Racehorse

by Bonnie Bryant

  “Speaking of horses that are competitive, our next stop is going to be a change of pace for you. Most of my clients have regular riding horses, jumpers, show horses, and hunters. This one is different. He’s got racehorses.”

  “Thoroughbreds?” Carole asked.

  “Very,” Judy said.

  Horse breeds were interesting to Carole. Each different breed was known for different characteristics. Arabians, for instance, were known for their beauty and endurance. Quarter horses were famous for their bursts of speed in short sprints. The “quarter” in their name referred to quarter miles, which was about as long as they could race flat out. Standardbreds trotted fast; Morgans were both strong and fast. Draught horses, like the famous Clydesdales, were incredibly big and strong. No breed, however, was better known, or more admired, than Thoroughbreds. These were the horses of racetracks. Many horses used for routine riding, jumping, showing, and hunting, were also Thoroughbreds, or had Thoroughbred blood in their family trees, but the best and the fastest of them were the most valuable and went to the racetracks to run for money.

  “Is one of them sick?” Carole asked.

  “No,” Judy said. “We’re visiting healthy horses again. It’s just that the owner is racing a couple of his horses soon and wants me to check them out and make recommendations on how to have them in top form for their races.”

  Carole hunted through the stack of files Judy carried with her at all times and brought out the ones marked “Maskee Farms,” for their next visit. She found they were checking on a four-year-old stallion named Hold Fast and a three-year-old filly named Prancer. Looking through the files, she could see that everything was thoroughly documented as was the case with all of the horses Judy took care of. She could also see that these horses had more care and attention than most of Judy’s patients. The owner didn’t let anything slip his attention. It made Carole feel that he loved his horses as much as she thought all owners should love theirs. She liked the man—David McLeod—even before she met him.

  Maskee Farms looked pretty much like every other well-run stable she’d ever seen—only more so. Everything was spotlessly clean and in perfect repair. Carole couldn’t find a cobweb, even when she put her mind to it. Mr. McLeod came out to greet them at the truck. He nodded politely when Judy introduced him to Carole, but his whole focus was on his horses. He was talking about them and about the races they were going to be in before Judy had a chance to open her door.

  As he led the way into the stable, he talked about things Carole was only vaguely familiar with. Not surprisingly, he was concerned about how the horses would run and where they would place in their races. What did surprise her, though, was his expectation.

  “The stallion is in a field of eight, and I’d like to see him in the top five,” Mr. McLeod said. “The jockey thinks he can do better, but I don’t want to push him.”

  Carole had expected him to think his horses would win every race.

  Judy looked at the chart quickly and then examined the horse.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about pushing him, Mr. McLeod,” she said. “I’ll do a blood count, but I think he’s in top form.”

  “You think I’ll be able to sell him for a good price then?”

  Sell? That surprised Carole, too. She expected that people who owned horses did it because they loved them. How could he be thinking of selling the horse?

  “Definitely,” Judy said. “This horse will do well as long as he’s healthy, and he is that,” she assured Mr. McLeod.

  Once again they looked at the charts, carefully planning the program for Hold Fast. As they talked, Carole looked around the stable.

  Every one of the horses there was more beautiful and better taken care of than any horses Carole had ever seen before. Each one was groomed to a silky shine. Fresh, sweet-smelling straw covered the floors, and the place was brightly lit. Carole thought that was less for the horses’ benefit than it was for the owner. Good lights allowed an owner to see problems easily. Everything here, it seemed, was set up for the horses’ safety and benefit, and everything that contributed to the horses’ safety and benefit would help the owner when the horses were on the track. And, she realized, the only reason they were on the track was to make money for the owner.

  Carole had been riding and loving horses for a long time. Now that she owned Starlight, she’d become even more aware of the fact that it could be very expensive to own a horse, but mostly all she cared about was being able to own and ride him. Today, for the first time, she was seeing something else about horses: They were a business. Mr. McLeod appeared to love his horses every bit as much as Carole loved Starlight, but he also expected to profit from caring for them. That was a totally new idea to Carole. It made her see Maskee Farms in a new light. It made her think of horses in a new way.

