by Gigi Amateau
“And a towel.” She waved the rag in his face.
He didn’t take to folks getting too comfortable or too familiar with him too soon. By too soon, I mean ever.
On seeing Filipia, I, for one, felt something on the order of relief scurry along my spine and escape my muzzle as a whicker.
“Monkey! Come on. Let’s go for a swim.”
As puzzling as the whole situation was to me, I went along with the girl. Gary remained as predictable as ever by blowing a big fuse and throwing a tantrum that would have put any one of mine to shame.
Filipia didn’t waiver. “Sir, Gary, looks like you could use a cooling-off swim, too. Want to come with us to the river?”
“You bet your boots I’m coming with you. This is not what we agreed to. You’ve got about another inch before I shut this ridiculous scam down. This is not how you break a Thoroughbred.”
She went on as if she hadn’t heard a word. I lowered my head. She slipped on my halter, then I followed her out of the barn down a narrow grassy path. Gary, an inquisition of one, came with us.
“You’ll love being surrounded by water. The Willis is the closest thing I could find to the ocean, Dante’s Inferno,” Filipia said.
Her calling me by my real name, not by her nickname for me, told me that she meant business. She kept on talking while we walked, and when a rabbit tore across the path in front of us, she laughed and pointed toward the cottontail vanishing in the brush. Nothing could spook her. “So, that’s all we’re doing today, Monkey. Going for a swim.”
The path disappeared over a low rise in the land, and for the first time, I heard the soft tinkling of the Willis River. Filipia slung her towel over a low-hanging sycamore branch. She said to Gary, “You can wait here, if you want. Or we can meet you back at the barn.”
“Are you nuts? You’re not leaving my sight.”
“If you’re sure. We’ll be a couple of hours, probably more.”
Gary held up his camera. “That’s okay. I’ll take pictures. So no funny business.”
“You should take pictures. And video, too, because no one will believe you. You won’t even believe you.”
Through all this yimmer-yammering back and forth, I stood quivering at all the strange sights and sounds bombarding me from every direction: the white bark of the sycamore, the dark opening at the end of the path, the field of sunflowers, and the chip-chip-chip of the goldfinches.
Filipia patted my neck to reassure me. She didn’t seem scared at all. “Ready to go for a dip?” She held my lead lightly, and we waded into the Willis. Having been enlightened by Grandfather Dante that this was the course I was to follow, I went with her.
She gave not a hint of concern that I might not follow. Hey, a horse can pop a stop on almost any movement just by deciding he ain’t going forward or backward. But I wanted Filipia to succeed. Heck, I wanted her to prove Gary wrong. So, step-for-step I followed her.
Now, a river is a beast of many manifestations. Never the same from one moment to the next. Like horses. Like people.
Where we entered that day, the water was smooth and deep. A horse’s feet get tired of standing. Sure, we lay down now and again, but try lifting this body up off the ground. Awkward, at best.
But moving my weight around in the water? Light as a blessing. And even better was having Filipia there, holding on to my lead rope, swimming nearby. I filled up and overflowed with joy and relief. All the lonesomeness and misunderstandings of my life surged out. I felt strong beside her and let the Willis quench all my fire away.
Somehow, I knew what to do. Same way I knew Filipia had my best interests at heart. Same way I knew Melody wasn’t going to stick me with a needle. Like how on the first day I was born, I could stand up, then walk.
Before too long, Filipia scooted up alongside me. And it hardly registered that we were, in fact, floating together — as in, she was sitting on my back and holding on to my mane. “Don’t let me fall,” she said. “Okay, Monkey?”
How could I let her down? When she put it that way, that I was, at least in part, responsible for her safety and her well-being? I don’t know how to explain it except to say that I didn’t feel like I was being broke at all. More like I was being wholed and healed and lifted.
So, there we were in the river. No saddle. No bridle. Floating or flying, and definitely both of us trusting. She asked me to walk out of the river and carry her back to the barn. Of course, I obliged.
Gary got it all on that camera of his.
