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It was an idyllic time, that year between finding out we could keep Baby and his going off to train. Like a gigantic, energetic dog, he would play with empty cardboard boxes in the pasture, sticking his hoof into one, flinging it into the air with his leg, then chasing it.
He experienced his first snowfall, rolling in it out of glee and curiosity. To see such a huge animal go down on the ground and roll from side to side, then get up, shake, and buck and run off—nothing beats watching that playfulness. To this day, it’s not an event that we take for granted. If John sees one of the horses rolling happily in the pasture he’ll call out, “Sissy’s rolling” or “One of them is at it.” It’s too adorable not to watch.
Of course, whenever a horse goes down on its side, there’s reason for concern. While people have twenty-six feet of intestine, horses have eighty to ninety feet of gastrointestinal tubing that food must pass through, sometimes turning sharp corners that narrow to no more than an inch and a half wide. If everything doesn’t go exactly right, a horse can end up with colic—a bowel obstruction or a toxic buildup of gas that unless treated quickly enough can kill him. A horse with colic will drop to the earth and start to roll in an effort to get rid of the pain. So you need to watch closely. Is the horse nipping at its side to try to extinguish horrific cramping, then pawing the ground after it stands up and perhaps walking in a tight circle, or is it getting on its feet again and shaking from head to tail out of pure joy? Ninety percent of the time it’s the latter, but the other 10 percent is real cause for worry.
Not only was Baby such a happy horse, out in the pasture making his own version of snow angels, he was also an unusually calm one, especially for a Thoroughbred. They tend to be high-strung, twitchy. But Baby was so relaxed that when we had the barn enlarged to be able to accommodate not just Baby but also Pat’s next foal, workers would walk across the roof, tarp slapping against the wind, tools pounding above him, and he would lie down in the straw in his stall and take a nap. On a warm day, he would come over to me to swat a fly off his rump or neck, where a horse can’t reach. I was even able to enjoy his calm company in the car, courtesy of Rebecca. She made a tape for me of Baby chewing on hay, and I would pop in the tape of that rhythmic, mesmerizing munching to soothe myself while driving home after an intense day of taking depositions.
Things got even better when, in late May of 1992, Pat gave birth again, just a year and a few weeks after Baby was born. We were all experienced midwives now. This time I was ready with a knife in my foaling kit in case the sac needed to be cut open—but this foal’s delivery went perfectly. She was a beautiful reddish bay, and we named her Scarlett Secretary. (Her sire, Secretariat’s son, was called Treasury Secretary.) On her head, right above her eyes, was a beautiful white star, and she had white “socks” with black polka dots on two of her feet.
Scarlett, Secretariat’s granddaughter, just after her birth. I could hardly believe I was touching a piece of history.
Unlike Baby, who came out short and stocky with little ripples of fat along his rump, Scarlett had legs that went on forever—more typical of a Thoroughbred. I have hilarious video of her taking her first steps, looking down as if thinking, “Are these things supposed to work?”
Baby looked so forlorn at all the attention newborn Scarlett was receiving in her stall that I had to go over and comfort him. “We’re not neglecting you, Baby,” I whispered.
As soon as the leggy foal found her source of nourishment on Pat, I took the big wooden board on which I originally painted “It’s a filly” in pink for Baby on one side, then, when the mistake was found out, “It’s a colt” in blue on the other. I brought the sign to the road with the pink side facing out, and almost immediately, friends and family started coming by—with pink helium balloons, with carrots for Pat. Here we all were, touching a piece of Secretariat, a piece of what was probably the most famous horse in the world.
Baby, across the way in his own stall, looked so lonely. I went over and kissed him, breathed into his nose, feeling guilty that all the attention was going to the new foal. “We’re not neglecting you, Baby,” I whispered gently. I asked neighbors who brought carrots for Pat to please give some to Baby, to pet him.
