Page Two of Musing on the Triple Crown
Racing exploits the most fragile of domestic animals, already prone to ravages of physical abuse even by the well-intentioned. They require care in the broadest sense if they are to live good lives. They bear pain without the sounds we notice from dogs and cats, or even cage birds. Injuries are common and some easily overlooked until they become laming or worse. An injured racehorse may not be worth the correct and optimal healing if the owner deems it too costly. A racehorse is bred and conditioned to win races. If it doesn't, it stops receiving the expenditure of money and attention it would otherwise enjoy.
We owned a lovely pleasure horse that had spent an unknown number of years on local tracks. Because he was grey, the scars that lined his cannon bones on all four legs like a sapsucker's holes on a maple trunk showed up clearly. He had been repeatedly subjected to "pin firing." This is a method of tightening overworked tendons. Even today, when it is customary to use some anesthesia, imagine cauterizing those already painful tendons. Every application leaves a permanent scar. The treatment involves extreme care to be sure the animal is not rendered useless by applying the heat in the wrong place. Think of a red-hot cautery applied to your sore shin splint.
The most important races are run by the youngest animals. Purses are larger for colts and fillies than for older animals. A Thoroughbred that is three years old is only about fifty percent physically mature, with bones hardened and musculature fully developed. No wonder so many born to it, bought for it, trained for it, never get to the track at all. The strains of training put them out of the running in a few months. The lucky ones may end up as pleasure horses in knowledgeable homes.
When you watch the parade and see the jockeys being given expert legs up so they fly above their mounts and settle on the tiny saddles the way a bird lights on a bough, it is not possible to ignore the tension and excitement. The stories of the "heart" of Thoroughbreds are not exaggerated; they keep running with blood pouring from their nostrils from a hemorrhage, with broken bones; they do drop at the finish line, never to rise, let alone run, again. Ruffian and Barbaro are known; dozens more are not.
Our lovely little mare rested her muzzle on my husband's shoulder every night when he went out before bed to make sure the water buckets were full. I think of our handsome big gelding who was so intrigued by the tree we planted in the middle of the pasture that he pulled it up and trotted triumphantly around the field with it between his teeth, brandishing it like a flag. I think of the hours with the young animals ahead of me as I walked behind them with a training whip (so as to touch them from a distance) and twenty yards of clothesline running to the bits in their mouths to teach them to move in straight lines. I remember their personalities, as distinct as those of our dogs and cats. I remember our ageing racehorse who lowered his head whenever our four-year-old daughter entered his stall so she could stroke his nose. Except for the last mentioned, our horses were pets. He became one.
Whether they were expected to earn their keep or not, all animals deserve to have their human masters make at least an attempt to care for them with an understanding of their needs. Horses are more needy than cats or dogs because they can never be left to "fend for themselves." Their fate is sealed by their breed and the realities of modern civilization that has little space for animals no longer utilitarian. They are even viewed (with justification) as serious nuisances in the West and some Atlantic barrier islands where they have managed to become successfully feral.
Once we had trained our two for riding, we savored the glory of New England autumns experienced from the back of one of our oversized pets. Half frozen toes of a ride in January were worth every nose-dripping moment; digging our way through hip-deep snow to get to the barn; the June evening our mare gave birth, and our daughter sat in the straw with the baby while the mare nuzzled them both; watching from the kitchen window when spring high spirits sent them tearing around the field with tails and heads in the air and clods flying from their hooves, all part of the unique appeal of perhaps the prettiest of God’s creations.
So when the trumpet sounds the call to the post at one of the handsomely landscaped racetracks, I have mixed feelings. I know I am about to witness horses at their most attractive — showing off their beauty, athleticism, dedication to the task set for them, and I realize I must quell my fears for them if I am to watch.
My friend didn't have a party for the Preakness or plans to have one for the Belmont, but she and plenty of other people, including those who enjoy a gamble, will be watching. Probably I won't. A horse is a horse, of course, but really it is a lot more than a racing machine — at least to me.
©2010 Joan L. Cannon for SeniorWomen.com