Filipia turned all of Gary’s notions about horse training inside out and then some. We went back to the Willis more after that first day. Each time, Filipia hopped up on my back earlier than the time before. Each time, I didn’t mind. Hard to believe, but I trusted her. Harder to believe, she trusted me.
The water soothed me. Not only did I feel an utter relief from the weight of my body off my feet, but my mind took comfort in the river, too.
Sure enough, when her two days were up, there I stood, shiny, tacked, and ready to go. Gary gave her a leg up, Filipia nudged me forward, and we walked on, easy as you please.
Gary jumped around like a colt in a field on a crisp autumn morning.
Gone were the days of the hot walker and longeing. Hello, track! Albeit, the track at Gary’s wasn’t but a big dirt oval surrounding a field of grass and encircled by a mountain skyline. Something about the little track against the horizon, though, felt right. From all directions, I was embraced by the bluest, prettiest mountains of all time — blue mountains given their color by the sky surrounding them and the trees covering them.
I liked breezing around and around the track with Filipia so much that when it came time to teach me how to walk into and spring out of a starting gate, I’m proud to say that we had a total of zero serious mishaps.
Sure, I had to be convinced. For that part of my training, Grandfather Dante didn’t show up in any of my dreams with any cryptic messages to help me out. I guess he figured that I knew what I needed to do. After a while I got the hang of the gate, and pretty soon, I was loading nicely, breaking well, and beating all the two-year-olds at Gary’s. But those weren’t really races, were they?
With all of Gary’s filming and picture taking, Filipia and I became a sensation in Kentucky Bloodlines. Letters from racing fans all the world over started arriving. Everybody wrote in with questions.
When will he run? Where will he run? Will you let the girl race him?
One morning, while I was finishing breakfast and Filipia was tidying up my stall, Gary strolled by. Whistling. Pretty nearly skipping, even.
“Young lady,” he said to Filipia. “I’m going to give you an opportunity. I’ve entered Dante here in a baby race in Charleston next month. You’ll take him; no big deal. Can you handle that?”
Now, listen, she was standing in my back blind spot when he said it, but the gleam of that smile of hers liked to knock me down.
“Then, let’s get to work,” Gary said. “We’ll apply for your jockey license when we get there, so get ahold of your birth certificate and whatnot.”
For a few blessed weeks, all three of us were in our elements. Gary with his clipboard, recording splits. Filipia in the saddle, singing me songs from her home. And me sailing through workouts like I had been born to float. We never did convince Gary to join us for a swim in the Willis, but he never tired from following us around with that video camera.
Our fans grew. More letters came and carrots and apples and peppermints, too. Those divine morsels never arrived in my bucket, sadly.
A few days before the race, we all three piled in the trailer and headed over to West Virginia. I was about to break my maiden race, and the world was watching.
Early on race day morning, Filipia slipped into my track stall. All quiet and forlorn. Not bouncing and happy like usual. For once, I greeted her first. I nickered in her ear and nudged her chin.
“Monkey, I’m scared like crazy,” she confessed.
Now, in all the days
and nights and long, hot afternoons of our training, that girl had never shown a hair of fear. Not a whisker.
Something wasn’t right.
She paced around, nervous and suspicious, same way I had acted for most of my life before she showed up to save me.
“Monkey, I have something to tell you. You might be mad at me. What I need to say is . . . well, do you ever feel like you’re pretending to be somebody you’re not?”
She lowered her head and nuzzled me. Sometimes, I could swear that girl was part horse herself. Now, I had no way to tell her that’s exactly how I felt every day. Just thinking about the three tests and worrying whether I’d be good enough got me feeling hemmed up and anxious. I instinctively pulled away from her hold.
“Sorry,” she said, and gave me some space. “You’re so easy to talk to. Everyone here at the track has a job to do, and they all fit in together. Except for me. I don’t belong.”
Just then, two jockeys returning from an all-nighter came roaring past us, carrying on about who owed whom what.
The sounds of the backside were by no means harmonic or peaceful.
