Tom sighed. “Let me ask you this. Do you think the high cost of veterinary medicine has anything to do with the success or failure of horse racing?”
Randy started to answer.
“Not the care, the success?” Tom emphasized.
Randy sat back. “If a person is going to own a racehorse and succeed, they’re going to have to give that horse the best, the best trainer, the best care, the best rider, the best veterinarian. And if they can’t afford that, they don’t belong in the business. They don’t call it the Sports of Kings for nothing. I’ll go you one better,” Randy said. “That’s what’s wrong with the business. You have people that think because they train a cheap claimer that they can cut corners. No. That’s so far from the truth it’s a bold-face lie.”
The two men sat looking at one another, all the rest glancing from one to the next.
“Every horse,” Randy said, “deserves the best shot. They’re putting their life on the line every time they race, every time they go to that track to gallop. They’re giving it their best. We owe it to them to do the same, or don’t race, get out of the business. God, I hate it when a trainer says, ‘Well, let’s wait and see.’ Try walking away from that when you know what that horse needs.”
Tom smiled. “Now see, that’s why I love you, Randy. You care. Come here and give me a hug.”
Randy laughed. “No thanks, I gotta go.”
“No dessert?” Dawn asked.
“Oh.” Randy hesitated. “I’ll take it with me”
Dusty arrived as Randy was leaving. Randy didn’t like the look on his face; it spelled trouble. “Dawn’ll fill me in later,” he said, on the way to his vet truck.
Dusty sighed and went inside.
“Well?” Tom said, passing him a clean plate and silverware.
Dusty sat down and dished out a helping of lasagna. Wendy passed him the salad and bread. Dawn poured him a glass of water. He looked around the table. “Dave Brubaker is shipping out tomorrow.”
“What?”Ben said. “Did he say why?”
“He says he sees the writing on the wall. That Nottingham Downs will not be in operation next year, and that he needs to establish himself elsewhere.”
Ben stared.
“How many horses does he have?” Spears asked.
“Nine,” Dusty said.
Spears shrugged, as if to say, okay, nine’s not that bad.
“Nine allowance and top claimers,” Tom said.
Spears sat back.
“Is there any talking him out of it?” Dawn asked.
Dusty shook his head. “He says it’s a done deal. His owners are in agreement.”
Ben crossed his arms. “What would make him do something like this?”
“Well,” Dusty said. “Let’s not forget he shipped out a month early last year, so this isn’t exactly new behavior. Still….” This was three months before the end of the season.
“I’ve a mind to tell him he can’t come back,” Ben said. “Ever.”
Dawn smiled. “Let’s wait until next year to tell him when he wants to ship in. It’ll have more impact that way.”
Ben looked across the table at her; seems like her comment right there might have been the first real inkling that she was on board with this racetrack-ownership business. “Eat up, Dusty,” he said. “We’re all waiting on some Cassada cake.”
The meeting continued over dessert. “Do you remember years ago when they used to give out barn awards?” Ben said.
George smiled. “Glenda and I won it once.”
She nodded. “That was just a couple of years ago. Why’d they stop?”
“Money,” Spears said.
“Come on. A hundred dollars a month?”
“It adds up.”
“But the barns looked really good, for the most part at least,” George said.
“But it didn’t affect the betting and the handle.”
“Fuck that word, I don’t like it,” Tom said.
Everyone laughed.
“I say we get one going again,” Ben said. “We only have three months, so we’ll probably have to offer a weekly prize so they have more of a shot at winning.”
“Now we’re talking even more money,” Spears said.
“Yes,” Dawn said, “but maybe we could tie it into securing their barns next year. Practically everyone ends up in the same barns anyway, or at least wants to. This way they’ll know for sure.”
Wendy reached for her note pad.
“Why does it matter?” Spears asked.
“Well, for one,” Tom said, “it’s a sense of pride. If we care and they care….”
Spears nodded, thinking of his office.
“When does construction on the Ginny stand start?” Dawn asked.
“Monday,” Spears said. “There was a delay on the material. It’ll be delivered Sunday evening after racing. We’re going with something prefab so the construction noise doesn’t upset the horses for too long a time.”
Everyone looked at him, mouths dropped
“Mim Freemont cornered me in the secretary’s office that morning we were down there. She said she wanted to make sure I properly understood the situation.” He smiled. “I understand.”
Ben chuckled. “There might be hope for you yet.”
Chapter Twenty
Randy drove to the Corby Smith dressage barn and went inside. Once a week he stopped to check on the fifteen horses in Corby’s care. She was the consummate professional, was always there waiting for him, and sported an illustrious reputation as an award-winning dressage rider, trainer, and judge. She could see things in the way a horse moved that bordered on fourth, even fifth dimensional. Nothing slipped by her. And yet, her own horse, Mickey McGuiness, a 17 hand Irish Warmblood gelding, aged sixteen, eluded her sensibilities. Day in and day out, she saw him as he once was, determined that he still could be, and refused to acknowledge or even consider his obvious decline.
“He’s eating much better today,” she told Randy.
