Raja, Story of a Racehorse

by Anne Hambleton

  An older lady stopped next to me, shaking her head. “Look how skinny that poor horse is. Look at his hooves. It’s criminal. I’ve never seen such bad rain rot and scratches. How sad.”

  The Percheron nudged me. “This is my second time through this auction. I was just here last week and my new owner decided that he couldn’t handle me after I kicked him and broke his arm when he tried to harness me. He kept me tied in a small stall with a cement floor he never cleaned. You have to stand up for yourself — people can hurt you.”

  I nodded in agreement. The stone in my belly, that feeling of dread, was heavier than ever. I didn’t like this place. Suddenly I felt my skin crawl.

  What is it?

  Sensing movement behind me, I glanced around sharply, drawing in a quick breath. I smelled something acrid, like the smell when Tom burned trash next to the barn. I looked up. A man wearing a cowboy hat with a jagged red scar down his left cheek and a patch over his left eye stared at me silently as he scribbled on a piece of paper. His single pale grey eye met mine, then moved slowly over my body. I shivered.

  “You don’t want that one buying you,” my draft horse neighbor whispered. “He’s a kill buyer. Everyone knows about him. You don’t want to end up on his truck.”

  Holzmann had been right.

  The kill buyer had looked me over!

  I started to paw the cement floor anxiously, not caring that it made my sore hooves hurt more. I pulled back to test the chain. There was no way I could break it.

  My neighbor nodded his head in sympathy. “They’re unbreakable. I tried already. We all try. It’s no use.”

  “Wait a second, Diana, I want to look at this one,” a minty-smelling woman with kind brown eyes and a no-nonsense tilt to her chin stopped to feed me a carrot and gently pet me. Her experienced, calm hands surprised me. She blew softly on my nose in greeting.

  “Hello, my sweet, you look like a nice horse that has seen better days.”

  I rumbled a sigh, rubbing my head on her shoulder as I chewed the sweet carrot.

  Choose me; please choose me.

  She ran her hand down my leg. Then she inspected my hind end. “Thick tendon. But it’s hard and cold. Those scars on his hind end look old, too.

  “Oh no, here we go again,” smiled Diana. “How old?”

  The minty-smelling woman looked at the tattoo on my upper lip. “He’s seven. I wonder what his story is. He looks like a really nice horse. He’s skinny and beat up, but in six months, I bet he’d be a picture. Look at his eyes, there’s something really special about him. Can we afford another one?”

  Diana shook her head, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Beth, I wish we could save them all, but we don’t have enough money. We only have funding to rescue that group of racehorses and keep them from the killers. We can’t save every horse.”

  Beth looked me in the eye — this time for several seconds. “This one is special,” she murmured. “Look at him, he seems so intelligent. This is a class horse fallen on hard times. Let me make a couple calls to see if I can raise more money.”

  She stopped twice as she walked away, turning to look at me. Each time, I looked straight back at her.

  Pick me, I told her, pick me.

  I desperately hoped she could hear.

  Ten horses went into the auction ring and then it was my turn. A rawboned young man wearing a straw hat threw an ill-fitting, big saddle heavily over my back and roughly pulled a nylon bridle with a sharp straight bit over my head.

  That’s the strangest saddle I’ve ever seen. It’s so big.

  “You Thoroughbreds aren’t used to those Western saddles, are you?” My new Percheron friend commented. “Me neither.”

  Before I knew it, the young man had vaulted on. With a sharp kick and a “yaw,” he slapped the reins on my flanks, turned me down a narrow sand path and cantered down the people-lined channel, turning sharply, down and back several times. His roughness made me nervous.

  I don’t like this at all.

  I watched the crowd, every detail in sharp definition. I felt as if I were in a bad dream that wouldn’t end. A man with a checked shirt and a green-and-yellow baseball cap spoke quickly into a microphone.

  “A Thoroughbred, seven years old, sound, in the prime of his life. He’ll make someone a nice trail horse. Do I hear five hundred? four hundred? three hundred? Three hundred bid, now three hundred. Now three hundred, will you give me three fifty? Three fifty.”

  He nodded toward the stands. Following his gaze, I noticed a very large woman leaning over and speaking to an equally large man with a gigantic beard. They both looked at me. Then the woman raised the paper in her hand, nodding.

  “Three fifty bid. Three fifty, will you give me three seventy five?”

  Across from them, a tall, thin man with a pinched face, hooked nose and pained expression studied me and raised his hand. I didn’t like him either.

  Where is Beth? Where IS she?

  I scanned the crowd, desperately searching for her kind eyes in the blur of faces. She must not have been able to get the money to buy me. My head sank down lower, the seedling of hope that had taken root when she walked by me was now trampled as thoroughly as if 20 horses had galloped over it. The stone in my stomach grew heavier, unbearable, as cold fear clutched and pulled at me.

  This is really happening — it’s not a dream.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  I could hear my heart beat, could feel my skin tingling, my breath coming shorter.

  Keep it together. There must be a way out, a way to escape.

  I looked around at the crowd. A small boy next to me wearing a red-and-white striped shirt dropped a green toy tractor he’d been playing with.

  Whoa!

