Where do you find them?”

“We go to the auction and the track and buy horses that don't want to race anymore and would probably otherwise be sold for horse meat. Then we find them new homes.” She grinned happily, patting Sanchez.

“Did you know that 35,000 Thoroughbreds are foaled in North America each year? Most racehorses retire before age six. I've seen some dressage horses still competing at 20 or older.” Beth gave Sanchez a pat. “Have fun with Sanchez and be sure to let me know how he comes along. Send pictures. I'll put them on our website. We love to keep track of our rescues' success.”

“Will do. Thanks again — good bye.”

“Bye.”

I have to admit that I was more than a little jealous. I took a drink of the sweet water in the bucket in my cool, dark stall and munched on some clover hay, getting ready to settle into my mid-morning nap. It seemed only minutes later when I was awakened by the sound of barking. I looked out my outside stall door to see another car coming into the driveway accompanied by the pack of three-legged dogs. I drowsily looked out over my stall door. A tall, thin, angular man with a slight limp and the bowlegged gait of a lifetime rider ambled easily into the barn as Beth came out of her office to greet him.

“Good afternoon, Beth.”

“Paddy Murphy, thanks so much for coming.”

“You're welcome. Glad to be here. Sweet Jesus, it's hot. These are the days I wish I was back in Ireland. Ah, well, it is what it is. How many nags have you for me?” He twinkled, his lips unsuccessfully suppressing a smile.

“Paddy, I can't tell you how much we appreciate you donating your time to the center. You're the only reason these horses can chew properly. People underestimate the importance of a good horse dentist.”

“Thank you Beth, we all do what we can. I owe my racing career, my livelihood and the most fun I've ever had to horses, the least I can do is to try to give back.”

“I forgot. You were a jockey, weren't you? Steeplechase, right? Didn't you win the Grand National at Aintree?”

He's much too tall to be a jockey!

Paddy nodded, smiling slightly, a twinkle in his eye.

“Let's start with this skinny black horse, Slim. His teeth are in terrible shape. I don't know how he's able to chew anything. It looks as though someone just threw him out in a field and left him to fend for himself.”

Diana came into the barn, grabbed a clean rub rag out of the pile of neatly folded towels and wiped her forehead. “Beth, do we have any cold sodas left in the barn fridge? The volunteers and I just unloaded 600 bales of hay. I think I'm going to pass out.”

She dunked the towel into a bucket of water and held it to her face. “Oh, hi Paddy. Thanks for coming. It's too hot out there for unloading hay. Shall I hold that horse for you? Would you like a cold soda? Beth, want one?”

“That would be lovely. You two do great work here.

It's a good service you're doing these horses and I'm honored to help you with your dentist work.”

When Diana returned, Paddy took a long drink then turned his attention to me and started to file my back teeth with a big metal rasp. Beth began throwing flakes of hay into the stalls, speaking while Paddy worked.

“Normally, we try to find homes for them as soon as they come.”

She came over to pat me on the nose and pick a burr out of my mane. “With this one, I want to wait until we get him a little fatter and in better health before I get on him and start advertising him. Excuse me. I've been trying to find the time to look up his race record.”

She looked at my tattoo, wrote down the numbers and went into her office next to my stall. A few minutes later, we heard a scream.

“Diana! I was right!”

“Right about what?” Diana called to her.

“My skinny horse. Slim. Guess who he is? I can't believe it! I knew he was special. His name is Raja. He was bred and owned by the Sheikh. He broke his maiden at Saratoga and won the Champagne, a Grade One Stakes. He was a close second in the Fountain of Youth. He must have had an accident because he was headed for the Derby and then nothing. He hasn't raced since. I'll bet that's what the scars are from.”

Paddy whistled long and low and stood back to take a look at me.

Diana looked sad. “I can't believe that a Derby prospect ended up headed for the slaughterhouse. That's insane. He was worth millions just a couple years ago. Now look at him — sold at auction for $400.” She held her thumb and forefinger close together. “He was this close to being horse meat.”

