Tap Dancing in the Shed Row

Copyright © 2005 by Ronda Hutchinson.

Library of Congress Number:     2005906898

ISBN:    Hardcover   1-59926-274-6

Softcover   1-59926-273-8

ISBN   ebook   978-1-4691-1758-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Some places and incidents are real-life, but are used fictitiously in this book. The names and characters are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is either entirely coincidental or has been used with prior agreement.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is in memory of Ethel and Jimroe Angel, two beautiful people that shaped my life and heart.

Special thanks to Wilfrid R. Koponen, Ph.D., for his editorial assistance and professional expertise.

A big thanks to North Valley Equestrian Center in Albuquerque, NM and owner Melanie Omer for allowing me to photograph J.J. Dreamer, retired Thoroughbred racehorse, for the front cover. Also thanks to the wonderful girls that work hard at North Valley Equestrian Center and who show so much love to the horses:

Hannah Thompson

Sarah Rubin

Jenni Dragan

Amelia Linde

Maddy Quinlan

Special thanks to Janelle Quezada, my daughter, who drew the interior pictures and posed for the front cover with J.J. Dreamer.

Special thanks to Craig Furry, who made the pictures in this book come to life.

All my love to my husband, Mike

CHAPTER 1

Ah, a perfect day in the pristine world of the Thoroughbred. The bright sun shone through billowy clouds. The grass, dark green and rich with nutrients, was plentiful. Not one weed grew along the paddock fencing, five boards high, with not one out of place, mind you. In all stalls, white with fresh shavings for bedding, was not one single mess. Feed and water buckets were scrubbed clean and filled with pure water and only the best of grain. The shed row was raked perfectly even, awaiting the next day’s round of cooling down after exercise. The tack, hanging evenly on the wall, had been cleaned and oiled. It was midafternoon, and all of the day’s exercise, work, and commotion were over with here on Henry Bloomberg’s turf. The midday meal had been served to all the four-legged athletes, and now there was only relaxation to be had. One might think, How could anything go wrong in this faultless world? If only this were true! No, there was just one thing, or human, that kept one’s mind from winning desires, one despicable, pathetic, low-lying, good-for-nothing human.

His name was Charles Forger. His father had trained horses, as his father had done before that. Charles Forger truly believed that there was no one who could train a horse better than he, and no one dared to say otherwise. His word was the last word, and that was all there was to it. If anyone or anything got in the way of this horrible human, that someone, or something, was going to pay for it. You see, he carried around a large black stick and was very happy to use it in any way he saw fit. Usually, a large scowl and downturned lips were on the face of this creature; however, when that large black stick met with some substance, preferably flesh, the scowl disappeared, and happiness, although short-lived, would appear. It was a good thing that Charles Forger was a small man; if he were large, he could really hurt something the way he threw that stick around. No, he was just a small inconspicuous human who slumped and hunched over when he walked, mumbling to himself about how he should be in the big leagues, but there was always something messing it up for him.

Now was the time for revenge. The owner of the fine stables that Charles Forger now trained for, Henry Bloomberg, had plenty of money and expensive horses. The barn was full of a million dollars’ worth of horses. This cream of the crop received only the very best of everything from the time they were conceived. The best food, care, handling, grooming, exercise, and love were all these horses had known. Henry Bloomberg had gone to the best horse sale in the State of Kentucky to handpick these fine equines. They traveled to their new home with legs in bleached white bandages and heads in oiled leather halters, with bands of chamois to prevent chafing. This band of fine horseflesh was primed and ready to begin training to become the very best racehorses and proudly carry their owners’ colors. The owner had dreams of his horses’ boasting roses, black-eyed susans, and various other flowers around their necks in the winner’s circle in front of thousands of screaming fans. Yes, this was the dream.

However, Henry did not realize that someone was plotting against him: the manipulative Forger. For the last two years, Forger had been thinking and contemplating how he could get back for what Henry had done to him. Forger relived the incident day after day, gnashing his teeth, rubbing his stick, and pacing back and forth. He could not forget Preakness Day.

It had been a perfect Preakness Day, a sunny and warm Saturday in the middle of May at the beautiful Pimlico Racetrack in Baltimore, Maryland. The Preakness is a Grade I stakes race offering $1,000,000 in prize money to the fastest three-year-old Thoroughbreds in the world. Fourteen horses loaded up in the gates. The favorite was Forger’s horse, Borneo, at 7-5 betting odds. Henry’s horse, King’s Clan, was listed at 3-1 as the third choice, but had been running well and had a decent shot. Forger was looking to go all the way with his colt. Winning the famous Kentucky Derby just two weeks earlier at Churchill Downs, Forger planned to win the Preakness and go to Belmont Park for the Belmont Stakes, a grueling race over a mile and a half. He felt confident that he could win the Triple Crown-or all of these three races-with his colt. From there, people would be begging him to train their horses. The owner of Borneo, Millicent, an older lady, had plans of buying more horses with the winnings. If Borneo happened to win the Triple Crown, she planned on syndicating him to stud and reaping the profits from that, which would probably amount to another half million or so a year.