Randy glanced in at Mickey’s almost full feed tub. There was nothing wrong with the horse; his age did not seem to be a factor. He was actually quite healthy. He just didn’t have any spunk left.
“No impulsion,” to put it in Corby’s words. She’d tried different saddles, different saddle pads, different bits, she’d covered all her “training” bases.
Each week Randy examined him he hoped he’d find something, anything. Teeth were good, legs sound, good digestion, bright eyed. He reminded him of his father. He listened to the beat of his heart for the umpteenth time, strong as an ox’s. “Well, we’ll just keep an eye on him,” Randy said, the usual.
He thought of Linda Dillon’s two ponies, Dawn’s ponies now actually…such different lives. He watched Mickey walk over to his feed tub, nibble, and walk away. “See,” Corby said. “Didn’t I tell you?”
Randy smiled. They’d already discussed the horse’s diet. He was getting fed a quality grain, and lots of it, spread out in five meals throughout the day. Corby had tried different feeds over the past year, always easing Mickey into it gently. She’d done everything right. He got fed a good timothy hay mix, free choice. He preferred hay over his grain. Randy had suggested she cut his grain back, but that was never going to happen. For all the good she did with her horses, she was set in her ways. A good solid dressage horse needed lots of grain in her opinion, and that’s all there was to it. Randy once suggested he be retired.
“Retired?”
From her reaction, one would have sworn he’d uttered a blasphemous obscenity. Mickey McGuiness was a Grand Prix dressage horse “in his prime.”
“How about just turning him out for a couple of months?” Randy also suggested.
“Turn him out? He’ll hurt himself and then what?”
Back to square one. Randy checked the other horses in the barn; Corby had a detailed list, and soon he was on his way to the next call. It was his final appointment of the day, a standing visit at this farm each week at approxi
mately this time, barring an emergency.
Shifting Gears Thoroughbred Rescue Farm was landlocked; a mere ten acres, only fourteen stalls and full to capacity. The pastures looked more like dirt paddocks, they were so eaten down. Ohio climate dictates shelter, particularly for a Thoroughbred not used to living out in the elements twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The volunteer staff built run-in sheds in each pasture, donations afforded an automatic watering system, but the electric bill was too high, so they were back to watering with hoses. Randy knew every detail, every volunteer. He knew the proprietors; two women in their late 40’s, one was “a rugged as hell” and the other “a bleeding-heart liberal.” One was a warrior, the other one, a worrier.
“What do we have tonight?” Randy asked, entering the barn.
“Well,” Veronica, the worrier, said. “That bow on the Georgio filly seems bigger to me.” They walked down to the horse’s stall. Randy examined it.
“It looks good, it’s nice and tight.”
Veronica nodded. “It looks bigger though.”
Randy shook his head.
Karen, the epitome of sunshine, came around the corner. “Hi, Doc!”
Randy smiled. “How’re you doing, Karen?”
“Okay. We think we have a home for Squeegee.”
Randy chuckled. She had nicknames for each horse. Squeegee was named Squeegee because he’d come in with a heavy winter coat and after a bath to rid him of all the caked-on manure, he took forever to dry. Karen took a squeegee to him when a sweat scraper wasn’t doing the trick. He was at least two hundred pounds underweight back then, but was looking great now.
“He’s such a sweet horse. If this girl doesn’t treat him right, I think I’ll strangle her,” Veronica said.
“Don’t let people hear you say that,” Randy said.
“Well, it’s true.”
“Still….”
Randy checked the rest of the horses needing attention. Two had just come off the track, one with a hairline fracture of the coffin bone in his left hind hoof. Randy was pleased he was putting weight on that foot. The other horse had pulled a suspensory ligament in his right front. He’d been iffy the first week here, off his feed, listless, depressed. It was touch and go. Randy had made numerous trips to the farm on his behalf, once in the middle of the night when he was down and wouldn’t get up. He was doing much better now. He wasn’t much to look at, tall and gangly, and had a wide-eyed frightened expression. Chances are he was going to be hard to Re-home.
Randy gave a talk once at the local hunt club about “Rescue, Rehab, and Rehoming.” It was a pet peeve of his, this latest trend of referring to all Thoroughbreds coming off the track as Rescues. “In my opinion if a sound horse from the racetrack can no longer race for whatever the reason, too slow, too skittish, no longer competitive, that horse needs a new home. They are a Rehoming prospect. If a horse is sore or injured, he or she will need to be Rehabbed first and then Rehomed. The term Rescue applies only to a small percentage of all horses; horses that are facing death or in harm’s way.” He chose his words carefully, “The horses that are neglected or mistreated, malnourished or abandoned.”
“A small percentage?”
“Yes,” Randy said. “Mind you, I can only speak for the Thoroughbred racing industry, which is my specialty.”
“Have you ever insisted a horse be put down?”
“I have.”
“And?”
“The horse was put down.”
“What about the ones that break down in plain sight but don’t necessarily have to be put down?”
“Well,” Randy said. “Those are the candidates for Rehab and Rehoming.”
“And not the killers?”