“See what I mean? Ernesto and Melvin rode against each other yesterday, got drunk together, and couldn’t leave each other’s sides last night. This morning, they’re enemies again but will be friends, again, by sunset. They belong here. I don’t.”
With his usual awful timing, Gary came stomping around the corner, robbing me of time to reassure Filipia that I would always be her friend and that she did belong. With me.
Gone was the lighthearted Gary who had at least started to cool his bare feet in the river with us. Gone was the Gary whooping and hollering and cheering Filipia and me on during our daily workouts. Vanished, the guy who went all topsy-turvy when he clicked the stopwatch to record my time splits.
Old Sourface was back.
“Chop-chop, Fil. Let’s get a move on. Lots to do this morning,” he said. “Oh, and here’s a temporary license, pending your birth certificate. We’ve got to get that taken care of. The steward owes me big-time, so you’re good to go today. But chop-chop on that, too.”
Filipia took a deep breath. Her heartbeat quickened. She stiffened up first in her hands, then her back, and then her jaw. Whatever else was on her mind would have to wait. And I couldn’t wait.
Despite all of those fans who had been writing to me, I wasn’t winning any popularity contests in Charleston.
“Morning line has us going off at fifty-to-one,” Gary told us. But he didn’t seem bothered at all. “We like those odds, right? More money. More splash. More to celebrate when you win. That cousin of yours, Covert Agent, is the favorite. You got that?”
Post time came, and we started toward the gate at a medium walk. Filipia’s hands gripped my reins tight. Her focus was someplace else, I could tell.
When she asked me to move on to the gate, I picked up a trot, and then, at last, I felt a big smile break across her face. My partner was back! Whatever had gotten her all worked up earlier had eased along once we were in the dirt.
Just before we reached the start, though, she pulled me up.
“Whoa, Monkey.”
I listened to her like always, because we were a team committed to serving and respecting each other. If Filipia needed to stop, well, by goodness, I refused to take another step.
She sighed, then leaned forward to tell me something.
“Look, Dante. Out beyond the track. What do you see?”
I whinnied. Stands of people, the starting gate filling up with horses and jockeys, and an undisturbed oblong track that was making my frogs itchy and my shoes tingly.
“I see the ocean. I see Melon and Mama back home on my island. Melon is waving at me and blowing me kisses. She is telling me to hold my head up and to win. I’m racing for her. Who are you racing for, Monkey?”
I scanned the horizon. Now, I can’t say I saw the ocean, but right then as Filipia was using her knowing eye to connect with her family back home on her island, something shifted in my wisdom eye, too. In a dizzy instant, that familiar dense and layered fog came skirting across the field, and the track took on the hue and grade of the rolling green pastures of my Kentucky home. I heard a soft whicker. The fog burned away and a stallion, dark as pitch, like me, stood atop a lush Kentucky hillside. Behind him, all of my grandmothers and grandfathers lifted their heads. I sensed them sending me everything I would need to run. Grandfather Dante stepped forward. A spark passed between us — a charge that must have stretched out across all of time in every direction. That was all I needed.
“Come on,” said Filipia, after what felt like an hour but could hardly have been but a few seconds. “The sleeping shrimp gets taken by the current. Let’s go!”
Believe me, as hard a time as I gave folks over needles and thermometers and every prick and prod, I pranced right into that starting gate with nary a care.
I looked around for my cousin, Covert Agent, but he wasn’t on either side of me. I thought I caught a glimpse of him in a middle gate, but no time to whinny and no time for a family reunion. I had a race to run. The gates were filled up with chestnuts, one or two bays, and me, all black all over.
We posted to the outside. I angled both ears on Filipia. She crouched into position on a saddle weighted to be even with the other horses. She adjusted and readjusted her goggles over her eyes, patted my neck softly, and flashed the whip in her left hand to rev me up.
“Get ready, now, to follow my lead.” She cued again with the stick. “All the rain last night has given us a mess. A sloppy river of a track ordered up just for you, Monkey.”
I let her situate herself and settle. She picked up the reins, and I welcomed the contact with the bit and her hands.
