Raja, Story of a Racehorse

by Anne Hambleton

“We made it to the ‘retirement farm’ OK,” Rob’s friend barked gruffly into his cell phone, jumping up and down next to the trailer to stay warm.

  “It’s colder’n sin out here. I’ll let you know what he brings and I’ll send you a check next week, or would you rather have cash?” He stomped his feet, trying to stay warm.

  “We’re lucky that meddling Beth ain’t here. I’ll bet she’s stuck in the storm. Glad to see the meat buyers made it. Thoroughbreds are highest quality, Grade A. Your nag’s got a lot of meat on him. He’ll get a good price.”

  Are they talking about me? Where are we?

  The big cement building and muddy stock-trailer–filled parking lot looked familiar.

  The livestock auction!

  Rob’s friend put me into a small pen with the other three horses and tied us to a metal bar. The frigid wind picked up, biting into my thin, newly clipped coat.

  Freezing! It’s freezing.

  As the other horses and I silently huddled together, desperately trying to stay warm, I smelt an acrid, sickening, bitter smell, like something burning. Looking up sharply, I saw Rob’s friend talking to a man wearing a cowboy hat.

  He has a patch over his left eye! The kill buyer!

  The deal was done in the parking lot. Rob’s friend led me to the back of the building where a large tractor trailer idled loudly, belching black clouds of diesel smoke. Inside the open back door, 12 horses stood shivering.

  This doesn’t feel real. This feels like I am in the worst nightmare imaginable.

  “Git,” the man in the cowboy hat growled as he roughly tried to pull me into the tractor trailer. I pinned my ears back and kicked out a warning.

  I’m not getting in there.

  The crack of a bull whip pierced the icy night air, accenting the terrible sounds of the rumbling truck engine, horses whinnying in fear and men cursing harshly.

  “Git, hoss,” he snarled louder, stinging my flank with his whip, one, two, three times, each time harder than the last. I skittered sideways, my metal shoes sliding on the ice-covered pavement, and whinnied loudly to the others.

  Think! DO something. There has to be a way out.

  The stench of diesel fuel mingling with the smell of cigarettes and pig manure from the livestock pens made me dizzy. I suddenly felt weak. I stood unsteadily, pulling back against him, trying to catch my breath.

  Oww. OWW!

  I felt a strong shock — a surge of electricity — and jumped forward onto the truck, hearing Rob’s friend laugh cruelly as I did.

  “You need a cattle prod, my friend. It’ll save you time.”

  It was so crowded I could barely breathe. A scared horse slid to his knees, slamming into me. My legs buckled, but I stayed up. Every horse knew where we were going. Several hung their heads low, dispirited. Many were sick or lame, some had open wounds. The ones with fight left in them, who stood up for themselves by refusing to load, were hit with the bull whip or cattle prod.

  Behind me, a tall, skinny grey with a big scar whinnied in terror. He reared and slipped on the icy tarmac, then fell over backwards, hitting his head with a sickening thud. I couldn’t help but whinny to him in empathy. The men tied a chain around his legs and dragged him into the tractor trailer where he lay breathing heavily, too weak to get up. I moved over, trying not to step on him.

  To make matters worse, the freezing rain had arrived, announcing itself with a loud hammering on the metal roof of the trailer. The cold wind bit like an angry dog, growing more and more furious. As hard pellets stung us through the trailer’s open sides, a thin layer of ice beginning to form on the floor made it difficult to stand. I shivered uncontrollably, overcome with a deepening sense of dread. The stone in my stomach grew heavier.

  This is it. I’m heading to the killers.

  It took about an hour to finish loading. Then we began our sad journey. The truck moved slowly, sliding in the sleet that was now falling hard. Struggling up a couple of big hills, we had to stop, back up, and climb again. Each time, more horses slipped and fell. Several couldn’t get back up and scrambled on the floor, trying to avoid being trampled. I felt terribly for them, but I could barely stay on my own feet.

  The truck lurched up one never-ending hill, reached the top and started down, dragged by the weight of the horses, moving faster. I felt a jerky motion, then we began to slide sideways, gathering momentum. I struggled to keep my footing as more horses went down. Through the sides of the trailer we could see headlights coming toward us on one side and dark woods on the other.

