Man o’ War was born on August Belmont II’s horse farm on March 29, 1917. His sire was the top-rated racehorse, Fair Play. Man o’ War’s dam was Mahuba, the daughter of English Triple Crown winner Rock Sand. Mahuba had won a race but was retired early due to her high-strung temperament.

After World War I broke out in Europe, Belmont joined the service and became Major Belmont. Because of the war, track attendance and purses were at record lows. Belmont sent most of his yearlings to Saratoga for auction. The major had intended to keep the Fair Play-Mahuba offspring, who Mrs. Belmont referred to as “my Man o’ War,” but at the last minute the leggy colt was loaded onto the trailer with the rest of the yearlings.

The colt was not the high seller that day. That distinction went to Fair Gin, who brought $14,000. The Belmont baby did bring a good price, however: $5,000. The average sale that day brought only $1,038. The big colt went to his new home, Glen Riddle Farm, owned by racing newcomer Samuel D. Riddle. Riddle called his new horse “Man o’ War,” but his trainers called him “Big Red.”

Man o’ War’s trainers had a tough time with him. He was high-strung like his dam, and from his father he inherited a fiery disposition. He was tall and somewhat thin, and some knowledgeable horsemen at the time were not impressed by his conformation. Riddle thought the colt might make a good hunter-jumper. Over the next months, however, Man o’ War grew into a beautiful animal, with heavy muscling, a proud head carriage, and long, clean legs.

His first race was a maiden race at Belmont Park in 1919. He won easily, by six lengths. Just a few days later, he won the Keene Memorial by three lengths. His wins continued, and more weight was added to his back. He still went on to win prestigious races like the Saratoga.

Later in 1919, Man o’ War beat Upset by two lengths in the United States Hotel Stakes, but when the pair competed less than two weeks later in the Sanford Memorial Stakes, the big horse suffered his first and only defeat. In this legendary race, Man o’ War got caught behind the leaders. He had to go wide in order to pass Upset, and when he did, he ran out of running room. Upset won by half a length, but Man o’ War got his revenge in their next meet. He beat Upset by a full length in the Grand Union Hotel Stakes.

Man O' War in 1920

As a three-year-old, Man o’ War was 16.2 hands tall and weighed 1,125 pounds. His girth was very large, at 72 inches, and he had a voracious appetite. He consumed twelve quarts of oats a day, three quarts more than the average racehorse. His stride had been measured at a mind-boggling 28 feet. He was ready to meet Upset yet again in the Preakness Stakes. Upset was just coming of his Kentucky Derby win, but Man o’ War beat him by one and one-half lengths. Later that year, Man o’ War won the Jockey Club Stakes by an amazing fifteen lengths, and he won the Lawrence Realization by an unbelievable 100 lengths.

The nation was all abuzz about the great horse, and a match race with the older Sir Barton was offered. Sir Barton had won the Kentucky Derby, the Belmont, and the Preakness. It was agreed that the race would be ten furlongs at Kenilworth Park. Man o’ War dominated the entire race, winning by seven lengths. This race was Man o’ War’s last. Because of his great success, handicappers were adding more and more weight for the horse to carry in order to give others a chance. Riddle refused to endanger his prize stallion by running with so much weight, so he retired the horse. Man o’ War’s earnings were $249,465, a new record.

Man o’ War retired with his mares to Hinata Farm, located just north of Lexington, Kentucky. Two years later, he was moved to Faraway Farm, where he became a huge tourist attraction. He sired Triple Crown winner War Admiral and Hard Tack, the sire of Seabiscuit. Big Red died in 1947 from a heart condition, at the age of thirty. He was mourned by the nation; over 2,000 people attended his funeral. Riddle had the horse embalmed and buried in a coffin lined with his racing silks. He was interred at Faraway, with a life-size bronze statue placed on his grave. In the 1970s, his remains and the statue were moved to the Kentucky Horse Park. Many visitors still pay their respects to, as his groom, Will Harbut, referred to him, “de mostest hoss that ever was.”

At 14 hands, Smokey was a pony by rights, but he was my horse, my friend, and my companion. We had many adventures together and formed a special bond that I still treasure today. He was four and I was eight when our friendship began. Our early years together were filled with learning experiences for both of us. He learned to enjoy the freedom I allowed him and I learned to trust his judgment.

I would ride bareback, with no bit, on the trails through the woods near my home in northern Wisconsin. Smokey knew his way as well as I did so, most of the time, I didn’t really even pay attention to where we were going. I had to practice my saxophone and I knew he would take care of me.

One day we were wandering among the trails on the far side of the woods, along the bank of the river. It was a very hot day in August and I was trying to get ready for the placement tryouts in band class. I really wanted to place in the jazz band. I gave him his head, told him to be good, and proceeded to find out that saxophones do not float.

I didn’t realize he had walked into the water until my foot was getting wet. I threw my music toward land to save it from getting wet, but my sax was fastened to its strap around my neck. By the time I got it loose it was too late. Smokey was swimming, I was sliding off his back into the water, and my saxophone was dropping to the bottom of the river like a rock. I was not a good swimmer, so I decided that holding on to my horse was a better idea that trying to save my saxophone.