  She scratched her head and looked around once more. There was a gentle sound behind her. She spun around and found herself face-to-face with a sleek and beautiful bay, who was leaning curiously out of the stall. The bay sniffed at Carole and managed to tickle her on her neck. Carole giggled. The horse sniffed some more. Carole did the only logical thing. She hugged the horse, who seemed to respond warmly. Then Carole stepped back. It felt undignified to be hugging a Thoroughbred racehorse, probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Still the horse was a horse, and horses, as far as Carole was concerned, were lovable.

  “What’s your magic?” Mr. McLeod asked, surprising Carole. Judy was with him.

  “Magic?” Carole echoed.

  “Your magic with Prancer, I mean. I’ve never seen her be affectionate before. She gave you a first class smooch!”

  Carole blushed. “I guess she did. She’s just so gentle—”

  “Yes, and maybe too gentle,” he said, sighing. “She’s got more gentle in her than she has speed.”

  “You mean to tell me that this sweet horse is a racehorse?” Carole was surprised.

  “That remains to be seen,” Mr. McLeod said, shrugging. “She’s three years old and hasn’t raced much before this. Her bloodlines are impeccable, but there’s something missing.…”

  Carole looked at the mare. She had four legs, a tail, a mane, a head, and everything else Carole thought essential to a horse. “What’s missing?” she asked.

  “She’s got the sweetest disposition of any horse I’ve ever owned,” Mr. McLeod said.

  “But what’s missing?” Carole persisted.

  “That’s it,” he said. Then he smiled, understanding Carole’s confusion. “You know the story about Ferdinand the bull? He was a total failure in the bullring because he just wanted to smell the flowers?”

  Carole nodded. She knew the story.

  “Well, I don’t think Prancer has the drive to compete. She’s fast enough. She certainly does respectable times on the practice track, but when she’s competing with other horses, it’s like she doesn’t want to hurt their feelings and win. But maybe she has a few surprises for me. Although she’s always been gentle and easy to handle, she’s never been as affectionate with anybody as she was with you just then. Maybe that’s what’s been missing.”

  “What?” Carole asked.

  “True love,” Mr. McLeod said.

  Carole thought he was joking, but when she looked at him, she could tell he wasn’t.

  “If a horse really cares about something—or someone—it can help that horse do things that are otherwise impossible. So far, Prancer hasn’t seemed to care very much about winning. I’m giving her a chance to prove me wrong at the next meet. I’ve got a lot of money tied up in Prancer. She’s going to have to come through for me, or I can’t afford to feed her anymore.”

  There it was again—money. Carole had to do some more thinking about that aspect of horses. She stepped back and let Judy examine Prancer and go over the medication records. Although she wanted to listen, she found that Judy and Mr. McLeod seemed to be talking a new language, and it all became a blur. The only thing that remained clear to her was that
Prancer was as pretty and sweet a horse as she’d ever known, and it was very hard to understand why Mr. McLeod was so obviously disappointed in her.

  LISA GLANCED AT the clock over Ms. Ingleby’s head. There were twenty minutes left of English, and then she could go. She usually loved school, especially Ms. Ingleby’s class. Today, however, she was meeting Stevie at Pine Hollow and they were going for a ride. If it came to a choice between English and riding, well, riding would always win. The minute hand on the clock jumped forward. Nineteen minutes.

  There was something else bothering Lisa, though. She was a little nervous about the essay on “Life” that she had handed in on Monday morning.

  When she came into class today, she’d spotted the stack of papers on Ms. Ingleby’s desk. The teacher had definitely finished grading the essays and would be returning them soon. Lisa sighed. She dreaded seeing her grade.

  The problem was, Lisa was used to getting A’s. It was just about the only grade she ever got, and she didn’t like getting anything but an A. In her essay she’d written about Pepper and the fact that he was getting old, but she’d also written some things about his life. She knew that her essay was very sentimental, and she wasn’t at all sure that essays should be sentimental. Yet somehow she hadn’t been able to help herself. She felt sentimental about Pepper.

  Ms. Ingleby cleared her throat. That was a sign that the moment was coming. Lisa shifted uneasily in her seat.