  Suddenly, we heard loud voices shouting from the cab of the truck.

  “We can’t stop! We’re going to crash!”

  A loud mechanical-sounding squeal filled the air accompanied by a horrible burning smell. We slid faster still, careening out of control down a steep embankment toward the dark woods on the left side of the truck.

  CRASH!

  Metal groaned and ripped as the truck stopped suddenly and flipped over, flinging us against one side, tearing open the back. For a moment, it was silent. Then chaos — a panicked melee of scrambling hoofs, frantic whinnies and steamy, horse-sweat–drenched bodies desperately trying to escape. Somehow, I managed to right myself and stagger out. I noticed a cowboy hat on the ground, but no people. It was dark, icy and bitter cold, but we were free.

  Run! Escape!

  We started to run as a herd. Even the lame horses hobbled as best they could. When we were clear of the accident, the truck caught on fire, erupting in a huge fiery orange ball that lit up the sky.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Three explosions followed, as the flames climbed higher and higher into the dark sky. I ran as fast as I could through the freezing rain and the darkness, blinded by the headlights of oncoming cars. A couple of other horses ran with me but I quickly out-distanced them. Slipping a little on the icy ground, I jumped a guard rail and moved to the middle of the highway. I was fit and soon fell into an easy rhythm. I hadn’t galloped, really galloped, since I was at Gulfstream Park. It felt like another lifetime. After a while, I turned onto a smaller road, running past buildings still decorated with colored holiday lights. Gradually, I saw fewer buildings. Clusters of houses became fields and farms. I must have run for over two hours through the darkness and the ice storm, but I didn’t feel tired or cold.

  I feel good. I feel FREE.

  At the top of a hill I saw a light on in a big wooden barn with a stone foundation. I suddenly noticed how tired and hungry and thirsty I was. It was getting late. The excitement and adrenalin had kept me going, but my energy was fading. I stopped on the road, studying the tidy farm.

  Should I risk it? Is it safe?

  I was so tired and so thirsty. I was dying for something to drink.

  Maybe I should just sleep by the side of the road? What if they take me back to the killers?

  The icy wind picked up and I shivered violently.

  OK, I’ll take the chance.

  I walked cautiously into the courtyard, then stopped and looked around, alert.

  Is it safe?

  An old man with a white beard looked up from a sweat-covered mare lying on her side in one of the stalls and smiled.

  “Hullo…what a nice surprise. Just in time to see the foal being born.”

  I was so tired. All I wanted was a warm place to sleep and some food and water

  That hay looks really good.

  I took another cautious step forward and let the man touch my ratty old cat-pee halter. He slowly led me into a stall filled with deep straw with a pile of sweet-smelling clover hay in the corner and filled a water bucket. Feeling exhausted to my core, I drank deeply. He refilled the water and put a scoop of grain in the other bucket, which I devoured hungrily.

  “Hmm…you were at the auction.” he shook his head, noticing the tag on my hind end. I’ll bet you were in that terrible crash I just heard about on the radio, the tractor trailer on its way to the slaughterhouse. Jeez, you galloped a long time — that was over 30 mi
les away.”

  He gave me a reassuring pat. “You’re safe here.” Then he took a good look at me and whistled, “Wow, you are one good lookin’, fancy horse. You don’t look like most of the horses that go through that auction — skinny racehorses run too hard, or plow horses off the farm. A mystery, you are. Well, my granddaughter is in the pony club. I’m sure she has a friend who needs a horse for next summer.”

  I hope I can trust him.

  We stayed up to watch the mare give birth to a colt before I gradually nodded off and slept deeply, lying down on the thick bed of straw. It had been a very long day.

  A few weeks later, I was watching a squirrel climb up the frozen tree outside the barnyard on his way to the birdfeeder, when I heard a car door slam outside.

  “Good Morning, Paddy. Thanks for coming on such a cold day.”

  Paddy?

  “Good morning to you, Abe. ’Tis brisk, isn’t it? My Irish blood just can’t get used to these bitter cold days, but I try. This time of year fools you into thinking spring is around the bend and then we have a day like today. Sure, and March is coming in like a lion, just like they say. Let’s pray for the warm weather to come quickly, shall we?”