Smokey Goes Swiming

I had never been in the water with a horse; even though I had watched others do it. My friend and often riding companion, Jill, had tried to convince me to give it a shot. She often swam in the same place with her Paint, Pizza, but to be honest, I was afraid. The fear left forever that day. It was such a feeling of freedom to hold his mane and allow him to propel me through the water. We swam for about an hour that day. My music sheets had gotten wet and I had to find a long stick to “fish” for my saxophone, but I found it and dried it off. It was really no worse for the bath it had gotten. When I explained to my mother why my music sheets had gotten wet she laughed and told me that she would replace them if it were necessary.

Mom told me to be very careful when I went swimming with him as his hooves were very sharp and she didn’t want me to get hurt. She knew that, even though I had always had a fear of the water, I had complete faith and trust in my horse and there would surely be other swimming adventures for us. She was so right! It became a regular ritual for us every summer, one that we both enjoyed completely and often. Jill and Pizza were thrilled to have regular swimming partners, too. The four of us spent many hot summer afternoons in that swimming hole.

As for the tryouts, I made the jazz band. To this day I thank my horse Smokey for that experience. He loved to hear me play and would walk calmly around for hours so that I could practice. Sometimes he would stop and turn his head for a while like he was listening. He was a very patient audience, trusted friend, and excellent swimming instructor.

This is a true and remarkable story about my father, Charles C. Lucas and his horse named Airflow. This is not just another horse story but one of an amazing “comeback” horse, who despite a terrible injury went on to become the Champion Jumper of New York State in the l940′s.

First, let me introduce you to my father, Charles C. Lucas. You see, Charlie, as he was known, had a profound love of horses that began from a very young age. He knew horses, trained them and owned many horses throughout his lifetime, including race horses. He was well known throughout the horse circuit. He judged many horse shows, including those held at Madison Square Garden. His passion for riding was not of the “Western” riding style, but “English.” My father was an expert rider, and looked wonderful sitting on top of a horse. He was an extremely handsome, tall, and slender man, with a great personality. My father was what they called a “man’s man,” because of his many diversified interests. By trade, he was a car buff. He owned and operated a body shop in Utica, New York, called King’s Collision. It was during the time that being a “body man” was considered a real art. He then passed this skill down to his nephews, whom to this day, own and operate their own collision shops. My father bought and sold cars, owned race horses at Vernon Downs, helped to build the “fish hatchery” in Rome, New York, was a member of the Oneida County Mounted Sheriff’s Posse, belonged to the Mohawk Valley Hunt Club, and had many other interests. Most importantly, he loved my mother Tess, my sister Charlotte and me, Theresa Marie. He loved bringing home animals for my sister and I to enjoy, if only for a day. These included a fawn, lamb, bunnies, and of course, ponies. He loved all of his family members, and got a “kick” out of teasing his nieces and nephews. This is how they remember him to this day.

Charlie and Airflow

Now, back to Airflow! You see Airflow wasn’t meant to be a “jumper.” He started out as military troop mount for the 121st Cavalry Troop A in 1931. He worked very hard in that capacity and seemed to enjoy it. One day “Brownie” as he was called back then, soared over a jump at the armory, and his future was changed from that moment on. It was then that his name was changed from Brownie to Airflow. In 1938, after completing the eight-jump course in the ring of the New York State Fair Coliseum, Airflow mistook the out-gate for a jump. Being a powerful and fast jumper, he cleared the seven foot gate with no problem. But on the other side of this gate was a cement incline. When Airflow hit the incline, he broke his neck, back and right front leg and lay unconscious for two hours. Just as the Calvary masters were deciding whether or not to put him down, Airflow opened his eyes. After eighteen months of grueling therapy, he made a miraculous recovery. It is documented that Airflow was one of the few, if not the only horse to recover from such an injury.

In 1941, my father, Charlie assumed ownership. Both horse and owner seemed to sense the best was yet to come. Under my father’s expertise and training, Airflow jumped again. Airflow had a unique jumping style….his tail would fly up in the air every time he went over a jump. This horse was not a handsome horse. He had what was called a “hammer head”…in other words, he had a very large head, a nose that was long and rounded at the end, and he stood over l5 hands tall. But it was his heart and great spirit that stood out.

In the years that followed, Airflow became widely known and respected in the horse circuit. People would come from all over the United States to see this amazing horse jump. He could clear seven foot jumps with room to spare. My father and Airflow made quite a pair. Both horse and rider were unique in their own right. Airflow went on to win hundreds of blue ribbons. He then became the New York State Champion Jumper in the l940′s.

Charlie and Airflow Jumping

My father retired his beloved horse on September 8, 1946, before a tear-filled crowd of over twenty-five hundred people, at the Long Acre Ring in Utica, New York. Airflow was 25 years old. Both horse and rider stood tall and proud as they were adored and surrounded by family, friends and fans. Airflow enjoyed his retirement until he passed away. This wonderful horse is buried in the woods behind the house my sister and I grew up in, and my father helped build. Some twenty years later, my father passed away at the young age of 49. I know my father and Airflow are together once again, jumping over clouds in heaven!! What a comforting and beautiful sight to envision.

