Injecting Perspective

Today I witnessed something my veterinary training hadn’t prepared me for. I have an elderly aunt who fell down a flight of stairs over the weekend, and suffered a massive concussion with significant intracranial hemorrhaging. She was unconconscious since the moment of her fall. For the next couple of days she was in the ICU, being monitored and kept on life support. They had a tube in her mouth, which kept her breathing, she was getting fluids in her vein, to keep her hydrated and to give her cells nutrients to survive. Fed with oxygen, fluid and nutrients, her heart would have very little reason to quit pumping blood, and her cells could continue to survive in that state indefinitely. But she was long gone.

The doctors were reluctant to give bad news, but had no good news to offer. Fortunately my aunt had a living will, and had previously determined that she didn’t want this to be her fate. Within a few days of the accident, family members came to accept that the prognosis would not change; she was gone, the only medical miracle is that they were able to keep her body going this long. She was not coming back into our lives the way she had been before. I was able to explain to my family members, none of whom had any medical training, that the skull is a hard shell, and any extra fluid inside that shell would push into the spongy brain, not against the shell. The vacuum system had pulled an orange juice pitcher of blood out of her skull the last couple days, and there was no way for the brain to ever function, with that much pressure.

The decision was made to discontinue her intravenous drip, and pull the tube that was doing most of the breathing for her. I knew from euthanizing animals in my profession, that there is often an unpleasant moment, when the cells controlling the respiratory center of the brain are still alive, even though the animal is unconscious, that a few last involuntary gasps of breath take place, which can be fairly unsettling, but then the body goes still, and the pulse fades to nothing. I prepare owners for this moment, if they have made the decision to be present at that time.

Unfortunately the medical team, who had been doing a great job, and seemed very sensitive to the family, did not prepare us for what happens when a tube is pulled. In this case, my aunt started breathing on her own. The deep, irregular involuntary gasps that I had seen before. I waited a moment for them to end, so that my grandmother’s agony could come under control, and the moment could pass, as gently as we had imagined my aunt’s soul slipping from her body and ascending effortlessly into the heavens. Instead, it kept going. Many unpleasant minutes passed, her breaths rattling the fluid that was trapped in the back of her throat, and the grief my family was suffering was compounded by the horror of the moment. Realizing what was going on (the cells in her respiratory center had not yet run out of oxygen/ nutrients), I stepped out to the nurse’s station to see how long this part of the process usually takes. I was concerned that my grandmother, whose greatest contribution to mankind has been the size of her heart, and doesn’t come equipped with the ability to process things analytically, would begin to question whether we made the right decision. I worried that if the breathing continued, she would see it as evidence our patient was trying desperately to hang onto life, and ask that we reinitiate life saving procedures. The nurse’s answer: “They’re all different. Some take 15 minutes. Some can go for many hours.” I went back into the room, sat down with my family, and explained in medical terms what was happening. Her body as a whole was dying, but parts of her body were not yet completely dead, and they were doing involuntary things that we normally associate with conscious signs of life. I told them that this could go on for quite some time, but our loved one was in fact no longer with us.

This gave them comfort, and made the process easier. I began to wonder about all the families in America who are losing a loved one today, but who don’t have a family member with medical training to explain what’s going on in real terms, and prepare them for the next unpleasant moment. I felt very good about being able to provide to my family solace through understanding, but I simultaneously grieved for families who have to go through this process without someone to walk them through it.

My experience has left me with three take home points:
1. Write a living will. Today. Be as specific as possible. If you don’t want to be kept on life support, how much time do you want to give family members to prepare themselves, knowing every day is very expensive? How many doctors do you need to agree on a poor prognosis if you don’t  want to be kept alive? 
2. The medical professionals need to be better at educating families in terms that can help them make intelligent decisions, and be better prepared emotionally for what is likely to happen next and why. There are very few medical surprises anymore, there is just exciting improvement in condition, and disappointing deterioration in condition. If the nurses and doctors aren’t surprised by what happens next, why should the family be surprised?
3. I believe the greatest gift we have as veterinarians, is the ability to provide for a humane ending to life. We have medications which are engineered to make the animal comfortable at the same time that it takes their life. It is quick, humane, and if there is an unpleasant moment it is usually very brief. Without getting into the ethical debate of taking the life of those who don’t want to live any longer, can’t we at least agree that if a body is within moments of expiring, that we can give drugs to expedite the moment, if only for those loved ones who are there? Biology is not always the most pleasant subject. It’s a shame we have to come so shockingly face to face with its cruel reality, if we have the technology to minimize our grief.

