Raja, Story of a Racehorse (9 page)

November, Ocala, Florida

The energy around the farm seemed off. Bob stayed in his office watching the news on his television, more tense than I had ever seen him.

“The Sheikh and Princess Ayesha need to go home to their country because there's political unrest,” Bob told Pedro glumly. “The Sheikh's keeping the farm for now but scaling down. He's asked me to start looking for buyers for some of the broodmares and yearlings. We'd love to have you stay on, but you'll have to work part time.”

He looked over to my stall. “We have to figure out what to do with Raja. I hate to just turn him out for the rest of his life. What a waste — he's so talented.”

Will I be sold? I want to race badly, but I just can't go into the gate. What future is there for a racehorse that can't go in the starting gate?

“Won't you let me try to make Raja into a jumper?” Michelle responded when Bob told her the news. “If he can't go to stud and won't go in the starting gate, what value is he to the Sheikh? He's still an incredible athlete. I'd give anything for him.”

“Good idea, I'll ask the Sheikh. He may even give him to you. He'd get a kick out of it if Raja ends up at the Olympics. You might have to learn Arabic, move to the Middle East and change your nationality if he really is Olympic material,” Bob joked.

“Hey, guess who's buying Max — Flash Jackson! He's sending him to stud.”

January, Ocala, Florida

 

“He sure is good lookin', ain't he?” drawled Speedy, the stable hand, towering over his broom, thin and lanky as a whip. Five Jack Russell terriers sat around him on the perfectly swept, dark green rubber-tiled center aisle of the long barn, watching in anticipation as he slowly put his hand into his pocket and tossed a handful of corn-smelling goodies to them. The dogs excitedly raced after them, gobbled them up, and looked up at him once more, tails wagging. A row of well-groomed horses looked over their stall doors curiously at me as Bob led me into the barn and handed me to Oakley, Michelle's tanned, fit-looking young assistant. Above the polished brass-and-wood stall fronts, a row of brightly colored shiny strips of cloth, mostly blue and red with gold lettering, fluttered in the breeze that was wafting through the barn.

“He sure is,” Oakley replied, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes and wiping his hands on his breeches before leading me past a row of neatly arranged tack trunks, past a big wash stall lined with bottles of shampoo, brushes and a tidy stack of folded towels and past the curious horses, to a woodsy-smelling stall filled with shavings. Bob and Speedy followed, with the pack of terriers close on their heels. After he put me in the stall, Oakley stood with Speedy, admiring me.

“He's huge. And beautiful! Wow! What a powerful looking hind end. I'll bet he can jump. That's an interesting marking on his forehead. Like a scythe. I've never seen that before. Those are some impressive scars on his hind leg, too. It must have been some accident.”

“It was a bad one. He's had time off. Now he's ready for a new job.”

Bob cleared his throat as he gave me a lingering pat. “I guess I'd better get going. Good bye, Raja. I'm gonna miss you.”

Sticking my head over the outside stall door and chewing on a mouthful of the alfalfa that I found in the corner, I watched the van drive away with a frenzied white-and-brown dust cloud of Jack Russell terriers chasing it away, barking furiously.

Speedy shook his head. “Dumb dawgs are gon' get smushed, I'm tellin' ya.”

That night after supper, my new neighbor, Holzmann, a small, black, athletic-looking horse, struck up a conversation with me.

“We heard that one of the Sheikh's horses almost won the Kentucky Derby. Did you know him?” He seemed to know that I was a racehorse. I nodded.

Max. He was my best friend.

“Well, you won't ever go that fast again,” exclaimed Holzmann, “but those big timed jump-offs can be pretty fun. It's nice to see another Thoroughbred in here. I was feeling a bit outnumbered by the Warmbloods. I started out racing myself, you know. I'm very well bred, but I never really liked racing all that much. I hated all of that jostling and bumping and mud in your face. It just seemed rough and it wasn't intellectually challenging. I'm fast, but I just didn't see the point.” He paused to scratch his nose, rubbing it on the side of the stall door. “On the other hand, I love being a jumper. Michelle got me because she had one of my half-brothers. Turns out my family are all amazing jumpers. Lots of Thoroughbreds are, you know.” He rubbed his nose again on the stall door. “We horses figure out pretty quickly whether we want to race or not. No one can force us to run. If we're too slow or don't like to race, we usually find other careers like showing, eventing, foxhunting, trail riding, even polo.”