Baby and Scarlett weren’t allowed to play with each other until Scarlett was several months old. A playful kick from Baby, now a seven-hundred-pound yearling, could have killed the young filly. But from the beginning, I let them smell noses over the fence, and they took to each other immediately.
Once Scarlett turned about four months, I let them in the pasture together, keeping a line on Pat at their first introductions so she wouldn’t become aggressive with Baby if she thought he was going to hurt her young foal. But she allowed her two children together without chasing Baby around, never doing more than perhaps pausing in her grazing and watching the two of them intently for a minute or two to gauge the intensity of their frolicking. After a while, you could tell that she enjoyed seeing her babies play well together. Her pride wasn’t surprising. Even a decade after being separated, a mare put in with her progeny will recognize them.
Only a month or so later, in the fall of 1992, it was time for Baby to go to training. Despite my excitement at the prospect of his racing, I continued to have mixed feelings, not just because he wasn’t going to be out my back window anymore but also because I was now going to have to lose Pat. Scarlett was essentially weaned, so it was time for Pat to go back to Don Shouse. This killed me. We had come to adore this gentle broodmare who had now been living with us for eighteen months. She loved to be groomed. She had particular spots where she enjoyed being scratched—under her mane, behind her ears, in the crevice under her chin between her two jaw bones. And she was such a proud mother. How was I going to be able to give her up? It had actually been nagging at me for a year, since I learned that we were going to get to keep Baby and Pat was pregnant with Scarlett. I was ready to plead for her, prepared to beg Don to let her stay with us while she went through any other pregnancies he decided on, even if we didn’t get to keep the foals.
As with Baby, I didn’t call Don, because I didn’t want to risk speeding up the process of Pat leaving. When Don finally phoned me, he came right to the point. “I told my wife that we’re not going to get that mare away from Jo Anne unless I hold a gun to her head,” he said to me. “On top of that, my health isn’t improving,” he added. “I’ll give Pat to you with her Jockey Club papers.”
I was overjoyed. The mother of our children would be staying with us permanently, and now our family was complete.
I met with Don’s wife to receive the papers as soon as possible because I didn’t want to give him time to change his mind. She handed Pat’s Jockey Club papers to me at an exit off the expressway, halfway between our two houses.
Now, with a little less trepidation as the business of Pat’s future was settled, I could let Baby go to his trainer. The plan was for him to board at a training facility for two months, after which he would come home for the winter and then go to train at the track in the spring. The training facility was only a half-hour drive from my house. I would go to see Baby every single day, groom him, bring him treats, be with him. Still, it was hard, like letting your child go off to kindergarten. You want them to do well. You know they have to grow up. But it would never again be the same. Baby was now going to be under someone else’s influence. Except for the time Beauty went to be bred, none of our horses had ever left our little farm.
Baby and me shortly before he went off to train.
Baby, unlike me, was not at all nervous. He walked right out to the trainer’s truck, took a look at it, and didn’t freeze or try to bolt. He stood still for a moment, allowing me to rub his neck by his mane, after which he was led onto the trailer.
That night was a restless one, and the next day, when I went out to the training farm’s stables, I was not happy with what I saw.
CHAPTER THREE
The barn in which the trainer housed Baby was fancier than mine, with s
liding doors and cement walkways. But Baby couldn’t hang his head out of his stall because the doors had bars on the top that went almost all the way to the ceiling, like a jail. So he wasn’t able to see the comings and goings of the other horses or, literally, get much of a whiff of any of the action. He couldn’t poke his head right or left over into the next stall, either. There were no distractions to buoy his spirits or keep his mind occupied in the absence of his family.
I understood the reason for the barn’s set-up. This was a huge commercial facility, with horses making their way in and out all the time. And owners don’t want their animals to pick up any communicable diseases. Horses do a lot of sniffing in each other’s noses, so it’s particularly easy for them to end up with another horse’s respiratory condition.
