The shin bone is connected to...the yearling sales.

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Cross-dressing...Equine Version:


Over the decades, I have spent countless hours exploring the finer points of equine conformation.  Well, female conformation as well, but if I go down that path I'm going to have to invest in a new web site:  you know, www.xxx.  And the next thing you know the place would be overrun with Republicans and defrocked priests.  And if you've read my book, you probably appreciate that I've got enough trouble with UPS drivers, the fire department, The Jockey Club and most of my neighbors.  At least the ones that chose shelter-in- place over the witness protection system.


However, if you sell yearlings in the marketplace, conformation is a very, very big deal.  Deal-breaker actually.  And horse people being either special or perhaps not enamored by detail, have invented their own unique anatomical identification system:


"One of the biggest causes for consternation at a yearling sale is centered around a young horse's knees.  They invoke the most poking and prying, for like the ball-joints in your aging car or Joe Namath's hairy landing gear, they are the first part of the anatomy to falter.  Why?  Well, they carry about 60% of the horse's weight.  The hind legs work like a propeller on a ship.  Additionally, anatomy tends to cross-dress between species.  Knees aren't knees -- they are actually wrists.  Hooves are fingernails, everything below the knee is actually a digit -- or, a finger really.  The real knees are actually stifles, the hocks are ankles and racing pounds these misguided joints at about 2000psi or more.  I know it is confusing, but if you stand up a horse on its hind legs and connect the dots, it will probably make sense.  Or maybe it won't."


"Buyers approach the knees like madcap melon buyers.  They thump and maul the joint mercilessly.  Others get back at a distance and ponder the shape and contour of the joint, stopping occasionally to scratch their heads or write a comment in their sales catalog.  Normally, something like, "This horse sucks."  The astute buyers pretend to be looking at a gaskin, while stealing a quick glance at a knee.  Others put their money on the ankles (which are really hands), or the eye (which really is an eye), or that certain look, though I'm still working out the connection between a horse and a bald-headed bird that cavorts with vultures and hyenas.  But that is our dilemma.  We parade our yearlings, corrupt the truth as best we can and hope that three drunken optimists try to prove a point when out horse is in the ring."

Next:  Spy versus Spy 

Shoeing on the dark-side of the moon...



Hmm...Too Formal?

Scenes from Chapter 13:

'A Pretty Fair Farrier'

 We all have those days, those clients, those collections of improbable events that can only come from exploring the the dark-side of the moon without a flashlight.

One of my favorites is the horse that doesn't quite make it through the appointment.  And naturally, the owner is at work.  And guess where she works?  Grisly-Lugnut & Ballsqueezer, LLC.  Attorneys-at-Law.  Never mind that Bucky was 31-years old, almost toothless and lived on nitro-glycerin tablets.  Or that he fell over dead on your new $90 fiberglass shoeing box.  The box where your iPad was sitting...next to your prescription Ray-Bans.  Just one thing matters:  Bucky died on your watch.


Then there is the case of way too much information.  That happens because of the nature of the job.  Horse owners are always conversing with your butt while your mouth is normally full of nails.  It's amazing the things people will tell a horseshoer's butt:  "Judy, I think we should do Sparky every six-weeks instead of eight.  His feet grow pretty fast."  She tells your butt, "You know, I haven't had an orgasm in fifteen years."  You change the schedule back to eight-weeks.

Or...

A trainer holds a horse for you.  A trainer who never holds a horse for anybody.  He starts to tell your butt a story:  "Ya know, we didn't win at Tucson last week."  (The horse he's holding is Double-Lucky Moon Shot -- a halter horse.)  "Judge kept lookin' at Moonie's front legs...like thar was somethin' wrong."  Of course, the butt doesn't immediately answer.  Case of pucker or something.  Then, more information is forthcoming:  "You know, I think we need to lower those outsides a little more.  Yeah, that's it I think...we should do that."  Then your butt hears the horse being snapped into the cross-ties and boots -- scraping the asphalt pretty quickly until they finally fade away.  Once you finish, you simply hose the blood off your rasp and head for the next appointment.

Where...