The bell rang, and the gates popped open. Borneo and King’s Clan surged to take the lead immediately. The jockeys let them run at ease with a slightly tight rein en route on the one-and-three-sixteenths-mile race. Head to head, they raced for one mile. The two horses were four lengths ahead of the nearest competitor. Borneo was on the rail, and King’s Clan was just outside of him. They were so close together that the jockeys’ legs looked to be rubbing against each other’s. The crowd of over 100,000 fixed their eyes on them so closely that no one saw the late-comer surging through the stretch, gaining with every stride. He wasn’t seen at the eighth pole or the sixteenth pole. In the last seventy yards, the announcer screamed, And here comes Storm Raider! He’s gaining, a length back, half a length, a neck, a nose, it’s a photo finish! The crowd went berserk. Who was that horse? It was a long shot at 45-1 odds. Three horses were nose-to-nose at the wire, but King’s Clan was deemed to be the winner, with long shot Storm Raider second, and third place going to Borneo. Only six inches separated the three horses.

Forger was furious. If King’s Clan had not pushed his horse against the rail for a solid mile, then his horse would have been able to push forward in the last sixteenth, and held off not only Bloomberg’s horse, but Storm Raider as well. Yes, King’s Clan had pushed his horse so much that his horse had no chance to open up and run his race as he could have. With narrowed eyes, Forger looked over at Bloomberg in the owner’s clubhouse in the stadium. Oh, it was like that, huh. Crowd my horse, and take away all his chances. Bloomberg was ecstatic. People shook his hand in congratulations. Bloomberg was so busy grabbing hands that he almost fell down the steps en route to the winner’s circle. Cameras flashed, and reporters stuck their microphones towards Bloomberg, asking him detailed questions about how he had trained the winner.

Forger was so busy watching Bloomberg that Forger didn’t notice Borneo’s owner, Millicent, surprisingly animated for a woman in her seventies, slapping him on the arm. She exclaimed, We got third! Not bad! He ran a tough race, don’t you think? This petite woman looked up at him from a large blue hat with a single black-eyed susan flower sticking out the side. She had owned horses all her life, and this horse was showing the best finishes of any of them to date.

Forger stared at her with blazing, red eyes. I am putting in a foul! Our horse was pushed against the rail for the entire race! We deserved to win!

Crinkling her nose, Millicent exclaimed, Oh, I don’t think so, Charles. They were close, but I don’t think there was any wrongdoing. Please don’t put in a foul claim!

Well, watch me! Forger walked with long strides towards the steward’s box which was located on the top floor of the clubhouse. Appalled, the owner watched with apprehension, as Forger seemed to shout at the stewards, who closely studied the tapes of the race. While the stewards were watching the tape, a blinking display on the tote board in the infield that carried the odds, money betted, and other information for the race patrons, displayed FOUL CLAIM. A hush came over the crowd, and for the two minutes that the tapes were reviewed, King’s Clan, Storm Raider, and Borneo paced back and forth on the track with the jockeys still on their backs, awaiting the outcome of the decision of the stewards. The ruling came: no wrongdoing had occurred, and the foul was disallowed.

This further infuriated Forger who walked back out to the track, where the horses were being unsaddled, and he bellowed, Crooks are running this track! I guess you have to buy yourself a win around here!

The crowd snickered, then laughed loudly at Forger, as King’s Clan was led into the winner’s circle, and his picture was taken with Bloomberg proudly standing beside his horse. A horseshoe-shaped wreath of black-eyed susans was placed around King’s Clan’s neck. Just before the picture was taken, Bloomberg looked over and felt a strand of sorrow for the poor Forger. Bloomberg hoped he could make it up to Forger someday.

Two years later, in July, that day came in the middle of a yearling sale in Kentucky at which Bloomberg had already bought some ten yearlings, when Forger wandered up to him. Forger asked Bloomberg, Who’s going to break these youngsters for you? I am in the market to help get yearlings ready for sales or the track. Let me know if you need someone. Forger looked nonchalant and calm.