The boarding facility also did not want to be responsible for any horse getting hurt. Sometimes horses who are strangers to each other can become dangerously aggressive if they don’t get a good feeling. One might take a swipe at a horse in a stall as it is being led to its own.
It was so different from the situation at home. There, where we built the stalls ourselves with the horses’ needs in mind, every wall in each stall except the one at the back went only half way up, about as high as a person’s armpits. It was sufficient for keeping a more dominant horse from getting into another stall to bully one lower on the totem pole, yet it let each horse see all the others and communicate with them. Thus, at night, when Baby, Pat, Scarlett, Beauty, and Pumpkin were all in the barn, they were still a herd, taking comfort in each other’s presence. But Pumpkin, for instance, wouldn’t have to worry that Beauty would come and take her food. It made her feel safe rather than cooped up. Each horse could also walk over to the side of its stall and groom the neck of the horse next to it. Baby and Scarlett’s stalls were together, and the two of them would groom each other shoulder to shoulder. They also liked to play, nipping at each other before bedtime in something reminiscent of a pillow fight.
I could feed each horse what it needed, too. At the boarding facility, a kind of institutionalized setting, all the horses were given the same amount of food. But just like people, horses are different. Some are easy keepers, needing much less food to maintain their weight, while some have high metabolisms, requiring more hay, more grain, even a supplement.
At home, my horses could graze to their hearts’ content out in the pasture all day, and then at night, I could give each one just the right amount of grain and hay to accommodate their body styles. Fortunately, while most Thoroughbreds have high metabolisms and require more food than the average horse, Baby’s metabolism hovered around the middle ground, so the amount of food they gave him at the facility was enough.
But there was no grazing for him. It soon became clear that even though horses naturally graze for a good sixteen hours daily, Baby was being kept in that stall almost all day except for the hour or so when he was being trained to walk, trot, and canter in a dusty indoor arena. He was not allowed out in the pasture with the other horses, instead getting only a little free time outdoors in a tight round pen with dirt but no grass to munch. He couldn’t even see the other horses from there, or let out a whinny to greet them.
“Why,” I asked his trainer, a tall, thick man in his late twenties named Lyle Coburn, “can’t he ever be turned out?”
“Because he’s a stallion,” Coburn answered me. The owners of the farm were afraid Baby would try to mount females.
I understood the rule that stallions couldn’t be turned out with mares, but at the same time, I knew horses that haven’t been gelded don’t tend to start showing signs of testosterone until they’re about two years old. Baby, at barely one and a half, certainly hadn’t been showing any. He was still acting like a young weanling, not studdish. I never had concerns about his being together with Beauty in the pasture. Even with Scarlett, all he wanted to do was play. I thought at the very least, since this was such a large farm, he could be put into a pasture by himself or with other young horses not yet exhibiting signs of sexual maturity.
Baby looked so forlorn. I felt like I had taken my young child from his neighborhood, away from all his friends, and plopped him into a different neighborhood where all the other children were strangers and said, “Okay, you’re not allowed out of the yard. You can’t play with or even say ‘Hi’ to the other children.”
“Baby!” I’d call out every day when I came to see him. I’d try to brighten his spirits and my own by bringing him treats—cut-up carrots and apples. Some trainers tell you not to feed horses treats, especially horses who have not been gelded, because it makes them nippy. But I’ve always fed my horses treats, and I’ve never had a nippy one. Yes, they always search my pockets for more, but when the treats are finished, all I ever have to do is hold up my palms and say, “All gone.” And they quit searching. A horse can be taught by degrees to walk, trot, and canter solely by voice command. So why wouldn’t a horse understand “All gone”?
Baby would return my “hello” with a hearty “Hooonkk!” But he always looked so pitiful as I walked down the barn aisle toward him and his nose showed through the bars. He couldn’t get his nose out past his eyes, so he wasn’t able to see me until I came close, although I’d glimpse his nostrils go in and his mouth open as he whinnied back to me. The sight of him like that made me miserable.