The trainer is at a show.  A note on the shoeing board says to check Buddy.  You scratch your butt and think, "Buddy who?"  You finally find a groom in one of the stalls talking to a horse.  She says, "Oh hi!"  You ask, "What's wrong with Buddy?"  She says, "Oh, he's lame."  You seek clarification: "Who's Buddy?"  The groom:  "Oh. I thought you knew.  I don't."  You say:  "You don't?"  She says: "No, but I knew a horse in Florida with the same name.  What a coincidence!"  You go back to the shoeing board and check the list.  Under a horse named Benjamin, is a note that says, "Vet wants you to...."  The rest has been smeared off and replaced with...'Pizza Hut -- Tues./4:00.'   You gaze down the aisle way in the direction of where you last saw the groom talking to the horse.  For a second or two, you actually consider asking her about...instead you change the shoeing board and write:  Buddy and Benjamin meet vet at Pizza Hut -- Tues/4:00.  Smiling, you head for your truck.   



The trouble with 'smart' horses -- conclusion.

Trygve [image: ajuell]
Fastest horse in the world one Saturday

Trygve:

Part III

Somehow I escaped the sale's grounds, though I believe I was chased for some miles by at least two bloodstock agents from California.  I finally lost them on the Bellevue connector where the new Highway 520 abruptly ends -- seems they ran out of money part way to Redmond.  You can always tell when things are going badly when they build a three-lane bridge on a four-lane freeway.  But the bigger problem still remained:  The Mrs..  See, she had already been shopping for the new Cadillac El Dorado -- her ransom for agreeing to live on a farm -- the only decision remaining being the color.  Trygve's sale was intended to cushion that annual blow to the finances -- 1 Cadillac = one less unaffordable stud fee.  Farm finances and divorce court are all about one compromise or another.

The owner and I agreed to just lie.  The horse didn't seem to care -- he was just happy to be home again.  We said that Trygve fell down and wrecked his knee.  Actually, I fell down and wrecked my knee running from that pack of angry bloodstock agents, but of course I didn't matter in somebody else's lie.  I then painted the colt's knee with all kinds of disgusting stuff in case the Mrs. hired a private detective to unravel our story.  The Mr. was forced to finance the El Dorado since our cash-flow had taken a turn for the worse. No, we never got caught but since all the conspirators are still alive, there's still a possibility of doing a stint in purgatory with the Cadillac dealer.

So Trygve went on that fall to get broke with the rest of the tribe.  Pretty sure he fractured a couple of rider's collarbones in the process since he still suffered from chronic boredom.  He didn't like just galloping in one direction every morning so every once in a while he'd just reverse the field so to speak. That normally made things pretty exciting for everybody -- including the stewards, who suggested on a few occasions that the horse might enjoy racing in Europe.  And sadly, that assessment was pretty close to the truth.  The colt's world had become a mundane, repetitive routine...life on a carousel, and he had begun to shut it out... to quietly sulk. 


He didn't race at two, though he attracted a lot of attention just the same.  He was fast; damn fast, but erratic.  He seemed physically mature, but like a lot of 2-year olds that perception could be a deceptive conclusion, and with his kind of speed it was decided to hold him back.  And Longacres had a reputation for producing some pretty fast fractions on its own, which is not always conducive to keeping a horse sound...or alive.  But over the following winter, a couple things happened.  One day at the feed store I spotted a pick-up truck loaded to the roof, pulling a horse trailer equally stuffed with junk and one old pony horse.  It had Maryland plates on it.  Inside, I ran into the owner's of this Dust Bowl era menagerie and introduced myself.  The two refugees turned out to be Larry and Sharon Ross, a pair that would write their own story in northwest racing over the ensuing decade.  But for now, they were new in town, broke and ambitious for a new start.  They wanted to train on a different coast and perhaps most importantly, they wanted to train their way.  We got them set up with work on one of the breeding farms in the area while Larry began the arduous task of attracting clients, horses and perhaps the most difficult for new trainers, convincing a skeptical racing secretary that they deserved stalls at the track.  Stall assignment was a make or break proposition for a trainer.       


Trygve went back to the track his 3-year old year.  In the interim I had spent a lot of time with Larry and Sharon -- we had become good friends.  They had gotten a couple of stalls at the track and attracted a few clients.  They trained very differently, constantly altering routines with their horses and rotating them on and off the track.  They looked at each horse as an individual and adjusted their routine to fit that horse, unlike most trainers who took the cookie-cutter approach and made the horse conform to the 'system.'  Gallop 4, walk 1, gallop 2, breeze on the 7th...ad naseum.  And gee, to every body's amazement (resentment perhaps), the pair had immediate success.  And in the background was this farm manager, who knew this really talented horse who really needed...well, you get it.


