“If she can’t figure out how to pace herself, that’s her problem,” he responded.
I was shocked. No one was going to come by later and check that horse for colic. And if she did get it, she was doomed. Part of the remedy for colic is getting a horse to move about to dislodge the toxic build-up of gas created when a horse’s digestive process goes into overdrive. But Simply Darling was going to be standing still in her stall till the next morning. Even if someone had come by, there was no place to turn her out. I had already learned that despite the fact that the track owned acres and acres of grassland adjacent to the facility, it was never used. Horses always went from training right back to their stalls. It was another thing about the track that made me uncomfortable for Baby to be there—absolutely no free time to romp.
I also saw abuses beyond that improper feeding. One morning, when I came to say good-bye to Baby for the day after hanging out in the kitchen for a while, I heard a lot of loud noise and laughing as I approached the barn. A little filly was standing in the aisle, right opposite Baby’s stall, a fine-boned, delicate horse who looked to be no more than eighteen months old. The exercise rider was in the process of dismounting her, and she was shaking from head to toe.
The rider was apologizing—I couldn’t tell why. But as I came closer, I saw that the horse, a light-colored chestnut, was covered in welts from his whip. They were not three or four inches long, but eight inches, running on both sides of her body all the way from her flank to her backside. Some had actually broken through the skin and were bleeding.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” the trainer responded to the rider, who felt bad about what he had done, realizing he had gone too far in trying to steer the horse on the track that morning. “This bitch will learn to run straight.”
The man wasn’t even an actual trainer. Lacking a trainer’s license, he used the name of a trainer buddy to gain access to the back of the track. But everyone looked the other way; it was easier not to make waves.
In the meantime, it wasn’t over for the horse. The so-called trainer put a lead line on her with a brass chain shank at the end that was a foot and a half long—the kind you might use on a horse needing strong control. The line hooked under the horse’s chin, crossed over her nose, then through a loop on the other side of her halter until it came full circle. When you pull on a chain like that, the fine, sensitive bones in a horse’s nose hurt, and it pays attention. It if doesn’t, you jerk on the chain quickly. If you pull on it hard enough, it’s possible the bones will break, causing the horse tremendous pain.
After the chain was put on the horse, who clearly didn’t need it—she was scared to death and anything but fractious—the filly was brought into her stall, where the “trainer” applied a topical anti-inflammatory agent on the welts called DMSO.
You’re never supposed to apply DMSO to an open wound. It burns. You’re supposed to use it only for swelling, and even then, you’re supposed to dilute it; you never use it straight. But this man forced the filly against her stall wall with the help of someone else and started applying full-strength DMSO all over her bleeding welts, and she couldn’t move because if she did, the metal shank would hurt her nose. She was out of her mind with the pain, the burning sensation on top of it, and everybody stood around and just laughed. “Look at that bitch go,” the man said.
I wanted to retch. Not a kind word was said to her. She was huffing and puffing, surrounded by loud screams and name-calling. She couldn’t understand the words, but she certainly understood the tone.
Finally, they closed her stall door, and that was it. The horse was given no cool down, no bath, no fresh bedding—all the routine things that are supposed to happen after training.
This really jolted me. I started to visit Baby not just once a day but often twice. I’d come by in the morning, before going off to work, and then later. If we went to a wedding on a Saturday night, I might have on an evening gown and high heels, but it didn’t matter. I had to check in on Baby and make sure he was okay.
Most times he was. Each morning when I came to see him before training started, I would enter the barn aisle and call out “Hi, Baby!” and would either see his face pop out of his stall or hear his Canadian goose whinny—or both. That whinny was so distinctive, deep and loud, sort of like a foghorn.
Then I’d put my nostrils to one of his and breathe out, and he’d breathe into mine in return. As soon as I entered the stall, he’d start searching my pockets—nudging with his head for the carrots or apples I always brought. Once he had his treats, I’d groom him. He didn’t need it—Coburn made sure he had a glistening coat—but who doesn’t like having his back scratched? Besides, I needed to feel that I was still the one who took care of him, who had a routine with him that carried over from when he was a colt at home.