Sometimes I would take one of the brushes from home that I used to groom Pat or Scarlett and let him smell it before I used it on him. I was trying to let him know, you’re not alone, Baby. Your mother and sister are waiting for you. Then I’d bring it home and let Pat and Scarlett sniff. The three of them had a communication this way; it was my system for letting them know they were still all together. And because the scent of Baby was always still fresh on the brush, it was like showing Pat and Scarlett a picture of Baby I had taken that very day.
Leaving Baby each morning before I headed for my court reporting duties was the hardest. The look on his face was so plainly puzzled. Normally his demeanor was alert and perky. I could see he expected me to take him away from there, back to the field where he could run with his herd. Sometimes I’d get three or four stalls from his, and he’d whinny or nicker. “You’re not leaving, are you? I’m still here. You’re walking out without me.” I’d go back two or three times, brush him some more, talk to him some more. “Big things are going to come, Baby,” I’d tell him. “You’re not going to be here very long.” Finally I’d have to force myself all the way back down the aisle and out the barn door. I’d turn around, take one last look back and see that nose sticking out. He couldn’t see me, but he was still trying to get that last sense of me.
Often I thought I should press harder that Baby needed some pasture time, some fresh air and ability to cavort with other horses. But I didn’t want to make waves—I was new to this—and I took comfort in the fact that it was only going to be for a couple of months before he came home for the winter.
And while I wasn’t happy about what I thought of as Baby’s prison, I did like that Coburn was soft-spoken and patient, teaching Baby very slowly. His manner was methodical, not quick and jerky. Still, it bothered me that Baby bolted whenever he heard the whip behind him. I knew the long lunge whip was part of training and that he’d never be struck with it. And I comforted myself with the fact that he’d figure that out soon enough. But I was very much looking forward to December, when he’d be back with me.
The time couldn’t have passed quickly enough. One night, around 10:30, a feeling grew in me that something was not right. I had left my horses in the barn at last check a half hour earlier, and I was ready to go to sleep with their rhythmic munch, munch, munching in my head. But I couldn’t relax. Maybe one of the horses has colic, I thought, and I missed it. That’s one of the reasons last check is so important. If there’s colic at bedtime, it could become a surgery case by morning if you don’t intervene.
Baby in his “prison” at his first training facility.
I’m not a believer in
psychic ability—it’s completely out of character for me—but I climbed out of bed, ran down to the barn, and flipped on the lights. The horses all started blinking—what’s going on?
I saw manure in all the stalls—nobody had a blockage. Everybody was still munching or just standing there peacefully. I thought, gee, this is really strange. What’s got into me?
Then I had a flash. Oh my God, it’s Baby. Maybe he’s colicking. Maybe he scratched his eye on something rough. Maybe there’s a fire in the barn. My mind was racing. I don’t believe in premonitions, but how was I going to handle this? If I went out there and started poking around with a flashlight, the farm owners were going to call the police. It was a half hour away. Should I go? Shouldn’t I go?
Because I never had that type of feeling before in my life, I went. It was about 11:30 by the time I arrived.
Baby was fine—surprised to see me, but fine. I gave him some treats, followed by an extra flake of hay just to make sure he had an appetite and no colic, and he broke right into it.
Then up and down the stalls the other horses started whinnying because they thought it must be feeding time. Of course I couldn’t leave them like that, so I spent some time putting a flake of hay into each one’s stall. I felt foolish that I had driven all that way—and glad no one woke, even though I had the flashlight shining—but what did it cost me to put my mind at rest? I would have done anything for Baby.
Finally, it was December and time for him to come home. It was part of the traditional route for a Thoroughbred. You take them for training in the fall after their first birthday, when they’re still juveniles but no longer babies, then return them to your own pasture for three or four months, then bring them back to the trainer in the spring to start serious training at the track.