I relaxed my back. We waited for the gun.
“See the finish, Monkey? Use the knowing eye. Can you see us in the winner’s circle?”
And we were off.
We broke the outside. I stumbled, almost to my knees. Filipia lifted my head. I righted myself up and lurched forward.
The crowd cheered.
The field pulled away from us in unison. When the stampede of their hooves started to fade, my face was as clean as a new bucket. We fell well off the pace, not even close enough to eat their dirt.
Filipia drove to the inside, and we quickly closed to ten or so lengths behind the tight pack with no clear leader.
No problem. Hardly a drop of sweat or a labored breath moved between Filipia and me. I handled the pace with ease.
We held the gap steady. I had hardly exerted to get back in the race, but we had a long way to go yet. Both of us had something to prove. We had come to dominate, not play catch-up.
I wanted to go wild. I begged to cut loose. The track was a muddy mess and it felt good on my feet. We floated; we were in the river, and I wanted to run.
“Not yet, Monkey.” Filipia rode high up in the saddle.
I overtook three who were fading. We closed to six lengths behind the leaders. We stalked the field like that for a furlong or two. One by one, horses fell off the pace as Filipia and I started to pick up ours.
Around the last bend, I saw a silky flash to my right, so close I could smell how hard the jockey was working. My jockey still smelled of soap. The petite filly behind me found something more and made a move toward the inside. The sweaty jockey went to the whip. Up front, the leaders pulled half a length ahead. I couldn’t wait a whole lot longer. I dug into the bit, begging for the cue to open up.
Finally, Filipia crouched in my ear. “Now, Monkey, go! Go and don’t look back.”
I took control of the dirt.
We bore down on the five horses in front of us like a tropical storm swinging across the mountains and refusing to dissipate. Filipia brought the sea, and I brought the wind. We found every ready opening, cut in new holes, and raced through each one.
With the finish in sight, Filipia didn’t need to ask with the whip. She ducked to the inside, let me run, and we powered down on the leader
.
I could see now who was out front! Covert Agent and I were running neck and neck. No matter what, we would finish one and two. Today would be a great day at the track for us, our dams, and Edensway Farm. No matter what, we had done the pedigree proud. The two of us.
But who would it be for the win?
Filipia turned to her right and looked at Covert’s jockey, hungover Melvin from the morning.
“Adios, my friend.” She tucked low behind me and yelled, “Whatever you have left, Monkey, now is the time. Run like crazy!”
I had at least one gear left. Had the race been any longer, we might have discovered that I had two.
We proved best. A few good people in the stands were very happy, Gary was ecstatic, and that triumph marked the beginning. Although one race does not proof of the bloodlines make, my first race went a long way toward establishing the good name of Dante’s Beatrice, Marey, as a broodmare.
Best of all, I loved running with Filipia.
Now that I knew what everything was building toward, I couldn’t wait to do it all again.
Covert Agent and I dominated the two-year-old field for the rest of the season. Owned it. Back and forth, we traded the one and two spots, chasing each other around the country. Shoot, I wanted to win every meet, but if I had to lose, then losing to Covert eased the choke. Us winning so much proved a good thing for our dams, for Edensway, and for the pedigree. We showed up, and that’s a fact.
What I really needed, though, was one more big win. To seal Marey’s future. To set myself up for a life of leisure — grazing bluegrass, perpetuating the bloodlines, and greeting adoring fans. To have a shot at the three tests.
“Give me one more race,” Gary said. “Another good win and you’ll be a dandy of a three-year-old next spring. You can hold on till then, can’t you?”
He selected a good one, all right — Arkansas!
I’d gotten used to and accepting of my routine. Walking onto the trailer meant payday for everybody. Gary and Filipia loaded me up for the big race with plenty of fresh hay on the trailer. I couldn’t see the road ahead and couldn’t hear Gary and Filipia, who rode up front in the cab. The wind was the only map for me to follow. I liked for the window to stay cracked so I could catch the scents of dew and trees and mountains.
