“Hullo there, pleased ta meet’cha, I’m UVM Oliver. I’m a Morgan and a Veh’montah. I’ve bin with the patrol for seven years. Welcome to Manhattan, the strangest island, strangest people you’ll evah see. By jeezum, when I fust came to the city, I couldn’t believe all of the cahrs, and people and noyse. Couldn’t sleep fuh weeks. No green grass, ya know. All I knew was mountains and cows. It’s a shock, I tell ya — horns, engines, sirens, all day and all night.” He took a sip from his water bucket. “Ayuh, not too many of you high-strung Thoroughbred fellas on the force, but the ones that make it are good ones.”
He paused to catch his breath, then continued, “Here’s what ya need to know: every horse here is a professional, even the ones that don’t look like much. In fact, they’re the best ones. Whether you’re a Thoroughbred, a Morgan, a Quarter Horse, or a cross, your job is protectin’ people. They say one mounted officer is worth ten on the ground. ‘Ten-foot cops,’ they call us.”
He stopped to lick the block of salt on the wall of his stall. “Ayuh, since Officer Yuri is your partner, you’ll get Times Square and Central Pahrk. I had Central Pahrk for yeah’s with my partner, Officer Mike. Loved it.”
For two weeks, we walked up and down the bike path outside the police stables down to the big boats docked on the river and back to “acclimatize,” as Yuri put it. As if anyone could get used to the traffic, especially the speedy yellow taxis blaring their horns and weaving in and out of the flow of cars, drivers shaking fists and cursing. This was a strange place, with sidewalks that rumbled and steamed, strange people wearing strange clothes and speaking strange languages, and more smells than I could possibly remember. Lights kept the city as bright as day, even in the middle of the night.
A north wind rushed over the river on our first day of real patrol, blowing bits of paper down the street and flapping awnings on the storefronts we passed. Every second I looked at something new, sometimes stopping and snorting, not sure what was safe and what was dangerous. Yuri patiently waited for me to take a good look and spoke to me the whole time.
“See, Sasha, we’re on 44th Street and ahead there is the Met Life Building. Wait until you see Times Square. It’s really something.”
We weaved our way past vans and trucks and honking taxis, past a river of people marching determinedly down the sidewalk, cell phones held to their faces, past carts of food with delicious, complex and mysterious smells.
Whoa! What’s that?
I stopped, snorted, and did a double take at the big, smelly, blue plastic box. Yuri eased me closer.
“It’s a garbage can.” He laughed heartily. “Why is it that every horse in the universe spooks at garbage cans?”
Thank goodness he kept talking to me in a soothing voice and stroking me, because when we turned the corner, I froze. Thousands of colored flashing lights and moving pictures covered the buildings. Strange people smells assaulted my nose. The sounds were worse — so loud, so jangly. Street vendors calling out, music, sirens and car horns. I felt it physically, as if I were being hit. My heart raced as I sharply looked around, left, right, straight ahead. People, so many people, all moving in different directions. It hurt my head to look at it all. I lifted my head up sharply, snorted, and started pawing the pavement and tossing my head, not knowing what to look at first.
RUN!
Yuri, reading my mind, relaxed his body and took a deep breath, all the way to his belly. Then, deliberate and focused, he gently put both his hands flat on my neck, bringing me back to him, the energy from his hands tingling where he touched me.
“Shhh, Sasha,” he whispered, cajoling, completely focused on me. It was just the two of us, alone, with a blur of colors and sounds outside our bubble.
“Trust me,” I felt him say.
I took a deep breath and walked forward calmly, held by Yuri’s concentration.
Together — better together.
“Will he eat a roasted chestnut?” A man next to us with an interesting smelling food cart offered me a small, round treat. I sniffed cautiously first.
Yum! Delicious — nutty and sweet.
Central Park! Oliver was right. When I saw it, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, not realizing how anxious all the cement and taxi horns and people and energy of the city was making me until I got into the cool, green, leafy park. How could anyone not love Central Park and the grassy fields, trees, boulders, children, bicycles, runners, squirrels and pigeons? Especially the tough city pigeons, swaggering down the pavement like pit bull terriers.