  He shivered. “Now then, what have you got for me?”

  “The mare, Sierra, you know. Her teeth were last done a year ago so she needs to be done,” replied Abe.

  “There’s a new horse. Come and take a look. I’d like your opinion of him. Do you remember that crash last month? The tractor trailer with the auction horses?”

  “Ah yes, the kill truck, I did hear about it, terrible,” Paddy replied.

  “Well,” Abe lowered his voice to a whisper and continued slowly, eyes wide, “that night, a very good-looking, clipped, fit horse appeared at my farm with an auction sticker on his hindquarters — a good 30 miles from the crash. He has heavy shoes instead of aluminum racing plates. I think he’s a hunter or an event horse.”

  He paused, taking a deep breath and exhaled.

  “I haven’t told anyone. I suspect foul play and I don’t want the killers to come looking for him, so please keep quiet. He’s very well-mannered and I’m hoping he can be a pony club horse for one of my granddaughter’s friends.”

  I looked over the stall door.

  It’s Dee’s Uncle Paddy — the man I had seen in Central Park and at Beth’s!

  He was wearing the same tweed cap and weathered green parka with patches of faded grey tape. Overjoyed, I nickered, hoping he would remember me. He came into my stall, his eyes widening in recognition as he looked closely at me.

  “There’s a good boy,” he patted me, whistling under his breath. He opened my mouth and looked at my teeth.

  “His teeth are in good shape. They don’t need to be done,” he told Abe. Next, he flipped my upper lip up and looked at my tattoo. “He just turned eight in January,” he continued. He turned to Abe. “Would you mind please fetching me a lead rope?”

  When Abe was out of earshot, he looked me in the eye, fished a polo mint out of his pocket, fed it to me, and whispered, “Sasha, so that’s where that crooked policeman sent you! Or should I say Raja! Now I remember where it was I had seen you first. It was at Beth’s farm. I never forget a horse, especially a horse like you.”

  Abe returned and handed the lead rope to Paddy.

  “Abe, you’re right, he’s a handsome horse. But I’d make sure he’s safe before putting a child on him if I were you. We’ve no idea why he was on that kill truck.”

  Paddy took off his cap and scratched the back of his head, cap still in hand.

  “You know, my niece, Dee, comes to visit from New York during the school holidays. We’ve been looking for a horse for her. He might suit her.

  Would you take 500 dollars for him? I’m sure that if he has any riding quirks, we can sort them out. I rode quite a few devils in my day when I was a steeplechase jockey.”

  Abe seemed pleased. “You’re right. I was wondering what got him on that truck. Frankly, I didn’t want my granddaughter to be the first one to ride him.” Abe reached out to shake Paddy’s hand. “You have a deal.”

  10

  The Murphys

  March, Chester County, Pennsylvania

  “Hullo, Mac and Angus.” Paddy leaned down to pick up the slobber-covered tennis ball one of the two friendly black Labrador retrievers had dropped expectantly at his feet. He threw it far into the field, down the hill, toward the pond, while two streaks of black tore after it.

  After leading me into the field, Paddy took off my new halter and stood watching.

  A piebald pony trotted up cheerfully and sniffed noses with me, while an older chestnut horse followed him, slowly picking his way across the frozen field.

  “Hello there, I’m Snickers and that’s Robbie. He doesn’t hear very well.”

  I sniffed first with the pony and then the chestnut, squealing a little as we got acquainted. The chestnut seemed weary as he spoke,

  “I’m Robbie. What’s your name? What? Sorry, I didn’t get that.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Snickers interrupted. “I’m happy to have someone new to talk to. Ol’ Robbie can’t hear anything I say. Makes it kind of hard to have a conversation! Come on, I’ll show you the good patch of clover. Follow me.”

  As we pawed through the frozen mud to get the tender new shoots, Snickers began speaking again, clearly excited to have company. “Paddy’s two sons used to ride me before they got obsessed with hockey and lacrosse. I don’t get out much now unless Dee is visiting, then she rides me. The neighbor comes over sometimes and leads his grandson around on me, but it’s pretty quiet around here.”

