Page 57 - Canada Spring 2019

touch and go, touch and go. But
he came through. Given time, and then lots of careful attention, he could have bred again. But hauling him home, I got to thinking about what he had done for me. What I have always felt about breeding is this: I think you get a certain great satisfaction when you sell a horse that goes out and does what he’s supposed to do, or at least tries to. And I think it’s the responsibility of a breeder
to say, ‘Hey, we know there’s a percentage of ‘em that won’t run, but let’s do the best we can to try to sell a horse that will not just run, but one that’s sound, with a good mind and wind.’ I believe that is a tremendous challenge to a sincere breeder. Johnny must have looked at it that way, too. He gave me his best, all the way.
“I was thinking that when I was hauling him home. I could feel him
back there in the trailer. I started worrying about him having a heart attack or something, I wished I had the power to put him in the flower of his youth again and knew I didn’t. But I made up my mind on one point. When I got home, I told everybody, ‘Boys, we ain’t gonna breed him no more. He’s done too much for me, he’s too much like a member of the family. I want him to take it easy from now on.’
“Johnny is the finest, kindest, most sensible horse I have ever had the privilege of being around. If anything bad ever turned his way, it would have to get past me to get to Johnny Dial.”
Later in the afternoon, a junior blizzard howled in and the temperature dropped to 5 degrees above zero. Sitting there in the warm house, looking at the snow
smashing around in the wind outside, it was a relief to remember those heat lamps, like spotlights, in Johnny Dial’s stall.
When we said goodbye to Earl and Virginia Shapiro, and joined the slow-moving traffic on the highway winding up the hill, cars were already beginning to slip off the road on the ice and snow. And down there in the big paddock,
a brown horse had forsaken the warmth of his stall and was standing in the thick of the storm, looking up toward the limping parade of automobiles whose power was measured in his name.
As he grew smaller in our vision, Johnny Dial lifted his head. We could not see him clearly, but we knew, and no one will convince us otherwise, that Little Hairball was having himself a big yawn.
SPEEDHORSE CANADA, Spring 2019 57
LOOKING BACK - AN EXCERPT FROM JANUARY 1978 ISSUE
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