Raymond - "Let Him Know Who's Boss"

Written By: Joel Colby

“Raymond is a good horse, but you have to let him know who’s boss!” Bill said as he led the palomino American quarter horse from the barn.

My large family had gathered at my sister and brother-in law’s rural home to celebrate my return from Navy boot camp. It was late spring, and for the occasion, I wore my new bright white Navy uniform complete with sailor hat. Bill, my brother-inlaw, had purchased Raymond a month prior and was eager to introduce him to the family.

“Anyone want to ride?” Bill asked as he paraded the big animal in front of the admiring group.

“Sure,” I said. “I would like to take him out.”

“Do you know how to ride?” asked Bill.

“Of course,” I confidently replied. I didn’t watch all those cowboy movies for nothing. I know you give a little kick to start, pull on the right side of the reins to turn right and the left for left. What could be so difficult? Bill held Raymond steady as I swung myself into the saddle.

Bill pointed to the a path that led over the hill behind the house and said, “That’s an easy trail. When you get to the fork, go right. It leads around the woods and back to the house.”

“Will do,” I replied as I sat high over the admiring group.

I gave Raymond a little kick and clucked at him as I had seen done in the movies, and he walked toward the path.

“Remember, let him know who’s boss!” Bill yelled as we started climbing the small hill.

It was a warm late spring day, and I felt on top of the world as we reached the summit of the hill. The path wasn’t steep, but steep enough that Raymond was carefully walking down. As we approached the fork, I gently tugged on the reins in my right hand. Ray paid no attention and continued walking forward, so I pulled harder moving his head to the right. That just annoyed the big horse. Ray jerked his head back pulling the reins from my grasp. He then took the left fork and starting running. All I could do was fall forward and try hang on. I was totally out of the saddle with my arms wrapped tightly around the big neck when Ray came to an abrupt halt at a small stream. I fell but was fortunate enough to land on my feet at the edge of the water. Ray gave me a disgusted look then proceeded to drink deeply.

Grateful that I wouldn’t have to explain wet clothes to the family, I managed to get hold of the reins while Raymond was drinking. I edged them over his big head and tried to lead him from the stream. However, Ray hadn’t finished his drink, and he jerked the reins from me and calmly lowered his head to the water.

“I’m the boss!” I said as I grabbed the reins, and firmly pulled him from the stream. ” I am going to get back in the saddle, and ride you home.”

But Ray had other ideas, and as I put my foot in the stirrup, he moved leaving me struggling to stay on my feet. I admonished Ray and tried again – same result. I begged him to stand still and tried a third time, but again he moved.

“So that’s the way its gonna be,” I said as I pulled the reins back over his head. “I will lead you then. ” I took the reins, walked forward, and Ray followed.

I couldn’t lead the horse back to house and watching family. I led Raymond beside a stand of trees so he could not move away from my attempt to mount. And with a little scraping of my right leg, I made it back into the saddle. Although he seemed a little annoyed, Ray walked the path and took the turn back toward the house. He walked up the hill and started down toward the house, then started running. I pulled back on the reins and yelled at him to stop, but he jerked his head forward pulling the reins from my hands. All I could do was hang on.

Raymond ran toward a plot that Bill had tilled for a garden. Recent rains had turned the soil to mud. Ray ran into the middle of the muddy mess and stopped with me hanging on for dear life. My family gathered around the garden.

“Don’t let him get his head down!” someone yelled. I grappled for the reins and tried to understand. Ray’s head went down, and I went up. I don’t know what happened, but I know it happened quickly. I was face down in the mud directly in front of Raymond. I pulled myself up to my knees, and Raymond decided to stomp me. But I was too quick for him and crawled through the mud, with Ray following close behind. Bill grabbed the reins and pulled Raymond away from my scrambling body.

“Are you OK?” my sister yelled trying to be heard over the laughter.

“I’m fine. It was a fun ride. Next time I won’t try that trick dismount though.” My reply was met by laughter from my amused family. My white uniform was caked with mud – ruined beyond salvation. My hat was missing.

After a shower I changed into Bill’s clothes that were too large for me, but available. My shoes were muddy, so I wore a pair of Bill’s slippers. My shoe size is 9, Bill’s 12. The incident and outfit will be a source of amusement long into the future.

Raymond and I have come to an understanding. I don’t try to ride him, and he doesn’t try to stomp me. When I visit, I take him an apple. He eats the apple and smiles. I am certain he inwardly chuckles when he hears, “Show him who’s boss!” He knows.

The moisture in the air on that foggy day caused my broke-in saddle to squeak more than normal.  The chill on my hand that held the reins was more than that of the other, but the love that I felt for her was enough to warm my heart.  As we made our way back toward home, she did not seem to speed up her pace as much as she used to, and the little bit that she did seemed to cause her to walk with a slight limp. I prayed that it wasn’t because she was hurting.  Although she had many years on her, I still felt like she was able to go, but wondered if the weight of the saddle and my body was sometimes too much for her to carry.  I didn’t lope her much anymore because I was scared that she couldn’t handle it.  Maybe this was all just in my head and she still had it in her.  However, I couldn’t help but think of these things.