Bloomberg was shocked at first. After all, Forger had thrown a fit at the Preakness, trying to take Bloomberg’s horse down in a foul claim. After that, Forger had disappeared from the racing world, as Millicent had taken all her horses from him and given them to another trainer. She was just too embarrassed by Forger’s actions. Well, Bloomberg had felt bad for Forger that day and wanted to make it right. Here was his chance. Well, I do need someone to break them and get them going for about six or seven months. Would you be interested?

Forger smiled in as sweet a smile as he could muster. Well, of course I would be interested. You got some nice yearlings, too. I would love to take them. Of course, Florida is the best place to break them, if you don’t mind me leasing a barn down there and training there. But I would love to have these horses. You really know how to pick good ones!

Bloomberg acknowledged his interest, and Forger had a contract written up for himself to train the horses until April 15 in Florida. Forger wanted to make sure that he was far enough away from Bloomberg in Kentucky to carry out his plan. Papers were signed, and Forger set off to Florida to look for a barn that would be called home to Bloomberg’s thirty purchases. Forger smiled all the way down to Florida, breaking out in laughter every now and then. Oh, he couldn’t wait to mess up, er, train Bloomberg’s fine horses that he had paid hard-earned money for.

Whistling down the middle of the barn in Florida, Forger carried around his can of hot tar and painted it on the horses’ legs. Painting with hard, long strokes up and down on the horses’ shins (the front of their legs), he cackled, knowing that in just two days’ time, the tar would blister the horse’s shins into a searing, inflamed mess. He had come into the stalls when the grooms he had hired were gone for the day and casually knocked the horses in their knees with his stick, smiling contently the next day when the knee was inflamed. He poked needles into the horse’s necks, pumping them up with hormones to make muscles grow so large that it would actually be a hindrance to the horse. He cackled through the day, and at night when he was finished. The horses watched his every move with wary eyes, especially the temperamental, wild-eyed ones. Whenever Forger came into a horse’s stall, the horse jumped to the back of the stall and cowered in fear. Each horse did that, except for one.

Only the fiendish and cantankerous bitch of a filly, Pepper Snout, was not intimidated by Forger. Pepper had a noticeable marking on her head: a white strip that went across her eyes and curled up to both of her ears, that made her look like as if she had horns. This suggestion of horns fit her personality. No one, absolutely no one, liked this witch. Full of hate and spite, she would bite, kick, nip, or strike anyone or anything. If the day had gone by and she had not gotten to annihilate anything, she took it out on her water bucket or feed tub. Charles Forger had a large bruise where Pepper had got him with her back hoof on the front of his leg. If she had gotten his leg a little farther down, she would have taken out his kneecap. Forger would have loved to beat her with that black stick, but dared not do so. Pepper knew that she could get a beating at any time, but just didn’t care. Her philosophy was Come on; is that all you’ve got?

Although the horses in the barn were happy enough, an aura of discontent was starting to arise. Each horse had its dreams and was willing to sacrifice to achieve them. However, fear and hatred towards Charles Forger were building. Whenever the owner, Henry, came down to Florida to the barn to look over his prized possessions, Forger was loving and attentive to all of the horses, but when Henry left, Forger resumed being his old hateful self. He would come into the stalls and grab halters, then jerk the horses towards him to look them over, slapping them hard on the neck when he left. Every so often, he came into the stall carrying the shiny thing in his hand and poking them with it. A strange feeling came over the horses when he finished doing this, and all the horses felt a strange aggression and muscle tightness over the next few days. Other times it was the bucket full of the black stinking substance. He had the groom hold tightly to the halters on the horses, and then Forger slathered the substance onto their shins. A tingling, turning into a full-blown searing pain would come over them for the next four to five days. When Charles Forger strode towards a stall, the horse inside cowered in the corner awaiting a painful fate. Except Pepper Snout, of course. She stood defiantly at her door as if saying, Come on.

For now, everyone was contentedly munching away at his or her alfalfa hay and reminiscing over the day. Instead of being turned out for a few hours of frolicking and playing by oneself in a small paddock, tomorrow would be the first day of actual training. Everything was going to be different. Life and routines would change. No more leisurely strolls around a paddock; now exercise, diet, and fitness ruled the day. It was time to become a racehorse. As their mothers had told them, each horse had an expectation of what was to come, but no one had even a hint of the bright star that was to come into their lives and not only change their lives, but change the course of history.

