Page 20 - October 2008 The Game

20 The Game, October 2008 Postcards from the Edge
Canada’s Thoroughbred Racing Newspaper
thousand pound animal you’re tickling with your toe. I need you to kick him! Kick him HARD!”
I never expected to nd myself galloping race horses for a living. I grew up surrounded by horses. After I left home, ten years somehow passed without horses in my life. I moved to the west coast. I wanted to be a writer, ended up with a teaching degree, worked odd jobs between them to support myself. Driving horse and carriage was maybe the oddest job of all. Looking back, I realize without the horse and carriage job I might never have found the racetrack. For the rst time in over a decade, horses became a part of day to day life. When the job ended, I couldn’t stand the thought of losing them again.
humor. It suggested a Zen acceptance of his family’s cosmic weight. They turned out to be the best ride of the day. They wanted to hear all about the history of BC and asked good questions and laughed at all my corny jokes. I loved listening to their Texas drawl. Everybody called the father ‘Daddy,’ including the wife, who was addressed as ‘Momma’ by the kids and ‘Mother’ by the ‘Daddy.’
The boy stepped into the next
one and booted old Jerry right
in the ribs. The poor horse
didn’t even twitch. I yelled at the dad to keep on pulling and I yelled at the boy to keep on kicking and that’s exactly what they were doing when the police of cer pulled up on the lawn of the senior citizen’s home beside us. The next thing I knew the cop had Big Daddy Texas and son up against the squad car and was reading their rights. Big Daddy tried to explain he was a tourist from the Lone Star State but the cop was having none of it.
There are three carriage companies in Victoria,
BC. I started working for the lowest rung of the livery ladder; the horses were overworked, underfed, and long in the tooth. For me, a horse lover, this proved to be the hardest part of the job. Before long I grew tired of listening to tourists praise the beauty of my hand- some young Clydesdale—especially when the horse in question was actually an ancient Percheron named Jerry who was 300 pounds underweight and who’s age the boss speci cally commanded I divide by three should anyone ask.
The tour was great until we hit the waterfront. It was Canada Day weekend and cars and RV’s jam- packed Dallas Road. As I pointed across the Strait of Juan de Fuca at the Olympic Peninsula Mountains, a tour bus crept up behind me. The driver leaned on the horn, wanting by. Jerry the horse stopped, turned to ash me an accusing glare, and dropped to the pave- ment like he’d been shot.
Jerry was the horse my pulling my carriage the af- ternoon my boss sold me a half- hour waterfront tour to a family of oversized Texans. The daughter looked like the mom in miniature and the son looked like the father in miniature but there was nothing miniature about any of them. This is not to say they weren’t attractive people. They had blonde hair and blue eyes, tanned skin and friendly features. They were keen
to see the Garden City by way of a horse-drawn tour. The mother was big enough she couldn’t walk on her own so the family rolled her around in an oversized wheelchair. The kids helped her into the carriage and posed outside while dad snapped a photo. My boss pointed out a kiosk across the street where could get their pictures printed up as postcards.
You didn’t need to be a veterinarian to see that Jerry wasn’t taking a rest. I suspected my only hope of saving Jerry was to get him up and walking. But the company insurance police stated I couldn’t leave the driver’s seat with passengers aboard and Momma’s wheelchair was parked back at the stand. With time running out I spoke quickly to Big Daddy Texas.
The rest of the family climbed into the carriage and I felt the springs settle as the carriage bottomed out. The father noticed and made a joke: “Y’all know the saying, everything’s bigger down in Texas.”
The father grabbed Jerry by the bridle and started pulling. Jerry didn’t budge. He’d fallen halfway into the next lane. Blocked traf c piled up in both direc- tions as far as the eye could see. All the horns were honking and I was nearly at my wit’s end. I watched the son nudge Jerry with the toe of his sneaker and blew my cool: “C’mon now, son. That’s a two
I quit shortly after and took a job as a telephone sur- veyor. One of the rst people I surveyed worked as an assistant trainer at Hastings Park. I liked the idea of horses without tourists. “Come on down and check it out!” she said.
I liked how the father broke the ice with a little
Five years and counting now.
“Daddy, Daddy. The horse fell down, the horse fell down!”
“I don’t know how you treat animals in Texas but here in Canada we have laws against this kind of cruelty.”
“Now, don’t worry,” said Big Daddy Texas. “He’s probably just taking a rest.”
Behind me Momma and daughter were screaming and wailing “Daddy, Daddy!” By this time I’d nally realized Jerry was already dead. A brain aneurism, the autopsy revealed. I managed to convince the cop that kicking a dead horse didn’t constitute animal cruelty. While he removed the handcuffs the tour
bus opened its door and a hundred Japanese tourists spilled out and started snapping pictures of themselves ashing Victory signs in front of my dead horse. The cop called the Parks Department and they sent over
a dump truck and back-hoe. I watched the back-hoe hoist Jerry up and lower him into the dump truck while tourists snapped photos of Jerry’s last ride with the snow-capped Olympic Peninsula Mountains shin- ing in the background. I had to admit it made a hell
of a picture, but I didn’t expect to see it on a post-card anytime soon.
“Sir, I need you to do me a big favour. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I need you and your son to get off the carriage and get my horse on his feet. I’m afraid he’s going to die if we don’t get him up right NOW!
“C’mon, son,” said Big Daddy. “Whaddya’ll need us to do?”
“If you could pull on his bridle and your son could give him a nudge he might try to stand up.”
by evenSteven
TheEndofanEra...andaNewBeginning
CTHSBCYearlingSale Photosby Jim Reynolds
left to right: Jim Prosser, Representative from the QROOI Board of Directors; Darrell Hare,AQHA Director of Championship Racing; Steve Parish, Mayor,Town of Ajax; Norm Picov, owner of Ajax Downs; Rod Seiling, Chair, Ontario Racing Commission.
September 21 at Ajax Downs a celebration took place to mark the end of an era and celebrate the bright new future for Quarter Horse racing in Ontario. Ajax Downs, Canada’s only dedicated Quarter Horse racetrack, ran its nal card of the season mark- ing the last race card to run on the last of cial J-track in North America. The J-track, a dirt drag strip which makes a sharp right
Illbegoneinajazz was the winner of the G3 $129,200 Alex Picov Memorial Championship. Owner Christine Tavares leads the 4 year-old mare into the winners circle with Jockey Tony Phillips in the irons
Breeder
Jim
Alendal offered sale goers burgers and smokies at his barn
A big part of BC’s breeding history Bob Talbot (left) of Red Rock Farm and R J Bennett of Flying Horse Farm have bred many BC champions
Breeder Mike Anderson breeder of sensational two year old El Sinaloense
turn right after the horses have passed the nish line, will be re- tired after 39 years to make way for a newly constructed 5/8 mile track on the site of Ajax Downs new slots facility.
Alex Picov passed away in 1987 and today three genera- tions of his descendants, his son Norm, his grandsons Andrew and Barry and great grandson Justin, manage the family owned track.
History was also made with
the running of the rst Graded Stakes race in Ontario Quarter Horse Racing, the G3 Alex Picov Memorial Championship, named after the founder of the racetrack.
The Slots at Racetracks Program have provided a signi cant boost to the purses for Quarter Horse racing in the Province.
This pretty yearling is by Mass Market out of the good mare GreyTobe Free
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