She would always be beautiful to me,  but there was no doubt that she no longer had the solid, muscled body with smooth bay hair like she did when I saw her that first day.  Her back was now swayed and the few muscles she had sagged and her thick winter hair was dull and wavy.  She still had that same stubborn ‘try to have it her way’ attitude that she’d always had, yet riding her seemed more precious and pleasurable each time.  Maybe that was because I wondered how many more times I was going to be able to saddle her and enjoy another ride.

I’d had many adventures while riding her over the years.  She had taught me how to ride.  Many of those rides were wonderful but some were crazy and scary.   She had tested me, tried my patience, and made me angry on a number of occasions, but she had never really hurt me.  I couldn’t have asked for a better first horse.  As I rode her on that late December day, I thought back on all the years and I realized that the hardest part of having a horse was not the bad rides, or the times you may have to walk them for hours because of colic or even picking their messy stall.   The hardest part is loving them and realizing that your rides are numbered.  The hardest part isn’t the times a horse may buck, kick or bite but when you sense your best days together are behind you.

Romie and Ashley

Having owned many horses during my lifetime, there is but one that I still think of frequently, but not necessarily fondly.

Charlie was an unregistered Quarter Horse gelding with a very sweet disposition. When I bought him, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why he sold so cheaply. When he arrived home, I soon found out why. He farted…a lot. Never had I been around a horse that was so gaseous. With ugly thoughts of gas colic in the back of my mind, I worried needlessly. The noxious fumes coming from his hindquarters were just a fact of life with Charlie.

While all horses fart at some point, it became Charlie’s true calling. He soon became renowned for his gastric disturbances at the boarding barn. Charlie in crossties sent horse and their owners scrambling for parts unknown. Even the owner of the facility, as part of the introduction of newbies to the barn, would always warn folks about Charlie. In fact, his stall became the first one on the aisle so that there wouldn’t be anyone standing downwind of him.

Charlie Passing Gas

His farting became a bigger issue when we began dressage competition. Charlie developed a new habit to go along with passing gas. Each time he passed gas, he would come to an abrupt halt, and turn his head in direction of his hindquarters to find where the noise came from. I didn’t think this was insurmountable, one touch of my heel would send him forward. It was just a matter of predicting his gas and the timing of the heel.

After six months of training, I had become rather adept at predicting Charlie’s gaseous explosions. His ears told the tale. A slight flick of the left ear usually meant a small one was coming. The right ear flat against his head meant slam on the brakes, a head turn, clear the aisle, bombs away. While a little fart didn’t necessitate a stop, the big one did and I had to concentrate on that right ear, along with all the other aids while riding him.

Now dressage is a very formal competition. One rider, one horse, must ride a prescribed pattern in front of a judge. While it sounds simple enough, it’s done in total silence. You may not give any verbal instruction to your horse.

During our first competition, I rode down the centerline confidently. Charlie had passed gas at least ten times prior to our entering the ring so I figured we were pretty safe for the three minutes it took to complete the pattern. We trotted into the ring, halted, saluted the judge, and began the pattern.

The ride was going well; Charlie was on the aids and moving nicely. Toward the end of the pattern, I noticed his left ear was flicking. Not to worry, it was the left one. Feeling confident that noxious fumes weren’t imminent, we continued on.

On rounding the corner, the canter was prescribed for the pattern. I half halted and gave the aid for the canter. Glancing down, there was trouble brewing. His right ear was pinned against his head. True to his genial nature, he picked up his canter lead, but that right ear was still flat. I silently prayed that we could complete our final twenty meter circle without fumes or brakes. Unfortunately, the Man Upstairs was busy. Three quarters of the way around the circle, even with my heel tap, tap, tapping away on his side, Charlie did what he always does. He slammed on the brakes, lifted his tail and farted so loud that it was audible to the next dressage ring twenty five feet away. The innocent turn of his head toward his hindquarters was the capper of the incident.

I looked over to the judge; the judge looked at me and covered her mouth with her hand. She tried not to laugh. However, one of the ladies from my barn started chuckling. The chuckling became outright chortling. Then the entire audience burst out into uproarious laughter. Determined to finish the pattern, I gave poor Charlie a good thump of the heel and he picked up his canter again as if nothing had happened.

We finished the pattern by again trotting up the centerline for the halt and salute. For final emphasis, at the halt, Charlie let one final fart loose. His final explosion was so loud even I was surprised. However, this time, he didn’t turn his head. It was one small victory in the agony of defeat.

After the competition, I picked up my score sheet. Yes, we did actually receive a score. Under the judge’s comments there were only three words, “Obedient, but airy”. Yeah right, very funny.

If you look at the list of great animal trainers you’ll find my name. It’s all the way down in the right lower corner. At least it is in a book at my local library where I wrote it. That reminds me my year of being banned from there is almost up.

Patrick Teaching Tricks

Anyway I had managed to teach my black and white paint horse to lie down and several other tricks. After wowing the locals with this act I decided to work my talented Border collie into the routine. I can’t say enough good things about my dog or the breed. I worked a routine that when I whistled, my horse would come over to me. Why wouldn’t he? I had a rag hanging out of my pocket with sweet feed sewn into it. He would take the rag out and wave it up or down which was really frustration on his part. Then on a signal, my wonderful Border Collie would dash in and grab the rag from the horse’s mouth and run away to an unknown location. It wasn’t planned that way, he really ran to an unknown location. That was his only fault he’s really a great dog!