I had no idea there were so many other careers.

What about the horses that can't have other careers, the lame ones?

Holzmann looked at me sadly. “You don't want to know. Usually they move farther and farther down the line, often getting abused along the way. The lucky ones get adopted as pets, or companions for other horses or go to special retirement farms. The unlucky ones go to the auction and are sold to the killers for meat.”

Meat? He can't possibly be right.

“And don't get me started on Warmbloods.” He rolled his eyes. “They act so superior. Sport horses, they're called. I have to admit — they're good jumpers.” Holzmann stopped to yawn, sighed a deep, rumbling sigh, and continued,“I've been to all of the big international shows: Aachen, Dublin, Hickstead, the World Championships and the Olympics. Michelle and I won the silver medal, second best in the world. I like the concentration and the precision of show jumping. It's a thinking-horse's sport. Now I'm retired and I teach Michelle's better students.”

“Don't let him fool you,” chimed in a grey almost white, pony in the next stall, “He just likes to show off for the crowd. Give him an audience and he'll go like a champ. At home, with no one watching, he acts like a two-year old. I've seen him buck off more than one of those kids he claims to be ‘teaching.'”

“Speak for yourself, Shorty,” Holzmann retorted. “You're vainer than everyone.”

The pony laughed good-naturedly.

“I'm Farnley Prism. I take kids to big horse shows and win blue ribbons for them. Short stirrup, pony hunter, equitation, you name it. I'm famous. Everyone knows me. I teach kids about winning and I give them confidence. If they can halfway ride, they'll win with me. And if they can't ride, I'll take care of them and teach them. Michelle doesn't usually coach pony hunter riders, but her niece, Grace, is riding me now.”

Prism giggled mischievously, as though she enjoyed stirring things up, then winked at me with her white eyelashes and big eyes. “Unlike Lord Holzmann, who finds it amusing to buck off anyone who gets on him, I was taught that the mark of a well-bred horse is kindness and patience. After all, I'm a Farnley pony, one of the best Welsh pony families.”

Holzmann rolled his eyes again. “See what I have to put up with? Over there is L'Etoile du Nord — “Toile” for short. She's a Selle Français and used to be owned by someone on the French Olympic team. Michelle has some rich owners who want her to win the gold medal so they buy her nice horses. Toile doesn't say much, but she's a very good jumper and she adores Michelle.”

The big chestnut mare looked over at me with a guarded look and nodded slightly. I felt a twinge of jealousy.

Minty-smelling, tingly, warm baths, every day.

Oh, how I love them!

Michelle tried on several of the strange big saddles to make sure that one fit my back perfectly. And the fussing! It made me feel like I was really special. At least

30 minutes a day grooming, boots on for turn-out to protect my legs, and the massage lady once a week to keep my muscles loose. I usually fell asleep when she came.

Speedy sang along with the radio as he flicked the two dandy brushes in a rhythmic motion across my back.

I relaxed, enjoying his singing and the scratchy sensation of the brushes and smelling the delicious salty corn chips he always carried. I reached around and stuck my nose in his pocket looking for them. Speedy just laughed. “You sly dawg. OK, here's a treat.”

Thick saddle pad and saddle on. Hoof polish, mane brushed down with water, a wipe with a soft rub rag, a final squirt of fly spray and it was time to train.

“I told you that he'd be good. He's so smart and athletic,” Michelle told Oakley as he watched her ride me. The springy sand underfoot, mixed with bits of rubber, made me want to show off my fancy walk and trot as Michelle rode me around the big arena, stopping to show me brightly colored wooden jumps and trot me over the row of poles on the ground. Next, she headed me to two rails crossed in an X. I jumped it.

Fun!

Another X, then a single rail, then two together, like a game. I gave a playful buck.

“Look how balanced he is. How he measures the jump as he approaches it, adjusts himself and uses his back. He's a natural jumper and has tons of scope. Can you please set that oxer up one more hole? Thank you.”