DOWN FOR THE COUNT

Herod Boy, Me and My Dad

          A comment I received on the last post I wrote, about a pirate named One-Eye, kind of stirred these old bones, put a bit of a hop in my step because although the blog gets quite a few hits, I'm never really certain anyone reads it. Lately, because of my not so great physical condition, even my vision giving me a problem and managing to tire myself out while lying in a prone position watching Netflix programs, it gives me great pleasure to let my imagination roam as freely as a mustang running across the plains, the thunder of his hooves echoing under a purple sky. And, speaking of horses, just pour yourself a hot cup of coffee or tea or maybe something with more of a kick (might want to have a few tissues handy too) just in case this tale smacks you in the heart while you're sitting in your comfy chair and reading about Herod Boy (nothing to do with Herod the Great).

          It's summer time in Vancouver, BC a long time ago, my voice has hardly changed and I've barely taken up shaving; still leaning more towards a boy than a man. The evening is warm, the sun's last rays still hitting the mountains rearing up over the north shore like stallions on parade and I'm at Exhibition Park waiting for the starting-gate bell to ring. It's the eighth and final race of the day and a hush has fallen like the first snowfall of winter over the crowd of racehorse-bettors as they clutch their tickets, all eyes on the gate. Suddenly the bell shrills, the gates burst open and Jack Short loudly announces, "And they're off...!", above the din of wildly shouting crowd cheering their horses on.

          I don't have any money on Herod Boy but I'm just as excited if not more excited than anyone who has placed a bet on this fine gelding. My eyes are not on the horses in the lead, hugging the rail as close as a mom holding her first new born in her arms because I know he's not there, he's running further behind in the pack, the jockey almost standing up in the stirrups in order to tightly hold him in position. At this point, you might think this race is fixed but it's not the way Herod runs. He's not a front runner, he's one of those horses that looks like he's a loser at the beginning of the race up until he reaches the final turn heading into the homestretch. Then, and I can still see him to this day as the jockey settled down into the saddle, his ass level with his head and lets the reins loose. A few taps with the crop on Herod's ass end to let him know that running and running as fast as possible is the name of the game - the race is on! 

          There are ten horses in the race and Herod Boy was about in seventh position when he began his move, passing tiring horses and ones that were trying to keep up to his pounding hooves. Breaking into the homestretch, Herod Boy is running fifth and gaining with every stride to overtake the horses in front. The jockey is in tandem with Herod's every move, swiftly flowing together in a singular manner towards the finish wire. Rider and horse, horse and rider breaking loose from the tiring pack and on the heels of the front horses, Herod Boy is gaining with every stride. The crowd of bettors have gone berserk, leaping into the air and screaming their horse's names as Herod Boy and two other horses are vying for the lead neck and neck. Flecks of foam and sweat from their sweaty bodies are flying through the air when the horses reach the finish wire and Jack Short yells, "It's a photo finish! Don't throw away your tickets until the winner is announced!" I didn't have to wait to know which horse had won because I had been standing almost directly even with the finish wire to see that Herod Boy was half a head in front of the second horse. 

          I don't really know if a racehorse knows when they win a race or if they even care but I do know that after they've been running their hearts out, it takes a while to cool them out and that was my job. After the race, my dad and I washed Herod Boy off with soapy hot water, then threw a horse blanket over his body before I started walking him round and round the barn, allowing him sips of water each time we came to his pail. When a horse wins a race, its urine has to be tested for drugs and so it was with Herod. Sometimes it takes hours for a horse to take a piss, but not Herod, as soon as the empty little bottle was put in place under his lengthy ding-dong, he filled it to the brim.

          Everything seemed very normal as I cooled out Herod Boy, the nearby horses in the stalls could be heard munching on hay or  be seen simply standing with their heads out of the doors. It was peaceful as usual and my dad was smiling each time we came by, I knew he needed the purse money. And that was the thing about Herod Boy, he almost always brought home a paycheck, seldom did he finish less than third place; he was kinda what you might call a bread and butter horse. 

          But on this particular night...something was clearly wrong with Herod Boy because as I walked him, he began bloating up, farting loudly and constantly trying to lay down. I didn't know what was wrong with him but I could see that my dad was clearly worried, especially when he said, "Keep him walking. Whatever you do, don't let him go down. I'm off to fetch the vet (track veterinarian)".

          It wasn't very long before my dad returned with the vet, who as I recall was a drunk and was probably drunk when he arrived. He told me to take Herod into his stall so he could take a look at him. Of course, as soon as I led Herod into his stall, he immediately tried to lay down and I had to keep jerking his head up to prevent him. 

          When the doc said, "He's just full of gas. Let him go." I looked at my dad questioningly because it didn't seem like a good idea to me. I don't think my dad liked the idea either but he reluctantly told me to do as the doc asked.

          I had barely taken the shank off Herod's halter, when he instantly dropped to his knees onto his side and then began rolling on the stall floor. He was desperately trying to get the gas out of his bloated belly but like a boxer from a deadly blow, down for the count, he never got up again. I remember going down on my knees in the sweet smelling yellow straw and stroking Herod's head until he took his last desperate breath. The doc's verdict was that Herod had been suffering from colic and that he most likely twisted his bowels when he was rolling around in the stall, which is why in my opinion that wonderful horse shouldn't have been allowed to roll. I would have walked that horse a hundred miles if I'd known it would have saved his life.

          It was late by the time my dad and I left the barn and headed to the parking lot. We were both silent, had hardly said a word since Herod died. When we reached the car, which was parked in front of a long log lying on the ground, my dad suddenly sat down on it and I could tell by his shuddering shoulders that he was quietly crying. With tears in my eyes, I joined him on that log and put my arm around him - it was the first time and the only time I ever saw my father cry. 

          My dad trained and loved horses until he died Christmas day in 1969. I lived in Lethbridge, AL at the time and he had phoned me Christmas eve, a conversation I don't recall, only know what it meant to me. I of course flew home and had to make, besides funeral arrangements, take care of the horses he was training for other people. It was the last time and saddest time I was at the racetrack...I'm feeling pretty sad now as I remember that day and don't really feel like ending this blog with the usual words, only know that they are bitter sweet...cheers, eh!