In hiding

A local horse farmer asked me to perform at a team penning event he was sponsoring. I was to keep the crowd entertained while the cattle were switched with fresh animals. This was going to be great! We practiced all week. The only problem in rehearsal was finding the dog after every attempt. This limited practice time. Yes, he went that far! But he’s a great dog. Really!

The day of our big performance arrived. I teased the horse with sweet feed and agitated the dog into a frenzy! When it was time to switch the cattle, the owner of the property gave me a nod. I entered the arena with a horse going through withdraw and a neurotic dog running in circles looking for something to chase.

I positioned the horse by the rail and I walked toward the center of the arena. The people on the rails were horse owners who more than likely had their hands and pockets lined with sweet feed sometime during that evening. Or earlier that week but I don’t judge on hygiene.

I whistled for the horse but he turned toward the smell of the feed and began nuzzling people along the rail!

I went into my professional animal trainer mode or panic if you prefer. I whistled louder for him. That’s like finding out someone doesn’t speak your language so you talk louder and directly into their ear. It doesn’t work.

The dog was confused because he was used to running in seconds after the horse took the rag. Every time I whistled I had to turn and yell at the dog to stay. He had so many false starts he looked like someone was playing with his forward/ reverse button.

I whistled, I yelled stay, then I whistled again. The crowd watched in anticipation. Or they left for the concession stand, I couldn’t tell from where I was.

The darn dog couldn’t restrain himself and darted toward me. I looked over my shoulder as I heard his paws tearing up the earth. He had a lock on the rag in my back pocket. The horse was still trying to mooch food from the one person left standing there. I guess he wasn’t interested in cold hot dogs and warm cola! Get away from the rail buddy!

I glanced back in time to see the dog strike the rag. He also clamped down on my back pocket and what I had crammed into it. My butt! I grabbed my rear and bent over backwards. I spun and did a dance to shake the dog off but he dug his teeth deeper into the denim and derriere sandwich.

The more I jigged the more determined the dog was to hang on! I screamed, the dog growled and the horse was whinnied! But the crowd was returning!

The stupid mutt tore loose which hurts me to even say! I dropped my pants to inspect the wound. Let me tell from experience, looking at your butt without a mirror isn’t easy! I was missing my back pocket and everything that had been crammed into it!

The Getaway!

I had the crowd’s attention though. Well not the children with their mother’s hands over their eyes! But everyone else was fixated on what was going on in the local horse arena.

Then I felt the rubbery lips of my horse inspecting the spot where the pocket had been. “Well you’re a little late!” I said!

At least I had a ride back to the trailer. In retrospect I don’t know what was the better choice, walking back with my butt showing or riding a horse with a butt wound.

I spent the next week tacking up lost posters for that stupid dog! I haven’t had any calls yet and I can’t figure out why. All I’m asking to take him back is 50 dollars.

“We kept him until he died…and sat with him during the long last minutes when a horse comes closest to seeming human.”
C.J. Mullen

“I’m leaving you with this syringe of painkillers in case you need it,” Dr. Simon told Missy and Philip Jackson after hours of trying to stop the burning, unstoppable pain coming from Hank’s insides.  They had spent months now trying to relieve the horse’s pain that came from his cancer.   But it was no use.  As soon as Missy tried to put Hank back in his stall-every time-he tried to lie down again.  It was almost one’ o’ clock in the morning and Dr. Simon had decided to call it a night; at least for now.  The questions had already been asked and the answers given: Is there anything else we can do? Injections? Supplements? Not really… but let’s see what we can do. And it had come down to this.  Missy held Hank at the head with tears in her eyes while her husband Philip tried to support the other side of his body-because the gelding was so drugged he could hardly stand up.  He was in excruciating pain.  It was a devastating situation.

“Now, if you have to use these,” Dr. Simon continued, “call me first.  Then I will come back out and that means we are going to have to make a decision.  I just want you to be prepared, you understand?”  He spoke sympathetically and softly and directly at Missy.  It was her horse; after all, she had owned Hank longer than she had been married to Philip.  She nodded silently.  Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Dr. Simon took one final look at Hank and got in his truck and left Moon River Performance Horses.  His final instructions were to turn Hank out in the arena and see what he would do in a big space.  When Missy took Hank’s halter off of him he just stood there, his lower lip drooping, his eyes glazed over and half open, and drooling.  He looked pathetic.  It was impossible to hold the tears back.  As she closed the gate to the arena she began to think about all the years… all twenty five years that Hank had been in her life.  She thought about the day he was unloaded from the trailer, the disinterest, the sudden interest, the showing, the hoof surgeries, the corrective shoeing, the colic scares… there was no doubt that the pair had gone through a great deal together.  There was no doubt that this was the hardest night of Missy’s life.