CHAPTER 2

The riders showed up at six that morning, gathered their tack, and listened to instructions. They started at one end of the barn with one rider to a horse. As the riders walked down the shed row, the horses looked them over. The first rider looked as if he had just gotten up five minutes ago. Thin, scruffy, and shaggy-looking, he shuffled along with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Although it was early in the day, his pants and shirt were dirty and torn. The smell emanating from him also disclosed that he probably had not showered for several days. He did have a calm, serene look on his face, however, and a hint of a smile. Although he looked slovenly, the horses did not fear or distrust this funny-looking human.

The next rider looked cleaner. He was small, but not thin, having a more muscular structure to him. He walked with a firm gait, although it did look a little unsteady. There was also a faint odor emanating from him, but this seemed to be overwhelmed by the scent of aftershave. Although he looked presentable and clean, a sense of fear overcame the horses as this person approached. Behind the tight-lipped smile, evil seemed to be lurking. The horses hoped that this rider would not be theirs.

The next two riders to come out of the office with tack were a male and a female. The male was young, quite small, and seemed to be out of place. He dropped his tack twice just walking with it, and had a confused, wide-eyed expression on his face. He kept looking back and forth wildly, as if something were going to jump out and bite him, as if he had never done this before. The girl was talking to him, reassuring him that she would help him all she could. She was very pretty and wore color-coordinated clothes. Everything she had on matched, even her earrings and boots. A bright pink bandana was tied around her neck, and her long red hair flowed over it. She walked with the air about her of having done this many times before. She seemed to know all about it. Carrying her nose high in the air, and sashaying down the shed row, she exclaimed to the other riders and horses, Hey Guys! in a shrill voice. It seemed that there would be four riders whom the horses would get to know very closely in the next five or six months that the horses would be learning to become racehorses on this quiet farm in sunny Florida. There was nothing alluring or hopeful about these four people, and the horses sighed in boredom. And then—SHE walked in.

It wasn’t that Melody was all that pretty or wore an eye-catching outfit. There was just an aura about her. When she smiled, her whole body smiled. A warmth and comfort like the setting sun radiated from this wholesome girl. She strode into the barn with a passion and confidence unseen in the other riders, and the entire barn lit up. Although she wore a loose T-shirt, you could see the strong, tanned, muscular arms, and the broad, powerful shoulders. A tiny waist gave way to long, lean legs crammed into tight Levi’s. She had shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair, and wire glasses perched atop a freckled, tiny little nose. Trying to catch up with the other riders, she walked quickly out of the office with her tack and strode down the shed row smiling at the horses, talking to them as she went by. The horses instantly felt a liking to her, and all hoped that she would be their rider. Except the wicked Pepper Snout, who decided that she didn’t like any rider at all.

Inside the first stall by the office and tack room, in the middle of the barn, the stall of honor, was Enough Flash, a large, brown horse with a flowing black mane and tail. He was the epitome of equine grandeur. Hey, big boy, Melody said to the muscular colt as she strode by. Enough Flash felt a surge go through his body, and he danced on his hooves at the front of his stall and nickered. He pushed his nose through a metal slat in the front of his stall and tried to get a whiff of her. Laughing, she walked up to Enough Flash and kissed him on the side of his nostril. You are a stud, aren’t you, big boy! This was just too much for him to bear, and he blew heavily through his scrunched-up nostrils, which were now stuck in the slat of his stall. As she continued on down the shed row, she acknowledged each and every horse she passed, always with a smile.

She put her tack down by a tall, sleek, long, wiry-looking colt named Code Blue. As she went into his stall, she extended her hand and talked in a soothing voice. Hey good-looking, everything is all right. You and I are going to be very good friends. Code Blue sniffed her hand, and he immediately took a step towards her. She ran her hands over his head and massaged his jaws, and then she continued on down his neck and over his back. After this light massage, she held his nose and planted a kiss on his muzzle. Oh, Code Blue was in heaven! He was initially nervous as were the other horses, but was now very relaxed. Yes, life was going to be good.

One thing that Melody didn’t realize was what the horses were saying to one another about her. Hey, send that babe back to me! I want her! Enough Flash snorted after finally getting his nose unstuck from the metal slat. Enough Flash, a colt, was by a Kentucky Derby winner, All That Flash, and had come out of the best producing broodmare in the United States. She had only borne stakes winners thus far, and Enough Flash was sure to be another. Underneath the mass of muscles and flashy good looks, one might have expected the heart of a winner. However, this was not the case. That’s right, Enough Flash was a chicken. He would be a horse that strutted his stuff and pulled riders just about out of the saddle, but Enough Flash would have absolutely no desire to go out marauding with other horses and duke it out. He was perfectly content to be in his own space and flaunt his heritage. Luckily, no one knew this yet, and he hoped that he could carry this façade as long as possible.