  “Now, about these papers,” Ms. Ingleby began. She had a few general comments to make. They had too many spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. Most of the students also needed to work on their handwriting. She had noticed quite a few of them had awfully wide margins—“As if I can’t tell that that was simply designed to make a two-page essay fill three pages,” the teacher added dryly. There were titters in the classroom.

  “A few of you don’t seem to understand what an essay is, and I’ve made notes on your papers that you should see me after class.…”

  Lisa could already imagine the tracks of red ink on her paper and the demands that she come to special-help sessions.

  “Many of you who have done well on most of the work this year just had trouble with this assignment.…”

  Ms. Ingleby would probably be sending a special note home to her parents about Lisa’s dropping grade.

  “And some of you will have to revise your papers.” There were groans around the classroom. Lisa’s mind raced. She was trying to figure out when she’d have time to do it all over again—and what she’d do.

  “But one paper was especially interesting,” Ms. Ingleby said. “It won’t surprise any of you to find out who wrote it, and I think a lot of you will know exactly what the student was talking about, so, without ado, I’m going to read it to you.”

  Ms. Ingleby picked up a paper from the top of the stack and began reading. At first Lisa didn’t recognize her own words. Then, when it sank in that Ms. Ingleby was reading her essay, she blushed deeply, aware that her classmates were already looking at her. They knew who had written it.

  Her essay began with general statements about life—that it was a gift whose value could only be measured by the good that the life contributed to the world. Then she got down to the business of Pepper.

  Pepper is Pine Hollow’s gentlest, sweetest, kindest horse. He’s every first rider’s first choice. He is so attentive to his rider’s needs that he makes riding seem easy. In fact, one time I was riding Pepper, unaware that we were in a field that housed a fierce bull. We were too far from the gate to get to safety, so Pepper did the only logical thing—he taught me to jump in one easy lesson! We both landed safely on the other side of the fence. I think I can say truly that I owe Pepper my life.

  Now his life is coming to an end. His gray coat, once dark and dappled, is now white and dappled. His head, once held high with pride, often seems too heavy for his neck to hold up. His eyes, once sparkling and alert, are now rheumy and clouded with cataracts. His ears splay awkwardly, dulled to the familiar sounds around him. He is old.

  I love him as he is, for that is how I have known him, but I like to think of him as he was.

  Pepper was a champion, not because he got ribbons, though he surely did, but because he taught me and many other riders how to love horses—starting with him. And we do.

  There was a long silence in the classroom when Ms. Ingleby finished reading the essay. Lisa looked straight ahead, embarrassed. She wasn’t usually embarrassed when a teacher read her work, but in this case, she didn’t think she’d done a very good job. She didn’t feel as if she’d written about life as much as she’d written about Pepper. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, however.

  Lisa was jolted out of her embarrassment by a gentle sniff from the girl named Eleanora Griffin sitting next to her. Eleanora was crying.

  “You mean I can’t ride Pepper anymore?” she asked.

  “Not much more, I guess,” Lisa said. “Maybe Max will be using him for walks with really little kids. But he won’t be doing regular classes again.”

  “Oh, wow, I remember Pepper,” a boy two rows back said. “I rode him the only time I ever rode a horse!”

  Then the class seemed to erupt with memories of Pepper. It turned out that more than half the class had, at one time or another, been to Pine Hollow and remembered Pepper, either because they had actually ridden him—or because they wished they had.

  “I remember Pepper, too,” Ms. Ingleby said, breaking up the pandemonium. “I rode Pepper when I was a little girl. He was a lot younger then. Lisa wasn’t kidding when she said he’d been around a long time!” The students laughed.

  The rest of the class was spent with various students talking about their memories of Pepper. Lisa had been worried that her essay was too sentimental and too personal. She’d also been worried that it hadn’t been right. Something seemed to her to be missing about it. Nobody else seemed to feel that way and everybody agreed with her feelings about Pepper. That comforted her a little bit and by the time the bell rang, Lisa was almost sorry class was over. Almost, but not really, because then it was time to go to Pine Hollow and be with Pepper. She wanted to see Pepper, but she also wanted to shake her own feelings of doubt about the work she’d done for the essay. She practically ran to Pine Hollow.