***

Missy was just ten years old when Hank first came into her life and Hank was just five months old when he came into Missy’s.  Missy’s mother had bought him from a backyard breeder in Washington and had him professionally hauled to their ranch in Arizona.  Missy was showing and riding a Paint mare named “Sweet as Pie” or “Sweetie” for short at the time.

When the hauler unloaded Hank from the trailer Missy’s eyes opened wide.  Even at the tender age of ten she looked at her mother and said, “This is what you bought?!”  Wooly and unkempt it was obvious the colt had been born and kept on pasture.  His bay color made him look like a buffalo.  Missy was shocked.  Usually her mom had good taste in horses.

But little Hank (registered as Hank Aaron for the breeder’s husband’s favorite ball player) eventually grew up and literally turned from the ugly duckling into the swan.  Missy decided she would give up Sweetie and start showing the gelding when she turned thirteen and Hank was three.

The pair literally grew up together.  From the moment Missy started riding the gelding there was an undeniable connection.  When her parents got out of the horse business and sold everything off, one thing stayed: Hank.

When Missy went to college, Hank went too, and on a night similar to this one, when Missy was a senior in college and Hank was almost lost due to a bad case of colic, Missy looked deep into the gelding eyes and vowed to keep him until the day he died.

***

Missy sat on the hard plastic chair, alone, in the darkness, except for one lone arena light, watching Hank.  He had not moved from the spot where Missy took his halter off.

“I’m really sorry about all of this, hunny,” Philip appeared from out of the darkness.  She continued to stare at her tragic gelding unable to stop the tears.

“Missy, we’ve done all we can,” Philip put an arm around his wife.  “All we can do now is hope the pain subsides.”

“I know,” Missy whispered, “I just can’t imagine the ranch without him… my life without him.”

Philip took a deep breath.

“Hunny, I know this isn’t a good time but that mare in the pasture seems to be in labor.  She was lying down earlier and her bag was real waxy this afternoon, you know.”

Missy got up from her chair and sighed.  Philip looked at the pain in his wife’s eyes.

“I’ll keep an eye on her hunny, I just wanted you to know” he looked at Missy and brushed some tears from her cheek.

“Thanks babe,” she whispered back, “I’m going to stay with Hank, if anything happens that you can’t handle, holler.”  As her husband walked away Missy continued to watch her beloved gelding.

Minutes passed that seemed like hours, but it wasn’t long before Hank was trying to lie down again and Missy had to get him up before he went all the way down and it became impossible to get him back up.

“Philip!” Missy screamed as she raced to Hank, clamoring with the halter, trying to get it on him and pull before he lay all the way down.  From out of the dark, Philip was racing to the arena, eyes wide, obviously confused.

“Call Dr. Simon,” Missy called to him from Hank’s side pushing and pulling to try and keep him standing.

Somehow, she managed.  A few moments later Philip came back with the syringe that Dr. Simon had given in case of this happening.

“Dr. Simon is on his way.” As he gave Hank the shot he could tell in the gelding’s eyes that he was giving up.  Philip was overcome with a sense of anger at the situation.  As he looked at her falling apart he couldn’t help but feel helpless that there was nothing he could do to ease her pain.

***

Philip Jackson met Melissa Robertson during their senior year of college.  She was studying Animal Behavior, he was studying Architecture and a mutual friend set them up one night.  They hit if off immediately.

Philip remembered the first night he met Missy and how even in their initial conversation she talked about Hank.  “Glory days,” she called them; speaking fondly of their national titles and how even though they were both “retired” she would never part with the horse.  The way she spoke captivated Philip, the incredible love for this animal that he had no knowledge of fascinated him and he was drawn to her loving nature.

It wasn’t long after they began dating that Missy introduced Philip to Hank and even though he considered himself a city slicker, he also fell in love with the gelding.  There was just something about him; he was like a big, giant dog.

When Philip asked Missy to marry him, he knew that wherever they went, Hank would have to be provided for, so when his career took off he didn’t hesitate to buy a good chunk of land with a ranch house so Missy could always have Hank (and of course, over the years, they added to the brood).

Over their twelve year marriage, Missy had turned Philip into quite the “cowboy” and it killed him to see his wife and her horse hurting so much.

***

Dr. Simon’s diesel truck always let his clients know when he was arriving.  He didn’t even bother to park at the barn but pulled up alongside the arena.  The three victims of a bad situation stood there looking blankly at him.  He sighed as he stepped out of his truck and walked over.

“It’s not looking good Doc,” Philip pleaded with his eyes to the vet.

“I can see that,” Dr. Simon looked at the pathetic gelding, whom, even in his darkest hour, still was beautiful.  He was, even at his age, fit from the years of exercise and showing, and it was hard to believe that this magnificent creature was deteriorating right in front of them.

“Do you mind if I talk to Missy alone,” Dr. Simon looked at Philip.  Missy stepped around from the other side of Hank’s head, her face wet with tears.  She handed her horse to her husband and walked with Dr. Simon a few yards away.

“Missy, I have been your veterinarian since you were a kid.  I know you love Hank, we all do, but he has had a good long life… I don’t see much of a choice here,” he searched her face for any sort of protest, there was none.  She simply nodded and walked back over to Hank.  Dr. Simon looked over to Philip and he too, nodded.  Time was passing incredibly slowly even though there wasn’t much time to be had.