“Ah Yuri and Sasha, the most handsome pair on Park Avenue, good morning!” Yuri’s buddy, Maurice, the doorman at the Plaza Hotel in his crisp, spotless uniform greeted us each day with an elaborate white gloved bow and an almond pastry for me from the Plaza’s French pastry chef. Then we made our rounds, visiting our friends: Gregor, the carriage driver in his straw hat and wool vest, and Periwinkle, his large red feather-plumed Clydesdale mare, waiting in line for tourists in the row of other carriages; Aunt Betty, the bag lady who fed the pigeons while she scolded herself angrily every morning; Anna, the nanny, pushing her charges in their stroller and gabbing with the other nannies; and Lizzy, the dog walker, with a tangle of six dogs straining and sniffing and peeing on the roots of the big oak trees lining the park, deliriously happy to be outside.
Early mornings when the mist rose from the duck pond and runners and bikers streaking through the park were our only company, we practiced dressage in the Sheep Meadow, a field in the middle of the Park. Yuri communicated subtly and effortlessly; with a slight shift of his weight, a nudge of his leg. I understood him perfectly. Circles, serpentines, figure eights and transitions, exactly like the flatwork I had done with Michelle. Stretching, bending, extending. My favorite was doing a powerful yet contained trot, then bursting into a lengthened stride, feet flashing and body stretching.
Oh, how good it feels to be strong, flexible, and “in training” again!
“Hi, that’s the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen.”
Disheveled chestnut braids framed the earnest, chip-toothed grin of a wiry young girl. She looked as though she might take off running at any moment if startled. Her skinny frame hid behind baggy jeans, ripped at the knees, dirty sneakers with laces untied and a big wool sweater with holes at the elbows. Big hazel eyes found my gaze as she stepped off her bicycle, gently laid it on the ground and walked toward me. She spoke quickly, as if she was afraid that she couldn’t get it all out.
“I’m Dee. I grew up on a horse farm in Ireland, so I know a good horse when I see one. He’s a good one,” she pronounced with authority, then kept going without stopping to take a breath.
“I’m 14. I hate New York. I had to leave Ireland because my mother died and I live with my dad but I never see him because he works too hard and travels. Did I tell you that your horse is beautiful? May I give him a peppermint?”
Yuri didn’t have a chance to respond. She took a peppermint out of her pocket, crinkled the wrapper and held out the offering to me, first letting me sniff her hand. She took a breath and started speaking again.
“My uncle, Paddy Murphy, was a champion steeplechase jockey in Ireland and he won the Aintree Grand National, the most famous steeplechase race in the world.”
Paddy Murphy?
“He taught me to crinkle the wrapper so that the horse can hear and know that they’re going to get a treat. He’s a horse dentist now, in Pennsylvania. I spend my school holidays at his farm and ride his horses.”
Yuri laughed his deep laugh. “It’s very nice to meet someone else who appreciates a good horse. My name is Yuri and this is Sasha.”
Dee finally took a breath, flashing a grin at Yuri. Then she hugged me tightly with abandon, breathing in deeply. “Oh, I love horse smell. I miss it so much.”
I nudged her. She was really cute and open, more like a horse than a person who hides their emotions behind words. What you saw was what you got.
I choose her, my new young friend, Dee.
Dee rode her bike to see us every morning after that, watching our dressage moves intently and asking Yuri questions afterward.
“Was that a shoulder-in? Why the leg yield before you cantered?”
“If he steps underneath with his inside hind leg to my outside rein, his transition from the walk to the canter will be in a better balance. See that? That’s the canter I’m looking for.”
I think he enjoyed having a student. I loved having an audience again.
“My grandfather was a horse trainer,” Yuri told Dee. “He used to say, ‘There are no shortcuts in horse training. It can be like watching the grass grow, but at the end, you have a beautiful lawn.’”
He sounds like Michelle.
Yuri reminded me of Michelle. The way he spoke with movements and knew when to ask and when to give — as though he knew my mind, sure and calm, listening to me. And his way of patiently asking and asking again when I was trying to learn a move, then rewarding me when I got it. He made me feel like I could do anything.