  “What’s that? Louder, can’t hear you,” Robbie complained. “Young fella, it’s nice to have you here. I’m Robbie. I’m 25. What’s that you say?”

  He turned to Snickers, who looked at me innocently and shook his head.

  “Sometimes Robbie imagines things,” he whispered.

  “Be quiet, Snickers. I’m talking to the new fella.”

  Robbie lowered his head and promptly fell asleep.

  The skunk cabbage, fiddlehead ferns and crocuses shivered out of the wet ground, reaching out eagerly to the March sun. I smelled black earth, woodsmoke and things growing. As I looked over my stall door, a flock of geese loudly circled the farm and landed dramatically on the pond, feet first, wings flapping and splashing.

  This day is different. I don’t know why, but I can feel it.

  As I sniffed the early spring air, I knew that something was about to happen. Two sets of footsteps creaked on the wooden barn floor.

  “I have a surprise for you, Dee. Come, have a look.”

  Even though it had only been two months since I had seen her, Dee looked taller, more grown up, as she peered into my stall. A chin-length haircut that made her chestnut hair swing as she walked replaced her unruly long braids. Her shaggy wool sweater was gone, too, I noticed. She looked at Paddy, astonished, then threw herself at him, hugging him.

  “Where did you find him, Uncle Paddy?” She burst into my stall and hugged me tightly, smiling a wide chip-toothed grin.

  There’s the Dee I know.

  “Sasha! I thought you were at the retirement farm. I went by the barracks and Officer Rob told me you’d been sent upstate.”

  “There’s a story and it’ll be told at supper,” replied Paddy. “Now, then, these horses need some supper of their own. We can ride tomorrow.”

  “I’m going to ride bareback,” Dee announced the next day as I was finishing my breakfast. “Yuri said that riding without stirrups is the best way to develop a good seat.”

  “I suppose that’s all right. We’ve been riding him every day; he’s been perfect.”

  Dee rode me every morning that week. We explored the countryside as the meadowlarks and song sparrows sang spring forward and endless clouds of black dots, rivers of high flying birds, crowded the sky. Rabbits and groundhogs roamed the fields, sunning themselves and looking for mates. The
world had suddenly woken up.

  Dooo…Dooo…Dooo…Doo doo doo doo doo.

  That sounded like a bugle, like the call to the post.

  It was around suppertime, four o’clock, when we heard it. Dee was riding late. Along with the sharp, quick, urgent notes of the horn, came the stirring sound of dozens of dogs crying in unison.

  “Ah, listen to that hound music,” sighed Paddy. “It sounds like they’re on a good run. If you hurry, you can see them come through.”

  At the edge of the field we saw an amazing sight. It was a big race, led by dozens of hounds running and baying. A man wearing a red coat galloped with them. Two men in red coats flanked the pack, followed by another, leading a thundering herd of galloping horses toward the post-and-rail fence surrounding our pasture. Fanning out, each rider picked a panel and jumped into the big field.

  This must be the hunt!

  A teenage boy with his stirrups jacked up, jockey style, on a handsome black horse galloped past easily, with a girl in pigtails on a grey pony at his heels.

  Was it? It’s Holzmann and Prism! I can’t believe it!

  I broke into a gallop and started running along with the other horses.

  I have to find out what they’re doing. I’m not stopping, Dee.

  After trying to pull me up, Dee changed her mind and decided to enjoy the ride as we rolled up and down the hills and through the woods, jumping coops and post-and-rail fences in our way.

  “Hello, Raja!” cried Holzmann as I passed him. “Isn’t this fun?”

  Holzmann! What are you doing here?

  “Foxhunting — come on, this is a good run. I’ll race you to the top of the hill,” he shouted, taking off with a spurt of energy. He looked great — better than I’d ever seen him — all muscled up and fit. It was hard to believe that he was 19. He looked six.

  I’m so happy to see him again!

  Dee and I galloped with Holzmann, then moved closer to the leaders. Down a steep hill, over a big muddy stream and then up another big hill, passing more horses.

  It feels so good to run. I like this kind of race!