Loyalty is an admirable trait.  Sometimes a little too admirable.  I lobbied hard for a change in trainers.  I honestly believe in the notion of different strokes for...and perhaps the idea that you are either part of the solution or part of the problem.  That happens in all facets of life and as unpleasant or perhaps as wounding it might appear to the ego, stepping aside for the bigger picture is not an admission of failure, but rather a salutation to the greater possibilities for the game.  But I suppose that can be a hard decision when you are the closest to the flame.  I had a little distance, a lot less at stake and perhaps that was the difference between blind admiration and the kind of clarity needed to make that kind of a call.  It didn't happen.


Sometime that spring Trygve was also adopted by a stray puppy who had decided to live in his stall.  It was a good match, as the colt trained exceptionally well for a couple of months, winning two allowance races and gaining the reputation as one two 'speed' horses on the track.  The two would meet a month later, the same year that Mt. St. Helens blew its top.  It was one of those races where two horses hook up about a 1/4 mile out of the gate and the rest of the field might as well go home.  When it was over, Trygve had won the duel -- the timer's clock showed 107.2, though there was some debate that he had equaled the world mark of 107.1.  Either way, it was about the fastest six panels anybody had witnessed in quite some time.


The next week, Trygve's puppy was killed in a hot-walker accident.  It was decided that he didn't need a dog.  He returned to his erratic ways on the track and those long periods of simply staring out into space.  The decision was made to geld him, assuming that might reduce his sulking.  It didn't.  Finally he began running for a price and was eventually claimed, fracturing a knee somewhere in California.  He was given to his groom, an older black man who had a small ranch of his own.  He used his savings to have the colt's knee fixed as best it could be repaired, and from what I heard would ride him  around in the evenings and introduce him to the neighbors.  Normally around dinner time.

      



The trouble with 'smart' horses...round 2

 

Trygve -- Part II

As we all know in the Thoroughbred business, sales preparation is about turning sows-ears into silk purses.  Trouble is, when you already have a silk-purse, you're going to be waging an uphill battle.  Yeah uphill.  See, farm managers are simply the concierge in somebody else's hotel and the first person to fall in love with this remarkable horse already owned him.  And believe me, farm managers are all too familiar with the drill.  It begins with an off-hand remark:  "Damn he is well-built.  And look at those nice flat knees!  What'd ya suppose he'll bring?"  This is where I scratch my head and seek out the best possible response:  "Grief if you don't sell him!"

No matter.  The die was cast.  As the two of us (The horse and I -- the other one was hopeless), progressed in our odd relationship, I began to notice how smart this horse really was -- but not in the sense one might think.  See, apparently we both had a case ADHD.  No, I'm not kidding.  I already had decided that cribbers and weavers were smarter than most horses, primarily because science has proven that it takes a degree of skill to develop a bad habit.  Just ask a drunk.  It takes skill and cunning to drink yourself to death without actually dying.  And in case you're wondering, I can testify on the accuracy of the research.



Trygve -- One of my favorites. [image: ajuell]

Now even though this yearling was smarter than most, he didn't develop those kind of habits. Instead, he exhibited a strong need for surprises, something my own teachers had expressed, only not in those same words.  "Fails to pay attention.  Stares out the window too much."  Hell, they were building Interstate 5 at the time which was a lot more interesting than Columbus wandering around the damn Atlantic Ocean.  But keeping a yearling interested in day-to-day life isn't as easy as it may sound.  Sale's yearlings are normally kept up by themselves (so they don't get kicked, bit or chewed on), only turned out at night (to prevent sun-fade or bug bites), and if they are a colt...well, you've got those puberty issues and you are not going to geld somebody else's superstar, even if the idea is awfully appealing.  So that just leaves you as a sort of equine social director.  And since most horses don't speak English, play chess or watch TV, some creativity might be in order.  So every day he lived in a different stall, wore a different halter, had different oats for dinner (rolled, whole, crimped -- most days with a little molasses and cider vinegar), traded carrots for bananas with an occasional Guinness thrown-in (carrots are actually an acquired taste, as opposed to beer which seems to just occur naturally), and every day I'd wear a different hat.  Most evenings I'd take him on a walk to meet different neighbors.  Not sure that was always appreciated, especially since we'd show up around dinner time.