Some mornings, we added Cossack trick riding to our sessions. Yuri would stand up on me or practice picking up a glove or paper cup from the ground at a gallop. One of his favorite tricks was the “under-the-neck switch.”
As we galloped across the Sheep Meadow, Yuri climbed out of the saddle, hugged my neck, then swung under my neck and over to the other side. I helped him, lowering my head as he hooked his leg over my withers, then, lifting my head up at the critical moment to flip him back into the saddle. It became our signature move.
“Hooray!” Dee clapped with joy as she watched a perfect execution.
“I can’t help it. It’s in my blood. I’m a Russian and a Cossack. Cossacks were the boldest, fiercest, best horsemen of Central Asia. These tricks are all from waging war. The good ones could jump their horses over a single sword stuck in the ground or fire a pistol from underneath the belly of a galloping horse. I’ll bet that you didn’t know that dressage’s origins are in training horses for the battlefield.”
“Really? I thought dressage was formal and proper.”
“Well, there is that element.” He laughed deeply. “I can’t deny that. I’ve known a few ‘dressage queens’ in my day. The word ‘dressage’ literally means ‘training.’ Many of the movements and training methods we use today came out of cavalry schools, like the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. You know, the place with the Lipizzaners. I can’t let centuries of tradition die, can I?”
Oliver popped his brown dish-face next to my stall, sneaking a bite of my hay net one night as we waited for supper. It was getting chilly outside and I had started to wear a stable sheet in the evenings.
“Next week’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. Biggest day of the year for a cop horse. Ready for it?”
I had no idea what he was talking about and was more interested in my food and irritated that it hadn’t arrived.
“I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Just wait and see. First time is always interesting. Especially when you see the balloons and floats coming down the street.”
What is he talking about? And WHERE is my dinner?
“Can I pat him?” asked an endless flow of teeth-chattering, runny-nosed, pink-cheeked, bundled-up children as we stood on the corner of Broadway and 45th Street on the day of the parade, watching decorated cars passing by, occupants waving and throwing candy into the crowd and people marching in groups. When a troop of horses ridden by people in uniform passed us, several nickered to me in greeting. I nickered back.
Suddenly, the sky in between two tall buildings started to get dark as a big cloud-like thing passed overhead.
Whoa! What is that?
I stopped, heart pounding, gulping in breaths of air.
“Easy, Sasha, It’s OK. It’s just a balloon. It won’t hurt you.” Yuri stroked my neck, singing his Russian lullabies to me in a low melodic voice until I took a deep breath and relaxed, letting the air out in a giant rumbling sigh.
As more balloons and giant cars followed down the street, crowds of people, children carried on shoulders, pushed at the barriers trying to get a better view. Children laughed and parents waved, caught up in the parade spirit. I had a momentary feeling of unease.
Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.
Suddenly, Yuri froze. I felt his energy focus on a dark alley halfway down the block. A man with a hooded sweatshirt stood facing a well-dressed older couple.
Why aren’t they watching the parade?
My ears suddenly stood at attention as I saw the sun glinting off something in his hand, something shiny and metallic. Yuri slowly picked up the reins and nudged me into a walk toward a crowd barrier. He sat up and squeezed his legs. We jumped it from a standstill, then halted. Quietly and deliberately, we weaved our way through the crowd. Ten yards away from the couple, Yuri put his heels sharply into my side. I responded, exploding into a gallop toward the robber, while Yuri kicked the gun out of his hands. We pulled up in four strides, did a perfect pirouette, and galloped back toward him.
This time, Yuri wrapped a leg over the saddle and leaned over backwards, Cossack style, grabbing the gun off the ground and climbing back in the saddle. Another pirouette, then spring off my hind legs — like shooting out of a starting gate — back to the robber, cornering him against a building, like a cat with a chipmunk.
“Car support, Broadway and 45th, code two-eleven, armed robbery, suspect apprehended,” Yuri barked into his radio after dismounting, handcuffing the robber and handing their watches and wallets back to the relieved couple. Applause erupted from the people gathered around us, parade forgotten, as they watched the drama in the alley. I nodded my head, waving to the crowd.