“That IS insane,” Beth replied. “Normally I try to call the breeder when we take in a horse, but the Sheikh sold his farm a few years ago and I have no way of tracking him down.”

“If you two hadn't bought this horse, he wouldn't be alive today.” Paddy nodded solemnly, “It makes you angry, doesn't it? You can tell he's a class horse, a diamond in the rough. He looks intelligent, regal, even. It's hard to believe this horse was heading to the Derby judging by the shape he's in now. He looks like he's had more than his share of troubles, poor lad.” Paddy shook his head. “Well, his teeth are better now. I filed down the hooks on his back molars. He should be able to chew and start to put on weight. I'll bet the two of you have the most aggressive de-worming program east of the Mississippi.”

“You betcha. You should see what comes out of some of these guys.”

Diana snorted, “Gross.”

He gathered his tools and placed them in a bucket filled with water before giving me one more look. Then he fished a roll of something out of his pocket, unwrapped the paper and held out a round treat.

Mmm, a mint!

He smiled at Beth and Diana. “Polo mints, from England. My niece, Dee, lives in New York City and gets them for me. Horses love them. Now then, I'm ready for the next one.”

It's finally time!

“Today we start Raja. I think he's healthy enough to ride. Poor thing, I wonder when he was ridden last. It's been almost four years since his last race. I doubt that anyone has sat on him since then.”

Beth came out of the tack room carrying tack.

Racing tack: an exercise saddle, yoke and nylon bridle, it's been quite a while since I've worn that!

She carefully put the bridle and saddle on, adjusting the cheek piece so the fat snaffle bit sat evenly on the bars of my mouth.

“Diana, could you please get me another saddle pad — one of those sheepskin ones? He has high withers. Oh, and another girth. This one is too small. It's a 52. I think I need a 54. Thanks.”

She buckled the girth after making sure the saddle fit comfortably and led me out to the courtyard, walking me around a circle in the driveway several turns, gradually tightening the girth with each turn until it was snug.

She turned to one of the volunteers who had been watching and waiting. “Let's do this in the sand arena. Please keep him walking while Diana gives me a leg up. Watch out. Remember that horse we had that bolted whenever anyone tried to get on him? If he pulls away, just let go. Don't try to hold him. Got it? Horses bolt if they're scared. It's the flight instinct — like rabbits or deer. They're prey animals. I don't want you getting hurt, so keep your eyes open and move slowly to keep him relaxed. No sudden movements. And keep away from his hind end. Even if he kicks at a fly, he could get you instead. Good job. Thanks.”

I was slightly amused by all the precaution as the volunteer led me down to the arena dotted with jumps and surrounded by shade trees with a group of plastic chairs and a stone mounting block in one corner.

“Walk another turn. OK, Diana, when you're ready.”

Diana put her hand under Beth's bent leg then easily hefted her up and over. Gracefully transferring her weight from her hands on my withers, Beth slowly and lightly lowered herself onto my back, keeping her feet out of the stirrups, then gave me a pat.

“Good boy, Raja.”

BRRRINNG! The phone in the barn rang.

“The vet was supposed to call. I'll be back in a sec.” Diana ran for the phone.

Beth slowly put her feet in the stirrups and took up the reins, keeping a couple fingers hooked around the yoke, the “sissy strap,” the boys at the track used to call it. She took a deep breath and with a light brush of her leg against my side, urged me into a walk. I rounded my neck, walking straight and evenly, pushing from my hind legs.

Dressage, I'll show you dressage.

Her leg whispered against my side again — up into a light springy trot. She was soft and well balanced. Not as light as Michelle, but close. She took up more contact in the reins. I trotted effortlessly in perfect balance, accepting her contact, enjoying and understanding her signals, speaking her language. I felt her leg gently squeeze against my side more firmly and responded by leg yielding across the arena. That surprised her! Then she did a half-halt. I re-balanced. Next, a figure eight, bending in each direction. Finally, we did a canter–walk transition into a perfectly square halt. We turned at the end of the arena, picked up a trot and headed toward a cross rail. I took it perfectly, showing off my springy trot as we approached the fence. Then, into a light canter, and we headed to a bigger fence.