Once training was over, I would hurry from the rail to the barn to hot walk Baby, even though technically that was the trainer or groom’s job. Besides just wanting to be with him, I wanted to make sure for myself he wasn’t overheated. He never was. He was never blowing hard or even in a sweat. He always looked at me as if to say, “I just had a nice little run around the pasture.”
Coburn would confirm my feeling that the training wasn’t taxing Baby by saying, “He likes to go. I’ve got to hold him in. He’s a lot of horse.”
After Baby cooled down, I would hang around the rail for a while, watching other horses gallop around the track, or I’d have coffee and conversation in the kitchen. Then, when I’d walk back to Baby’s stall to check on him once more and say good-bye before leaving, he’d generally be sleeping soundly, snoring, all stretched out on his side. I could see he was having a dream because his lids were moving. What is it about, I would wonder. Is he tearing through the pasture with his mother? Playing with Scarlett? Whatever it was, his slumber was restful.
Other times I’d go back to the barn, and Baby wasn’t yet sleeping but was clearly relaxed, with his bottom lip hanging and his legs tucked under him. I’d go into his stall and sit next to him, talk to him, rub his neck under his mane, where he particularly liked it. I had noticed by that point that he had a good luck mark in the form of a Prophet’s thumbprint—an indentation on his chest, like a dimple, that, according to legend, meant he was descended from one of the sacred broodmares belonging to the prophet Mohammed and should be treasured and treated with particular respect. I was more than happy to oblige. “Did you have a rough day today, Baby?” I would ask. “You did great. You should relax.” Then I’d breathe into his nostrils—“See you tomorrow.”
But there were days he had a questioning look on his face when it was time for me to leave. “Are you really going?” his eyes would say.
I’d turn the corner wondering if he was still looking in my direction. Those were the hardest days. As at his first training facility, I’d go back, seeing his eyes remained fixed on me. “Oh, Baby, it’s okay. I’ll bring you more carrots tomorrow.” We’d breathe into each other’s noses again, and I’d kiss the velvety part around his nostrils, then rub under his chin and out by his ears. If he tilted his head—“Mm, that’s good”—I’d end up going back into his stall again so I could reach the part where his mane stopped and his withers, or shoulders, started, in order to scratch more. He’d move his tail from one side to the other so I could scratch by the dock, too. He was so beautiful, his body a rich mahogany, accented by four black stockings and a black mane and tail. He had a few white hairs, just a few, between his eyes.
A hundred times we’d repeat the scenario until he finally relaxed enough to get ready to fall asleep, or at least become distracted by the comings and goings of other horses. I’d leave the dark barn with my heart a little less heavy and head off to take depositions, having been at the track for three to four hours.
In hindsight, with the abuse to some of the horses that I saw and Baby’s own intermittent sadness at my leaving, it’s painfully easy for me to wonder why I didn’t pull him out of there, my promise to breeder Don
Shouse to race Baby be damned. But in many ways, Baby seemed perfectly comfortable. Had he been nervous and acting erratic, I probably would have removed him in short order. Yet he was the horse I had painstakingly taught him to be in those early days at home—fearless. He never spooked or shied at anything in his new surroundings, like many two-year-old horses do—jumping or planting their feet while staring at something intently, or rearing up and trying to throw their rider. He never tried to spin and bolt off the track in an effort to get back to his stall.
And all the huge pieces of equipment that Baby had never seen before—machines that compact the track, the gizmo that added water to the track if it was too dry—they hardly fazed him. It was like he was in our backyard. In fact, just before he went onto the track each day, he had a look on his face that said, “Hey, Mom, I’m going out. Come watch me!” He liked to go fast, faster even than Coburn wanted him to go in those early runs.