  It startled me. I snorted, spooking across the path. Then I felt someone’s eyes on me, predator-like, as if they were the hunter and I was the prey, exposed and trapped, unable to run away. I froze. Slowly, I raised my head. Then I saw him. The man in the cowboy hat looked at me with his one cold pale eye showing no emotion as it met mine.

  “Three seventy five now bid, now three seventy five, will you give me three eighty? Three eighty, for a nice Thoroughbred trail horse”

  The man with the cowboy hat raised his hand to bid.

  “Three eighty. Now three eighty. Will you give me four hundred? Four hundred? It’s a good deal, ladies and gentleman, four hundred? SOLD! To the lady.”

  Wait — what? What’s happening? Am I SOLD?

  I looked for the big lady, but she was no longer there. I sighed deeply and hung my head, dejected, as I stood outside the auction ring. I wasn’t happy, but I guess it was better than being bought by the killers.

  “Hey, skinny horse.” I looked up quickly, confused. “I’m glad we were able to save you from the killers.” Beth smiled as she patted my neck and fed me a carrot. “We’ll do our best to find you a wonderful home.”

  Beth bought me?

  I was so exhausted and relieved that I could barely walk to her trailer with her.

  Thanks.

  I nudged her shoulder as we walked.

  Thanks for hearing me.

  It was dusk by the time she loaded me onto the trailer with the three other Thoroughbreds she had bought, first offering me a bucket of water, which I drank thankfully. Bulging hay nets smelling of clover and goodness greeted me as she led me up the ramp and into a stall next to a grey horse. It was getting dark.

  “Raja, is that you?” the grey horse nickered in recognition.

  Who is that? Do I know you?

  Things were getting weird. It still felt like a dream, but it was definitely real.

  “It’s me, Sanchez. Remember?”

  Sanchez! What are you doing here? It’s been over four years. I can’t believe it.

  “I can’t believe it either. You don’t really look like you did the last time I saw you. The Fountain of Youth Stakes, it was, I think.”

  Sanchez! You haven’t changed a bit, still a skinny, par
rot-mouthed, no-talent grey. It’s good to see you, buddy.

  I smiled warmly, feeling older than my seven years, happy that we were together and able to joke around. I could never have predicted that I would actually be glad to see that pain-in-the-neck horse, but it was truly wonderful to see him again. One of the other horses piped up, “Wow, I’m impressed. A couple of stakes horses! When did you run?”

  “What a long, strange trip it’s been,” Sanchez sighed. “To be honest, I could use a rest. Let’s see… I won nine races — second seven times and third eleven times. It all started great. You know what it’s like, heady, glorious, exciting. I won a couple stakes races. Probably ran in ten stakes races in all: Saratoga, Keeneland, Gulfstream, Belmont. You name it, I probably ran there.”

  He gave me a worldly, been there, done that look.

  “Then I started to get achy. I wasn’t really lame. It just hurt more — my ankle, my hocks and my back. I wasn’t winning as much. My owners weren’t real horsemen. They just liked the attention from being in the winner’s circle at the big races. I was still finishing in the money, but when I wasn’t winning, they sold me. My new trainer wasn’t as fancy as Hollywood Bill, but he was a kind, decent horseman who tried hard. My new owners wanted to make money — and I did, in the beginning. Up and down the East Coast. I bet I ran everywhere you could think of: Laurel, Pimlico, Philadelphia Park, Delaware Park, the Meadowlands, Colonial Downs, Charles Town. I was getting sore and burnt out, but I was still making money, just in cheaper races.”

  “I hear you on that,” one of the other horses said, “me too, cheaper and cheaper races. Those bad races can be really bad, if you know what I mean. It’s demoralizing when they run you against lesser horses when you’re sore and know you can do better.”

  We all were silent for a few minutes, then Sanchez started again.

  “They started running me for a tag in the claiming races and I was claimed by a trainer who cut corners — bad grain, dusty hay — and gave me shots that made me feel funny. He ran me hard all year with no break like the other trainers had given me. I started to have problems breathing — it was the bad hay. I was getting allergic. I had to pull up in a couple races because I couldn’t breathe. After one of the jockeys beat me up when I really was trying, I stopped trying and stopped making money for my owner. So, here I am.”

  We stood silent, thinking about our racing days while we munched on the sweet clover in the hay nets. As the trailer rocked down the highway, I realized how deep-down tired I was and fell into a deep sleep.

  August, Eastern Maryland

  A tidy, freshly painted, green bank barn surrounded by paddocks, each with its own turn-out shed, greeted us as we pulled up the long gravel driveway lined with flower bushes. A teenage girl followed by a pack of mostly three-legged dogs came to help Beth and Diana unload.

  “Hi Beth, I heard you rescued an extra horse. You can’t resist, can you? I made room for him in the third quarantine paddock. He has fresh hay and water. What should I feed him? A bran mash, like usual? There’ll be an open stall in the main barn next week after Seamus and Noco leave so he can move in then if he’s ready. Their new owners are coming to pick them up on Monday. Does he have a nickname yet? How about ‘Ol’ skin-and-bones’? or, ‘Slim’? Hey, I like that grey one — he’s cute.”

  “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 aw
akened 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.”