This afternoon the USEF announced that it is going to stop playing dumb. They placed Gamma Aminobutyric acid on the Prohibited List, so that if they ever develop a test to find it, and can establish a normal versus abnormal range found in the average horse, they will start prosecuting those whose horses test over that range. I applaud the Federation for finally making a statement. There has been rampant speculation around horse shows lately about whether they will just start nailing people for positives (if they develop a test and range), or if they will give a heads up first. Now they’ve given notice, made it official, so that those who want to continue to role the dice, do so at their own peril.

Since the week of the 2011 Hunter Derby Finals last August, when 5 people walked up and asked me about Carolina Gold, a product I hadn’t heard a word about in a few years, this product has been all the rage. And understandably so: it makes horses go like a narcoleptic, without ever seeing lunge line. Which is the thing that makes me a supporter, because it’s my job to keep horses sound and the lunge line is my professional nemesis.

But I haven’t carried any in my truck. Why not? Being aware of what is on the other side of the tracks and being able to advise my clients about it, is an important responsibility I have as a sports medicine practitioner, in my opinion. My clients rely on me to help them understand how things work, whether they’re safe, what is legal, and what is likely to cause a postive test. But that doesn’t mean I need to endorse those things. And with this product in particular, I have had safety concerns. Anything that causes horses to curl their lips, and occasionally run backwards and look colicky, can’t be safe.

Until today’s announcement, I was preparing to write an opinion on what I thought would happen with this product. And I was predicting that either a dead horses or a dead person would turn horsemen off from using it. Between the “shakes” they get when administering it, and the profound sedation it causes (how can half- asleep horses jumping 3′ wooden fences with a live human on their back be considered safe?), there was no way this would be around for the long haul.

I’m not sure they’re going to come up with a reliable test or establish a normal range. And I have better things to waste my evenings on than to repeat my veterinary pharmacology classes, or plug old professors for information. But I have no doubt the USEF is pursuing it post haste. At the AAEP convention last November, I sat next to Dr Steve Schumacher, the head of the USEF’s drug testing lab and asked him what he was planning to do about Carolina Gold, because I knew he was already aware of it. He clicked a button, turning on the laptop in front of him, pointed and said, “Oh you mean this stuff?” with a smirk. It was on the front of his computer, and apparently, at the top of his agenda. I plugged him for whether they would make an announcement or just start calling positives, and he was, characteristically, evasive. But this is his job: They hired him not just because he’s a talented pharmacologist, but also very accomplished at fielding questions without really answering them. And this is appropriate, because everyone is trying to game the system, and it’s his job to keep the playing field level.

One of the USEF’s core values is the enforcement of the ethical treatment of horses used in sport. I think this is admirable, and is in the spirit of the statement they made today regarding Gamma Aminobutyric Acid. It’s a scary medication, and I’m glad they’re drawing a line on it. Many people who are afraid of using it, are likewise afraid of not using it, for reasons of losing a competitive advantage. Say what you will, but there is really just one way to grow a business as a show horse trainer: win ribbons. Those who win, get clients. Those who don’t win, despite being wonderful ethical people and good horsemen, tend not to grow a business. It’s an unfortunate fact.

So if the lab finds a test (or scares enough people with this announcement), what is the next step? Back to the lunge line and previously used cocktails, to get horses quiet enough to go around like narcoleptic robots, until the next designer drug comes along. Or….
the USEF memebership could decide that all of this is crazy. That the current standard of “dead” horses winning ribbons is not just unnatural, but occasionally dangerous, and downright unnattractive. The western pleasure group in the AQHA decided they weren’t into “peanut rollers” any more, and found a way to change which horses were rewarded. The Derby and the Handy have been great to open minds to a forward ride and a bold horse. But it hasn’t yet leaked over into the other classes. Until it does, we’ll continue to have trainers winning ribbons on the end of a lunge line, or the tip of a needle.

Do you know how fast you were going?

“Everyone wants to cheat. They just don’t want to get caught.”

 These are the words of a friend of mine who was talking specifically about medicating horses for the show ring. He went on to compare it to decision making behind the wheel of a car: ” Everyone wants to speed, the only difference is some people are more afraid of being caught so they only go 5 miles an hour over the speed limit. Other people need to get somewhere fast, and they aren’t as worried about the fine. So who’s more ethical? They’re both speeding.”

I neither condemn nor endorse; I just state the facts. There is a lot of human behavior that we see on television and as a society, deem deplorable. Every night, it fills the prime- time to wee- hours cable news slot whose producers can find nothing more interesting to schedule. New crazy things happen all the time: gang beatings in the back of a bus, gang rapes, missing wives and suspiciously drowned children. They make headlines for their 15 minutes, then just as quickly fade away, when something new and equally ghastly usurps their place at the front of American ghoulishness.

Is this a sign of the end of times?