“Okay,” Dr. Simon said a bit too loudly, “let’s try to move Hank someplace where he is not really visible until we can get a truck here to pick him up.”

This was the cruel reality of euthanizing an animal as big as a horse.  The angst in waiting for a U-Haul to come pick up the deceased animal to either be cremated or burned with dozens of others unceremoniously.  There was no question that the Jacksons’ were having Hank cremated and memorialized in a very large urn.  In fact, when they first married, they opened up a special account just for this horrible day.

“That mare in the pasture is getting ready to pop,” Philip said, almost guiltily when Missy returned with Dr. Simon.  It was nearly five in the morning and it had been a very long night.

“You have a mare foaling tonight on top of this,” Dr. Simon looked sympathetically at the couple.  They nodded.

“Hunny,” Missy said, “go ahead and deal with the mare.  I’ll be all right.”  Philip looked at his wife, searched her eyes to make sure she would be all right.  When he decided she would, he gently kissed her forehead before he disappeared to go help the mare in labor.

As the group walked to the back pasture, Missy was preparing herself to deal with the reality of death.  She would have to come to terms with it.  “Things die,” she resolved, “one day I will die.  But why do the things closest to you get taken away?”  Upon reaching the pasture, Dr. Simon told Missy what to expect when the euthanasia was distributed.  After a long goodbye, Dr. Simon told her:  “Missy, it’s time.”

Missy looked at her horse and stroked his forelock as she held his head in her hands.  She began to sob.

“I’m so sorry,” she wailed, “I will miss you so much Hank and I love you.”  She nodded at the vet who had the syringe ready.  Hank was fading fast.  After a brief exam before administering the drug, Dr. Simon noticed a considerable reduction in heart rate.  Hank was shutting down.  It was obvious there was no hope, he was just so drugged he couldn’t feel pain anymore.

Dr. Simon injected Hank Aaron, one great horse and beloved friend to one horse crazy girl, with euthanasia.  He stepped back and gently led Missy a few feet away from Hank, and a few moments later he wobbled, groaned, and fell.

In the morning twilight, his large body looked peaceful laying there even though this was the end of one great life.  Dr. Simon walked over to Hank and closed his eyes and his mouth so Missy could say goodbye without being frightened.  She collapsed on top of him in a pile of wails and cries.  To Dr. Simon, it was the saddest experience he had ever had in his eighteen years of practice, when euthanizing a horse.

A few minutes later, Philip came out of the morning shadows and sat down next to Missy who had not moved from her place on top of Hank.

“Hunny, he’s gone,” Philip gently pulled his wife away from the horse and picked her up in his arms.

“How’s the mare,” Dr. Simon inquired as Philip held Missy sobbing in his arms.

“Fine, she had a bay overo filly,” he whispered to the vet, not wanting to upset his wife.

But to his surprise, Missy stopped crying long enough to look over her husband and Dr. Simon’s shoulders, out to the pasture, as the sun was coming up.  She could see, in the distance, two horses.  They were beautiful horses.  And she knew immediately that the bay overo filly in the distance would be named… Erin.

Written by: Michele Davis

I own a horse that can do miracles. In fact, he can perform the most amazing miracle I can possibly imagine.
We were about to leave for a vacation and we really needed a place for our horses. We had wanted a neighbor to come over and feed them, but it was midsummer, so many Vermonters were traveling to escape the humidity and mosquitoes. We had called around to several of our horsy friends, and for a variety of reasons, none could take our horses for the two weeks we would be gone. Finally, in desperation, we called on of our non-horsy friends that had a big grassy pasture. He agreed to take them, so we set up a time to trailer them over to his place before we left and give him instructions on their care.
We had just gotten the horses settled in and found a dry place in Mr. Townsend’s tool shed for our grain and the horses’ halters. My Mother was explaining to Mr. Townsend one of our horse’s idiosyncrasies.
“I warn you, the horses like to sun themselves a lot now that it is summer.” My mother warned our friends who had kindly agreed to let our horses graze in their pasture for a few weeks while we were gone.
“Oh, I’m sure everything will be fine.” Mr. Townsend agreed. He did not know a lot about horses, but our horses were easy keepers and were all very sweet and mellow. We gave him instructions for feeding grain and gave him our contact information and the vet’s number in case of an emergency. We left for our vacation, confident that our horses were happily grazing and enjoying the Vermont summer sun.
We had been enjoying ourselves on vacation for a few days when we got a frantic call from Mr. Townsend.
“Oh my god! I am so sorry!” he rushed out as soon as I my mother answered the phone.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” She asked, worried, as Mr. Townsend was obviously upset.
“It’s the horse,” he gasped, “They’re ddddead!” he stammered.
“Ok, just calm down a moment.” My mother said, “I think I understand what has happened.”
“I am so sorry.” Mr. Townsend interjected, “I don’t know how it happened.
“Try one thing first,” my mother asked, “please go take a bucket and put some of their grain in it, and shake it.
“What good does that do?” Mr. Townsend asked, shocked and incredulous.
“Just try it.” My mom responded stoically.
“OK. Hold on.”
A few minutes passed while Mr. Townsend was away from the phone. When he returned he was still breathless.
“Oh my god! I can’t believe it!”
“They were fine weren’t they?”
“Yes! They were deader than dead until I shook the grain. Then all of a sudden they popped right up off the ground and trotted up to the fence!”
“They were just sunning themselves.” My mother replied, “But if you prefer, they can also raise themselves from the dead.”
After that, the rest of our vacation went smoothly and we got no more panicked calls from Mr. Townsend. When we went to pick the horses up, he commented, “They died a few more times, but it was the most amazing thing! Every time they would, I would shake that bucket of grain and they would pop right back up!”
This was how we learned that our horses could raise themselves from the dead, as long as they have a little grain to motivate them to do it!