What also gave me comfort was my feeling that whatever went on with the other horses, Baby wouldn’t get hurt because unlike other owners, I would always be there to protect him.
And while I felt bad that he was cooped up, I knew from my daughters’ competitions that there are things you have to give up to accomplish wins. He wasn’t allowed to make that choice for himself, true. But because he did seem to enjoy running so, I ran it through my mind in the same way I did with my daughters. If you want to be average, yes, you can take dance lessons and have fun at the recital once a year. But if you want to dance competitively, compete across the country, you’re going to have to give up some of your freedom.
I was able to indulge that line of thinking by virtue of the fact that when Baby came out of his stall in the morning, he never seemed like he was breathing fire from having been confined. He appeared to adjust to the routine extremely well. Not all young horses do.
Some, in fact, display harmful displacement behaviors for the walking and grazing from which they are kept. They engage in stall walking, or walking the perimeter of the stall in a tight circle for hours on end, which can strain the joints and cause undue weight loss; or create big holes in the stall floor from repetitive pawing because of frustration about not being able to move forward; or incessantly crib—hook their teeth onto the edge of the stall or stall door and suck air, which wears down the teeth in addition to causing digestive problems; or weave—repeatedly take a step to the right and then to the left, another strain on the joints.
Baby exhibited none of these stereotypical behaviors, which I was very relieved about, because they occur all too often in young horses confined to a single spot for hours on end. It made me all the more comfortable about having him there.
But the truth, too, to my discredit, was that I felt seduced by racing. I felt honored to be “in.” The cold stares had faded, and I was now one of the regulars who could enjoy the easy camaraderie of the backstretch. I was also wrapped up in a certain euphoria. Here we were, engaged in what is often referred to as “the Sport of Kings,” one of the privileged few who were licensed and allowed on the part of the track that the public never gets to see. When we told people we owned a racehorse, they would ask, “Oh, are you in harness racing?”
They thought we owned a Standardbred, a breed of horse that pulled a driver around the track in a cart called a sulky. There were more than half a dozen tracks for Standardbred horses across the state but only one devoted exclusively to Thoroughbreds, the fastest distance runner in the world. Cheetahs might be the fastest sprinters, but at a mile out, Thoroughbreds, sleek, graceful animals who sound like thunder coming closer as they gallop together around the track, would easily win the day.
When we told people that our horse was not a Standardbred but a Thoroughbred, it was as though we were saying, “no, not a cubic zirconia—a real diamond.” It created an illusion that we were financially in a different echelon, like we had money to dabble in the most expensive of hobbies.
There was a certain amount of ego in that, and the aura intoxicated me. I couldn’t wait for a jockey to wear our silks, for which we had chosen the colors maize and blue—the same colors as the University of Michigan, where our daughter Jessica attended college. I couldn’t wait to be the one who handed out doughnuts the morning after Baby won his first race. It’s tradition for the jockey’s agent to buy a dozen doughnuts the day after a win and give them to the horse’s trainer, who then sets them out for people to come around, take one, and offer congratulations. When would that be us, I wondered.
John and I started looking over racing programs with their glossy covers. It was fun reviewing the competition in that way, affording that same excited feeling we used to have when the girls worked toward winning in skating and dancing.
I had also figured out by that point that the Detroit Race Course was a lower-level track. The abuses I saw couldn’t possibly happen to horses who ran on tracks in Kentucky, in Florida, in New York and California, I told myself. Even here, I believed, there were only a few bad apples, that most trainers and others involved in the horses’ lives treated the animals well. I comforted myself that only once in a while did I come across something untoward.
Furthermore, I was pleased that despite the fact that no one seemed confident Coburn was the right trainer for Baby, he treated Baby well, always talking patiently to him and going slowly as far as training so that Baby wouldn’t ramp up too soon and sustain an injury.
And Baby appeared to be doing so well. His exercise rider, Mike, nicknamed him The Tank because he was so solid and broad-chested.