Should we all pay attention so we don’t miss the signal to board the space bus to Mars? Or is it something far more unsetttling, and closer to home than we would like to think? My vote is the latter, and we just see it more often because the world is becoming a smaller, more connected place. And Nancy Grace has 5 slots a week where she has to talk about something.

I belive it’s part of our DNA, just as much as skin color and left or right handedness. Those who accept that though, usually take comfort in believing it’s only the genetic or metaphysical fate of those individuals who are screwed up enough to perform these gruesome acts. And as a society we act as if they are different from the rest of us. We actively seek them out, in order to incarcerate, and hopefully, enact some degree of vengeance upon them. This makes us feel better about ourselves, because by identifying who we believe we are not, we can more effectively identify who we like to believe we are. Like Cowboys and Indians, Allies and Nazis, Americans and Russians. We can assign value to ourselves if for no other reason than the belief that at least we are not like them. But this is a fallacy. The capability of performing these sinister acts is within all of us. It just takes certain conditions to bring it out. Which is the underlying truth I believe Nancy Grace viewers subconsciously understand, but are unwilling to admit about themselves. They see what they are capable of, and like watching a train wreck, just can’t turn away.

Don’t believe me? Spend a few minutes reading up on social psychology. Look up “bystander apathy” and “My Lai masacre”. The point I’m making isn’t that we are all just souped-up primordial sludge, with opposable thumbs but no moral values. All human societies have had clearly defined social mores, dating back to the acceptable size of club a man could use to “lure” a woman into his cave. We know the rules. And interestingly enough, the rules are always published concurrent with the punishment used to enforce them. We know  we’re going to break the rules. The only negotitation is how important it is to us. If going 5 miles per hour over the speed limit were a really big deal to most Americans, there would be a $5000 fine and time in jail. But it’s not that important to most of us. So if a Senator proposed the $5000 and Time Law, there would be public outcry, because the punishment is far greater than the crime. Conversely, drinking and driving has become a huge deal. And if a Senator proposed a bill where DWI offences were enforced with $150 fines, like speeding tickets, he would be thrown out of office. Because the punishment wouldn’t fit the crime.

That Cat has Just left The Bag

This new designer concoction is making every mediocre horse a super star, without the use of a lunge line. So what is my prediction? Stay tuned.

WITH ONE SIMPLE RULE CHANGE, THE USEF COULD DRAMATICALLY IMPROVE THE HEALTH OF THE HORSE INDUSTRY.
Here’s How:
“The Market for Lemons: Quality Uncertainty and The Market Mechanism” is a paper written in 1970 by economist George Akerlof about the used car market. It sounds like another boring paper that no one but the heavy breathers could stay awake for. But it won the Nobel Prize for the author, because of its widespread application for the real world. It’s all about how information asymmetry affects a market. The person buying a used car doesn’t have as much information about the car as the seller. Because of this, the buyer tends to assume there is something wrong with the car (aka “lemon”), so is unwilling to buy it for anything but a discount. As a result of this weakness in the used car market, sellers of good used cars (“cherries”) tend not to sell their cars, because they don’t want to sell their cars for less than it’s worth. This means there are proportionally more lemons on used car lots. So it’s almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy. This is precisely like the horse business, only instead of bad brakes or a failing transmission, it’s ponies with difficult lead changes, and jumpers with a dirty stop.

Just Needs its Hocks Injected

Winners will always be sold, in any economy. If the President announces tomorrow that he has solid evidence that the world is coming to an end at precisely midnight next Wednesday, on Tuesday there will still be a line of people trying to pay a million dollars for a winner. What we as professionals in the industry need to concern ourselves with, is the lack of sales among middle market “cherry” horses. There is no question that much of it comes and goes with the economy. And in reality, sales have been quite good of late. But they can be even better, if we improve transparency in the industry. Trainers mostly worry that their clients are going to buy a horse that might have soundness or behavior issues that they don’t know about. I will discuss ways to minimize the chances of ending up with a lemon in a future article. But there’s another layer of information asymmetry that amateur purchasers worry about, that trainers may not always appreciate: price. Allow me to illustrate.