They love me! I love them back! My people!
Now I understood the pride police horses took in being “cop horses.” We’re heroes! Protectors of people — making wrongs right. It felt really good, as though I finally had some control over life’s random bad moments.
The next week, school kids came to the police stable to meet the “cowboy cop horse.” One of the officers pinned up a picture of me from the newspaper on the front of my stall until Officer Rob, the stable manager, tore it off the door and threw it away.
I got a strange feeling from Officer Rob. A bad vibe, as Speedy used to say. He wasn’t like the other officers: all fit and athletic, efficient and dressed in tidy uniforms with polished boots. Rob shuffled around the barn lazily with his uniform stained and wrinkled and a glazed look in his blank, washed-out, pale blue eyes. He was shorter than most of the other officers but much fatter than the jockeys I knew. Worst of all, he smelled sour, like some of the drunks Yuri and I met in Central Park.
Even though his job was to make sure we were well taken care of, he didn’t seem to like horses the way the other officers did. He was nervous around me and the other horses and it put me on edge. I noticed that Yuri watched him carefully, too. Something wasn’t quite right.
December, Manhattan, New York
After Thanksgiving, the north wind finally made up its mind to stay. The bare trees stood starkly in relief against the grey skies as the last lingering red, orange and yellow leaves gave up their grasp and floated to the ground. It was strange. I was happy and I loved Yuri, but I couldn’t help feeling that something was going to happen, something bad, and that my life was about to change.
“It’s getting chilly. Do you think it’s time to clip everyone?” Officer Mike asked Yuri as he stamped his feet and wrapped his cold hands around a mug of steaming coffee, trying to warm up from his morning shift.
“Oh no, not clippin’. I hate clippin’,” Oliver moaned. He turned to me, “I’ll bet you’ve nevah bin clipped, ‘ave ya? By jeezum, it takes forever and those clippehrs buhrn and pinch and tickle, but the sweat does dry fasteh and you don’t sit there with a wet coat, freezin’ to death.”
“Let’s clip tomorrow,” Yuri nodded to Mike. “The horses will need to start wearing their heavier blankets in
doors and quarter sheets on patrol. We wouldn’t want anyone to tie up with all of that stop-and-go and waiting around we do. When are they next due to be shod? They should have borium. It’ll snow any day. Those streets are slippery this time of year.”
“I’ll make sure and remind Rob about the borium. The farrier is due next week,” Officer Mike replied.
Borium? What’s that?
I made a face at Oliver, who laughed good naturedly. “Come on, Florida boy, winter’s here. Get with it: borium, studs on your shoes, keep ya from slippin’ on the ice and snow we’ll be gettin’ any day now. Love this time of year — reminds me of Veh’mont. We had real snow in Veh’mont, we did. Miss it, I do.”
A gravelly voice woke me up late one night, accompanied by the shaking beam of a flashlight.
“Hey Rob. Hey, man. Got any more of that horse tranquilizer?”
“Shh! Rocky. Quiet. Wanna get us busted? Be cool.” Officer Rob heaved his soft, overweight body into the grooming stall and turned on the dim light. He looked around quickly with his empty blue eyes and unconsciously picked at a mole on his chin before pulling a small flask out of his pocket and taking a long drink.
“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s good stuff. I can sell as much as you can get, the boys on the street love it.”
“Gimme the cash first.”
Picking a key out of the cluster he wore on his belt, Rob opened the equine medicine cabinet and pulled out a small foil packet. He held it in the air and kissed it.
“Top quality. From my special European vet connection. Forty grams. Two grand. OK, gimme the cash and get outa here. And don’t come around here again. I don’t want to have to hurt you or send my boys after you. You don’t want that either.”
Overnight the city dressed itself up as though it were going to a fancy party. Thousands of sparkly lights on trees and lampposts twinkled prettily in the early dusk. Woodsy smelling wreaths and garlands with red ribbons appeared, expectantly inviting the city to put on its best manners. Women in long coats and high heeled boots and men wearing hats and scarves slowed their rapid, city walks to catch an eye, smile, nod, and say Merry Christmas.
Raja, Story of a Racehorse Page 11