By Carson Cockman

Fall, the name says it all.  I am on the downhill side of middle age and that is the fall of life, isn’t it? To prove to myself that I still have ”it” I decided to become a cowboy.  It is probably this fact that I am to blame for the occurrences of today.

I got a couple of horses this winter.  It was a kind of rescue situation.  They are in a pasture and had not been ridden…EVER.

So, in my mind I have become…THE HORSE WHISPERER!

I took two of my young nieces out to visit the two horses.  They must be members of the FCGOA…Future Cow Girls of America. They were telling me how Daddy was simply going to HAVE to buy them a horse.

One of the horses is a quarter horse/mustang mix.  He was the most calm, so it was he that I had selected to ride first.  Sandy is the Enforcer of the two. When she gets into season, she is the poster girl for Equine PMS.

So, I put Sandy up in the stall and let the two girls brush her to keep her quiet.  Cinnamon and I went out to face our destinies.

I had worked with him all week in that quiet logical horse-sense way I have.  I talked to him and gained his trust.  I got the saddle and blanket on him. Funny, I probably should have put the blanket on first, but I am very new at this.

The horse was very patient with me.  I know this because we tried several configurations of bridle wear.  I think the bit goes in his mouth because it just did not look right sitting on his ears.

I walked him for hours with sand bags tied onto the saddle.  He responded quietly to my instruction by turning when I applied slight pressure to one rein or the other.

Flush with cow poke success, I then stood with one foot in the stirrup.  I was fervently praying at the time that the horse would not bolt and I would get my foot hung and bounce along using my head as a rock locator.

He got used to the weight and I then mustered my courage to push myself onto the saddle with my belly where one normally sits.

He looked back at me as if to say, “You know, I’ve seen this before. Let’s skip the preliminaries and get on with it.”

But I am nothing if not patient.  I continued getting up and down…up and down …up and down.  I must have looked like a Jack-in-the-box.  My nieces were hollering for me to get up on him.  Finally, one of them asked if I was chicken.

CHICKEN?  CHICKEN?  HA!

So, with my pride blazin’, I brushed the feathers from my seat and threw my leg over the saddle.

I got my boot in the other stirrup and I was proudly committed.  Let me re-phrase that…I should probably BE committed!

He looked back at me as if to say, ” Finally, I have you where I want you, you pathetic saddle-standing wimp!”

You know, in the rodeo, they have a buzzer that buzzes after eight seconds to indicate the rider has managed to get a full ride.

My buzzer needed to be at 5.5 nanoseconds!

He bucked and twirled.  He did what I critiqued as the prettiest pirouette. I’ll have to get him shoed with ballerina slippers.  Then he went from the agitate cycle to super spin!

As I achieved orbit, I considered my chances of making a successful dead-stick landing.  There was something oddly disturbing about that word “dead” but I did not have the time to contemplate it because the ground was approaching much too quickly.

I hit the ground in what the professional cowboys call a “tuck and roll” maneuver.  It must be called that because after you perform it, the medics just tuck your internal organs back into your body and roll you to the funeral home.

The thud I made shook my nieces in the barn.  I imagined that I heard girlish laughter.  I am not sure as the wind was knocked from what was left of my lungs with the force of a C-135 Cargo plane full of tanks nose-diving into a North Carolina cornfield.

I instinctively tried to sit up.  I instinctively lay back down.

“Are you ok, Uncle Carson?” my nieces squealed.

“Now, you ask!”  I replied.

Cinnamon was finishing the final scene of the Nut Cracker ballet and was half way down the pasture.

I slowly, ever so slowly, tried to sense what on my body was NOT hurting.  Even my earlobes were numb!

There is another old cowboy saying.

“You must get back into the saddle,” the old cowboys say.  I think the old cowboys say that because they have survived somehow and retired from riding equine rocket launchers and have been hitting the Mescal tequila too hard.

I dragged what was left of my body up to wobble on two feet.  I chased Cinnamon down and stuck my foot in the stirrup.  I threw my belly over the saddle and lay there like a sandbag, hoping he would think I was an inanimate object and not worthy of a new lunar mission.  He looked back at me as if to say, ” That will be a quarter for the ride!”

There is something good in every situation.  The silver lining maybe hidden by tarnish and you may have to pick the pasture grass out of your eyeballs to see it but it is there.

I asked my nieces, “So, do you STILL want a horse?”

My potential cowgirls breathlessly replied in the negative.