In September, when he had been at the track about four months, Baby did his first timed work. He was more than ready. At first, when he had been led out to the racecourse, he would whinny to the other horses—“Do I know you?” or “Is there somebody out here who can tell me what’s going on? Does anyone recognize my voice?” But now he was taking it all in stride.
That wasn’t true for the new horses in general. The number of two-year-olds at the track had dwindled to the point that the racing secretary was having trouble filling races meant for that age group. They either were simply not cut out for racing or had become injured.
One problem to which young Thoroughbreds were prone, I learned by degrees, was bucked shins, a very painful condition similar to shin splints in people, except that even a finger lightly touching the spot can cause a horse to cringe. The covering of the long bone in the front of the leg—from the knee to the ankle—becomes inflamed from the stress of galloping. If it gets bad enough, the damage can cause a fracture that leaves no choice other than humane euthanasia.
A second orthopedic condition of young Thoroughbreds was green osselets—an inflammatory arthritis on the front legs, at the joint that connects the lower leg to the ankle. When green osselets occur, experienced horse people can feel some swelling at that juncture. Like bucked shins, I found out, the osselets heal with rest and phenylbutazone, a kind of horse aspirin known as bute, and don’t come back. A callous-like material forms that protects the area. But until then, galloping around the track causes agony. Turns, in particular, are painful, because in leaning, the horse has to put more pressure on the affected spot.
The potential for bucked shins and osselets tugged at my conscience, another reminder that all that was going on was a lot for two-year-old Baby to deal with. Even with his sweet, confident disposition, he had to accustom himself to the loud sounds of big dumpster trucks with large metal forks that would crash right in front of the stalls to clear manure. He had to learn to steer on the track—go around other horses and let other horses go around him without anyone getting hurt. He did fine in every way, but I worried more than once whether I was asking too much of a two-year-old mind—and body.
That racing could be a dangerous activity for horses was further brought home by the fact that I would always see veterinarians at the track. They were there not just to administer painkillers and other medications but also to perform ultrasounds or x-ray horses for injuries. These vets had received pe
rmission from the State Racing Commission to set up practices on the backstretch, like farm vets who make barn calls, except the “barn” consisted of the barns and shedrows where some one thousand horses were kept. It was a lucrative business.
It appeared that the vets sometimes worked in tandem with men involved in the administration of euthanasia. Early on, when I was standing at the rail with several trainers one day, a man came over and exchanged hellos with everyone. Somebody asked him, “What are you paying?”
I couldn’t hear the man’s response, but the trainer who had asked about payment responded, “Yeah, stall eight and stall fourteen.”
Then another trainer piped up and said, “Stall three.”
“Okay, we’ll take care of it,” the man said.
“Who was that?” I questioned the trainer standing next to me. I figured the man was buying used horse equipment.
“Oh, he’s the meat buyer,” the trainer answered.
“Huh?” I responded.
“He’s buying horses for slaughter.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that’s what he does,” came the reply.
I thought that meant the horses were being taken to be put down, that they had suffered injuries that were causing them incredible pain that couldn’t be fixed. I assumed the man was going to be bringing them to the vet and that “slaughter” and “meat buyer” were just the lingo of the track. I was new enough at the point, and enamored enough with being around all these people who had by then started to take me in, that I couldn’t consider any other possibility. Also, I was heartened that no debilitating injuries were going to compromise Baby. I felt confident that Coburn worked hard never to overdo it with him, accelerating him gradually precisely to avoid any orthopedic problems.
Still, I decided that Scarlett was not going to race as a two-year-old. The ball may have been rolling down the hill with Baby, and with him I may have felt sucked in to the point that it was too late to back out, but Scarlett would not train or race until she was three. A year old, she was supposed to begin training in the fall, around the time Baby would start racing, but it was now going to be more than a year before she left home. She would be fully protected from even the remote potential to suffer injuries that could befall racehorses younger than two.
Saving Baby Page 5