“Ma’am,” Randy said. “In all due respect, I hear where you’re coming from but I’m in the business to heal injuries and to save horses. I would no sooner want to see one go to a killer sale than you would, maybe even more so.” Randy looked around the room at that point. “Are there any more questions?”
“Yes,” a man sitting way in the back said. “Is there any truth to the old farmer’s wisdom about putting copper in a mare’s water bucket to keep her from going into heat?”
Randy looked at him and smiled. “My father swears by it.”
Karen and Veronica walked with Randy to his truck. He filled their arms with supplies. “You’re a godsend, Randy,” Karen said. “I don’t know what we’d do without you. How are we ever going to repay you or find a way to thank you?”
“You don’t have to. What you two accomplish for these horses is thanks enough.”
Beau Born pricked his ears when he saw the entourage approaching. He looked first at Ben, then Tom, then George, then Dawn, and then all the rest and let out a stallion whinny. He looked past all of them then, looking, looking, and looking, and they all laughed. If horses could talk, “Where are the mares?” he’d be saying.
Ben had a framed copy of Beau’s past performances and the plan was for Dusty to refer to his race record and breeding as Dawn taped the video. Beau was used to being photographed and on video. He was used to striking a pose.
“He is so beautiful,” Wendy said, seeing him again only for the second time.
For the most part, it was George who handled Beau now. Dawn started videoing as George put on Beau’s nameplate halter and lead shank. She zoomed in as Dusty narrated, “Beau Born is the leading Thoroughbred sire in Ohio. He raced fifteen times in two and half years and has a lifetime earnings of $870,000.” Beau tossed his head up and down, and bucked and squealed as George led him out of his stall.
Aside from mares, what Beau liked best was peppermints. Tom unwrapped one he had in his pocket, fed it to him, and patted him lovingly on the forehead, video rolling. George led Beau down to the end of the barn and as he stood looking out into the night, Dawn zoomed in again to capture the look in his eyes.
“The eyes of a champion,” Dusty said, looking over her shoulder. “Beau Born.”
At that exact moment, hearing his name, Beau turned his head and looked right into the camera and nickered. Dawn focused on him another second or two, then heaved a sigh. “And that’s a wrap,” she said.
“Wow!” Wendy and Glenda both said together.
“I know,” Dawn shook her head. “I got goosebumps.”
They all stepped out of the way so George could lead Beau back to his stall, then all hovered over the tiny video screen. Ben looked in at Beau and marveled, “You old showoff.”
There was a full moon out, lighting the way as they all parted. Dawn walked up to her house, by way of the foaling barn to check on the ponies. They were both munching hay. Ben walked back to his house. Glenda and George climbed into their truck, Dusty his, and left.
Tom shut off the lights and secured the stallion gate. “Did you bring your boots?” he asked Wendy.
She nodded. “They’re in my car.”
“Why don’t you go get them and we’ll oil them,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the main barn.” The two of them started off in different directions, but then Tom found himself hesitating as he watched her walk away in the moonlight.
“What?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder.
“Nothing, it’s just the moon and….” He smiled, blushed actually, not that she could see that in the dark. “You look like an angel.”
Wendy stood gazing at him in the night and surprisingly for her, she didn’t feel self-conscious. She didn’t feel a need to come up with a catchy response. She just stood gazing at him. But then, oh my God, she thought, I’m falling in love with a cowboy, a real-life cowboy. My boys will die. And then….falling in love? Come on, she said in her mind. You’re not a school girl. You’re forty-eight years old. Get a grip.
Tom was wrestling with emotions of his own and was the first to turn and walk away. This was all new to him, caring about someone as a person, a woman as a woman, and not a…when Wendy walked into the barn, boots in hand, he looked at her and shook his head.
/> “I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For being the man I was all my life. I don’t know where to begin with you.”
She smiled. “Well, why don’t we start with oiling my boots.”
Tom laughed. While he worked on her boots, the outsides only, never any on the heel or sole, using lots of neatsfoot oil, Wendy walked around the tack room. She looked at all the bridles, the various bits, the saddles. “Who rides here?” she asked.
“Well,” Tom said, glancing at her. “Up until a few years ago, I started all the babies.”
“Started?”
“I don’t like the term, broke. I never did.”
“So why aren’t you starting them anymore?”
“I’m getting too old.”
“Oh?” She knew for a fact he was fifty-one years old from the listing on his groom’s license. “You still pony though.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever quit that. I love being out there on the racetrack when the races are run. I love the mornings. I love the action.”
Wendy looked at him. “How long have you been on the racetrack?”
“Oh, since I was about thirteen. I drove my parents crazy skipping school and sneaking over to the track. They threw a huge party when I graduated. They didn’t think it would ever happen.”
“Did you go to college?”
Tom shook his head and smiled. “Not unless you count the school of hard knocks. I’ve certainly had my share of those learning experiences.” He finished one boot and started on the other.
“Were you ever a jockey?”
“No. I would have liked to have been, but as jocks go, even back then I was the wrong size.”
Winning Odds Trilogy Page 64