It finally came time for the long-awaited Select Yearling Sale held at the new pavilion adjacent to Longacres race track.  My new friend Trygve and I seemed to get a lot more attention than we planned.  Everybody wanted to stop by and say 'howdy,' often spending more time with the horse than me.  I became a little suspect over their cordiality, but figured that was how it probably went at a sale.  One fellow in particular came around a little more often than I needed, particularly since we had already met on numerous occasions -- the boss.  Most times he visited, he was a little red-faced and sweaty, spoke nervously and kept looking over his shoulder like somebody was following him.  Somebody was it seemed.  A large Italian guy.  No, not the mob.  He was the man who owned that San Francisco treat, not to mention more than a few racehorses, most of whose names ended in a variation on the word:  Roni.  And my boss, well, he was on the brink of some kind of nervous condition.  All Trygve and I could do was....watch.

The morning of the sale, the two men collided in front of Trygve's stall.  At first, the conversation seemed friendly...and like most, 80% bullshit on the weather.  Then quite suddenly it became a little ominous.  The Italian gentleman sidled up to my boss and said matter of factly, "I'm gonna buy that colt and name him Kiss My Roni!"  Well, if anybody has ever worked on a bomb squad and cut the wrong wire, this was one of those moments.  The boss went from red to plum purple, mumbled something in Norwegian and headed for the sales office.  Over his shoulder, he yelled back at me, "Load him!"  Of course I just shrugged since I was a little busy with a rather predatory looking group of bloodstock agents.  Those boys get a little upset when you piss all over their commission.  I pulled down Trygve's sale sign and shut the top door of his stall -- then went looking for a double Gin & tonic and a disguise.

Yeah, the boss pulled the horse out of the sale.  The sale's committee said something like, "You can't do that!"  The boss said, "Watch me!"  I said, "I don't care what size the sweatshirt is, just make sure it has a hood!" 

Tomorrow: Part III



The trouble with 'smart' horses...

Trygve -- One of my favorites [image: ajuell]
6 Panels in 107.2

Trygve

Part I

I think everybody who has worked with horses has a favorite.  If you're like me and work with thousands of horses over many decades, you probably have quite a few.  Especially if you hold horses in higher regard than most people.  No, that's not quite as severe a statement as you might think.  See, we all have 'circumstances' in our lives that ultimately cement the foundation of our viewpoint -- good or bad.  Most of these are not of our own choice necessarily, but rather the result of what we can derive from the environment around us.  And if we're quite young, perhaps unskilled in the nuances of human behavior, we may draw the wrong conclusions.  Hardly matters.  We still must draw some conclusion from our experiences.  Survival alone demands that much.  But sadly, that search very  often consumes its own collection of extremely priceless years and in the interim, we could sure use a friend or two.  And some horses just naturally step up to the plate, especially when horse and human discover a common bond:  we were both a couple of outliers. 

Trygve was part of a 3-1 package that the farm purchased from a Kentucky breeder in the late 1970's.  He was sired by Groton and arrived at our farm still on his dam, a Bupers mare that had never raced herself.  She was also carrying a foal by *The Axe II and both ended up half-brothers to a suddenly rising star:  Shadycroft Lady.  Good for us, you could say.

The mother was an odd sort though.  Not particularly fond of humans, though not in the sense of being fearful -- perhaps like myself, suspicious of those intentions that weren't always obvious to a bystander.  And as mothers sometimes do, she shared this skill with her offspring.  Farm managers always appreciate that sort of parental guidance.  So Trygve, unnamed at that stage of his life, became one of my problem children.  And not because he was recalcitrant, naturally stubborn or just a knot head, but because he was smart.  As a rule, trainers don't appreciate 'smart' in a horse.  They figure that for $100 a day or more, one genius in the barn is more than sufficient.  But of course, the racetrack was still two-years off in a future that is always muddy at best.