I think a human like that could deal with my feelings! tittered Bobe’s Bed and I’m Outta Here. Some nickers of agreement came from his half-brothers and half-sisters. Bobe’s Bed was a long, slender, lanky colt, and he walked with a long stride that exuded a cat’s. This horse had the makings to be a racehorse, but had a lot of neurotic feelings. He just couldn’t get over feelings of helplessness, fear, incompetence, and confrontations. He always had a wild eye to him, and most other horses and people were wary of him. They couldn’t understand what was really going on in the mind of this horse; they just thought the worst. Bobe’s Bed’s half-brothers’ names were: Barney Boo, Into Heaven, Lost at Sea, I’m Outta Here, and Eyes Wide Open.

She’s mine, all mine! Code Blue lipped in happiness. He arched his neck at the sheer enjoyment of the massage and attention that Melody was giving him.

Broken Tooth threw his lip up in approval. Tooth was five years old and had won a few stakes races. However, the years of racing had put the wear and tear on him. No longer sleek and rippled, he had the appearance of a weathered, beaten-down horse. His withers (shoulder blades) and backbone stuck out from the pounding and pressure. Scars covered his legs from repeated blisterings for sore shins and inflamed tendons. Instead of strutting down the shed row with a high head, he merely shuffled and did exactly as he was told with a hanging head. Through large eyes filled with wisdom, he watched the young ones prance around and chuckled. Mostly quiet, he only talked when a young one would come to him for advice. Yes sir, he had been there and done that, but classy as he was, he would only show the positive side of racing to the youngsters. They would find out soon enough for themselves all the other stuff.

Melody was the kind of rider all racehorses dream about. A rider like her could sense when a horse was hurting physically or mentally. It seemed that humans didn’t think that horses could place esteem or pressure on themselves to be the best, that humans were the only ones that felt these emotions. But a few humans did understand, as Melody did, and felt these emotions in the horses, just as they could see and feel the emotions in their best friend. A hug around the neck, a kiss on a muzzle, or a scratch on that itchy back area that’s hard to get to, can do wonders when one is down. It lets you know that, yes, someone does care, and you do matter beyond how much money you make.

Melody was one of these precious few riders who could relate how the horses felt to the trainer. If the trainer was any good, he or she listened and acted accordingly. Your rider is about to jog you off for a practice gallop on the track and feels that almost subtle limp. You’re brought back to the barn, and the trainer bends down to feel your leg and acknowledges the heat coming from your leg. These small acts could be the difference between a horse winning his next race or finishing third by a fraction of a second, the difference between finishing a race strongly or limping back in pain. Sometimes, in a horse with extremely strong will, it could even be the difference between limping back in pain or standing on three legs, the fourth hanging on only by wrenched tendons because the bone has completely shattered, and watching as the red-and-white horse ambulance comes. Inside the ambulance is a human with the supreme needle, the needle that when poked through the equine’s skin, will take thee to a better world where all racehorses win, and there’s no more pain. No racehorse wants to see that red-and-white ambulance coming; it is the sign of the end. The end of romps through lush, grassy pastures, delicious hot mashes in your feed tub at night, friendly nickers of gossiping as you lay in your stall at night, driving through a pack of horses to a win at the wire, and lastly, leaving behind your loves, both equine and human. Yes, this girl was a racehorse’s lucky catch. In a fast-paced world where the pressure is on and the stakes are high, there is something to having just a little bit of love to even it all out.

The other riders strode into the stalls and dumped their tack down onto the floor with a thud. All, that is, except for the small wide-eyed, timid one; he tiptoed into the stall and extended a shaky hand towards the horse. He had picked a large, red, roguish colt, Henpump, and the girl he had been talking to earlier had picked Henbump, a mirror copy of Henpump. Henpump extended his head and neck towards the small fellow and sniffed the shaky hand. He smelled a faint, pleasing odor and decided to take a bite. Henpump bit down on the shaky hand, and the rider let out a wild howl. Henpump instantly ran to the back of his stall in fear of the noise.

In the next stall, the girl was laughing hysterically. Grab that sucker by his halter and slap the crap out of him!

Forger came running up to the stall to see what was going on. What happened? And what is so funny, Felicity?

Felicity answered, That horse bit Argentino’s hand, and his yelling scared the horse to pieces. First, he was scared to death, and now the horse is!

She continued laughing as Charles Forger started to chuckle himself. Don’t let them get the best of you, boy, he told Argentino.

The other two male riders had been talking and watching the incident. Charles Forger yelled to them, "Charlie, why don’t you grab that youngster, Bobe’s Bed,