  “COME ON, LISA,” Stevie said, welcoming her to the stable. “I’ve cleared it with Max for us to take a practice ride in the outdoor ring—me on Topside, you on Comanche. You’re going to love him.”

  One of the things Lisa loved about her friend was that Stevie understood exactly how she was feeling about Pepper and was trying to help her think positively. Of course, one of the reasons Stevie understood was that she felt the same way about Pepper that everybody else did. Pepper had been one of Stevie’s first horses as well. Stevie, however, wasn’t one to dwell on sad thoughts. Her mind always headed straight for the fun side of things. To Stevie, it was exciting that Lisa was going to get a chance to learn more about a whole new horse. Except, of course, Stevie had ridden Comanche before.

  “I’m not so sure about this,” Lisa said uneasily.

  “Comanche’s great,” Stevie assured her.

  “Great for you,” Lisa said. “I’m not so sure about me.”

  Early on in her riding, Lisa had learned that horses, like people, had very individual personalities, and for a rider to enjoy a horse meant that their personalities had to mesh. One of the reasons she’d gotten along so well with Pepper was that he was sweet and even-tempered. Comanche, on the other hand, was high-spirited and mischievous. That made him a perfect match for Stevie, not necessarily for Lisa.

  “Come on, chin up,” Stevie said. “Let this young boy show you his stuff, okay?”

  “Okay,” Lisa agreed, though she wasn’t honestly enthusiastic about the change. They headed for Comanche’s stall. On the way they passed Pepper. He looked up when Lisa passed and sighed heavily. It was as if the thought of going out on a ride was too much for him. Lisa thought he seemed relieved w
hen she walked on by, though how could he really understand?

  Stevie had gotten to Pine Hollow first and had tacked up Comanche for Lisa. She’d also groomed him quickly so that his deep chestnut coat was gleaming and he stood proudly, anticipating a fun time with his rider. His eyes sparkled and his ears perked alertly. He nodded a greeting to the girls, apparently eager to be riding. The contrast between Comanche and Pepper was startling. It was certainly enough to convince Lisa that this was worth trying.

  The two girls brought their horses into the outdoor ring, touching the traditional good-luck horseshoe on their way through the doorway. Lisa always did that automatically, because by tradition all the riders at Pine Hollow did it. Nobody who had ever done it had gotten seriously hurt riding at the stable. Today she wondered if it would be enough. After all, Comanche was a lot more horse for her to control than Pepper had been. She was going to have to work harder. She was going to have to be better.

  Red O’Malley, the head stablehand at Pine Hollow, was nearby to keep an eye on the girls. He waved jauntily at Lisa. He was always nice, but he didn’t usually do that. Lisa realized that he understood what was going on. He wanted Lisa to like Comanche, too.

  Lisa and Stevie circled the ring a few times at a walk, allowing the horses to warm up. The warm-up also permitted Lisa to get used to the feel of Comanche’s gait. Horses’ gaits were as distinct as their personalities. Lisa thought that Comanche couldn’t have been more different from Pepper. For one thing, he was a full hand taller. Horses were measured by “hands,” and a hand was four inches. That meant Comanche’s saddle was four inches higher than Pepper’s. Lisa noticed the difference right away. It was like sitting in the cab of a truck instead of the front seat of a car. The world looked smaller. Comanche’s walk was also brisker than Pepper’s. Since his legs were longer, each stride carried him across more ground. Also, there was a sort of grinding quality to Pepper’s slow walk. Lisa knew that had to do with his age. Comanche seemed to take pride in the smoothness of his walk. Then they trotted. Comanche’s trot was almost choppy, but it was very fast. Lisa could feel the breeze in her hair, even with her hard hat on. She posted automatically, rising and sitting ever so slightly with every step of the horse’s trot. Pepper’s trot was very smooth, though much slower than Comanche’s. She often did a sitting trot on Pepper. It would be hard and uncomfortable to sit Comanche’s trot. She was sure she’d just bounce out of the saddle like a cumbersome sack of potatoes. Lisa wasn’t happy about that at all, and she told Stevie about it.