With the success of Shadycroft Lady, a whole new scenario had opened up.  After a good deal of thought, consternation and downright angst, it was decided that business logic should prevail and the colt would be sold at the WTBA Select Yearling Sale.  I personally disagreed with that decision, though I both understood the reasoning as well as the financial burdens that face most small breeding farms.  By the time Trygve was a year old, he already looked the part and more...much more.  This was clearly substantiated when the inspection scores were revealed for that year's sale.  He was the only yearling in the history of the sale's venue to receive a 10.  That made me nervous and the owner of the farm insane -- well, a little anyway.  Both of us.  It was obvious that he would top the sale and quite likely set a new standard.  Interest was being expressed as far away as California and Kentucky -- agents.  Not the kind of folks who drool over a pretty face and straight legs.  This colt had speed and maturity written all over him.  And the looks.  He shined like black gold -- ultimately to my everlasting chagrin.  You see, the Gods of hubris decided to get playful.

Tomorrow:  Just how playful?

Taking the Girl Out -- Somewhere 'Nice'

8th-Grade French Lessons

Somewhere around the third date, just about every guy (who wants a fourth date), decides to up the ante and take the girl somewhere nice.  Now, you need to keep this in some sort of perspective.  We're talking about farmers here -- people who get sweaty palms over a world's record pumpkin, actually read the fine print on a bag of fertilizer, or have at one time traveled all the way to Wisconsin just to see the 'National Museum of Manure Spreaders.'  Really, I'm not kidding here.  It's just outside Racine, next to the old Massey-Ferguson factory.

This is normally the point where a degree of sophistication runs afoul of farm fashion, but you have already discovered that the girl has nice legs, actually shaves them occasionally and you're pretty sure that the pencil you found in your truck (Blue Lagoon), has something to do with make up.  So you're optimistic that an attractive woman is hiding somewhere under the ski hat, goose-down vest and rubber boots, just waiting to make some waiter envy your incredible good fortune.  But it will never happen at the corner Burger King.  So...you decide to take your remedial 8th Grade French lessons (failing to remember that confidence in a foreign language combined with a D+ grade)...well, finesse and common sense are wasted on the young anyway.  But still, you book a table for two at Le Foo Foo Marseilles because the girl has promised to wear a dress if you agree to wear a tie.  No, you don't know how to tie one, but the bartender up the street probably does, though he's less than impressed with your choice:  lavender.  With a blue shirt.  Grey pants...damn.  Where's two black socks when you really need them? 

So you press on hoping for dim lighting...and she does wear glasses sometimes and one of your friends once said that 'Europeans dress funny anyway.'  Good, you'll fit the theme perfectly.  Avant-garde is not for the weak of heart they say, and apparently a fine line exists between 'cutting edge' and what the Salvation Army sells for half-price.  And the restaurant evidently knows that 'intimacy' is on your mind.  The maitre d' takes you to a quiet, candlelit table next to the men's room.  He smiles -- too much.  The waiter suppresses a snicker, but you press on.  Whew!  The menu has English sub-titles and you know what the hell escargot means.  Same slimy bastards that overrun the lettuce patch every spring.  She smiles and decides on the fish.  You frown and look at the price.  That was a $28 fish.  Anything made of a cow was $32, sheep came in at $36.  Then the grinning fool hands you a wine list.  The girl in the dress casually says, "Oh, you order something."  You hear the waiter say something like Chateau Margaux and $56 in the same sentence.  You suddenly have a flashback to your W-2 form -- the part about your yearly salary.  You wonder if the place has a back door.

Finally, the meal is over.  You had settled on the cow, figuring the extra money saved could go for bail.  You're wondering seriously about your credit card limit.  The girl's had three glasses of wine -- that's good, she'll probably miss the part when they handcuff you.  God, the waiter's back and he's holding the bill...and smiling again.  Little does he know, but his tip is going to have something to do with Wednesday's fourth race.  He asks, "Anything else, monsieur?"  You're thinking, "Ah hell, why not?"  So, fortified by the other three glasses of wine, you take one last stab at impressing your future cellmate and order in French -- 8th grade French:                   



The coffee is the best you've ever had.  Then you remember that quaint custom at the local penitentiary  -- the one about last meals.  You're resigned to the inevitable and further stalling seems pointless.  You reach for your wallet while you carefully study the bill.  You're thinking it's good for at least 30-days in the slammer when you feel the girl touch your hand.  Her eyes look a little blurry, her speech slightly askew.  "I'm getting this.  I just wanted to see you wear a tie.  It was worth it."

One Other Thing --

The rumor about camels (Bactrian or otherwise), spitting on people is not quite accurate.  Actually, they are more inclined to projectile vomiting.  I have it on good authority (and photographic evidence), that they can telegraph undigested flotsam about 8 feet.