I’m a veterinarian, so 6 figure horses are never going to be a reality for my wife or kids. But just for argument’s sake, let’s pretend my 5 year old starting taking piano lessons, and a couple years from now his instructor told us he was concert pianist material (doubtful; with his energy, playing an orange haired drummer on The Muppets is more likely). And then we would be told that the best thing to take his career forward would be the purchase of a serious piano. I can’t afford a $100,000 horse, but you might be able to talk me into a $10,000 piano if it looks good for my son doing back up for Sting one day. Unfortunately, I know nothing about pianos. So if the instructor told me that a good enough Steinway would start at $12,000, I would have to believe them. But before throwing down the $14,000 that the instructor was trying to talk me out of, I would spend a lot of nights on Google, trying to figure out reasonable market value for that particular model. If I figured out, after due diligence, that there is no easily determined market value for the specific piano that the instructor is trying to sell me, I would be gone in a flash. I’ll be damned if I’m going to hand over $16,000 for a silly musical instrument if I can’t be sure that I could turn around and sell it back for the same price, the day my boy discovers girls. The minute I realize there’s no established market price for Steinways, is the minute I call up a guitar instructor and see if he’s got room for one more kid in his next lesson.
Just because I can afford it doesn’t mean I’m going to spend it.

There is one way we can give purchasers (the one who writes the checks, who usually isn’t the one putting his or her butt in the saddle) confidence that the price they are paying for this particular class of horse is appropriate:
The USEF should require disclosure of sale prices of every horse that registers a transfer of ownership. Then they should make that list publicly available, to USEF members. There wouldn’t have to be a retroactive price confessional for horses that were registered before the rule takes effect. Just a voluntary (as in, you can be honest about the price or not) disclosure of price when you buy a horse and register with the Federation after the rule takes effect. If you don’t want others to know what you paid, just put $1. But enough owners are looking for ways to improve the system and strengthen the sport that their loved ones are obsessed with, that they will be honest. As the (hypothetical) database grows, it will act as a sort of Kelley Blue Book for Show Horses. Now, a Dad who is new to the business and is being asked to step up and buy a better horse for Suzie, can stay up late at night on the Internet, perusing a list of recently sold horses who compete in the same classes as Suzie on the USEF website. There will be some who sold for a lot of money, and their record of blue ribbons can be found. And there will be those who are sold for not as much money, whose record of blue ribbons will be harder to find. The outliers (those whose price doesn’t match their record) will be discussed the next day with the trainer, who will use the opportunity to continue educating the Dad. Only this time, through greater transparency of the system, the Dad will feel much more empowered, and therefore – according to George Akerlof (did I mention he won a Nobel Prize for this?) much more likely to make the purchase.

If we can establish average market value for horses, we will retain more owners in the industry. This will mean more people competing for the same horses. According to simple Supply and Demand Economics, this will drive the value of all horses up. If purchasers sense greater transparency (honesty, really), they will feel not only better at the time of purchase, but also at the time of selling. So let’s say Suzie announces one day that she never liked the name of her new horse that she’s only owned for two months, and really likes another one. In this system, Dad isn’t going to bother trying to talk her into keeping her current horse; he feels pretty good that he can sell it and get another one. The fallout of this will be that the lottery ticket commissions will be fewer and farther between, as sellers can also easily see how much the horse sold for, and might tell the buyer what they were actually asking. But agents will be making commissions much more frequently, which would more than make up for the loss of the rare lottery ticket deal. And trainers with steady cash flow are better able to pay their vet bills on time.
See how everything comes back around to talking about me?

0 Faults

“Once a horse figures out he can cheat you, it’s damn near impossible to get him to stop.”

These words were spoken by a friend who trains western pleasure horses, talking about how one of his horses “cheats “ the rider in one direction, by contorting his body in a way that makes him more comfortable on that lead. He can tune the horse to go better with some basic dressage, but as soon as the client gets on the horse, it reverts immediately back to its more comfortable way of going, robbing the rider of a decent ribbon. I think the quote can be used in almost every corner of the horse world. Horses “cheat” us in any number of ways: stopping at jumps, not landing on both leads, refusing to load on trailers, the list is almost infinite. In some cases, the horse is just plain being naughty, and needs consistent discipline. In most cases though, I believe there is a consistent underlying cause.

I don’t hear it as often as I used to, but some people talk about “one-sided” horses. It’s true that a significant proportion of horses in work really prefer one lead over another. It’s also true that a significant proportion of horses in work are sore in a couple of places. If the horses really were just one-sided (like left or right handed), then there should be just as many horses who are more comfortable to ride on the horse’s preferred side as their not- preferred side. I have never seen a horse who is more comfortable to ride on its right lead, but who prefers to canter on its left lead.

Horses don’t have opposable thumbs; there is no reason for them to develop more proficiency on one side than the other.

Comfort is the only logical reason. To keep them from cheating you then, you need to keep them comfortable, so they don’t have a reason to cheat you.

Old School Liverpool

I’m glad I ended up deciding to work on sport horses rather than racehorses, and one of the biggest reasons is the length of their careers. We can all name Grand Prix Jumpers who showed to 18 years and older. John Henry won graded stakes at 10, but he is the rare exception; good racehorses tend to have a much shorter shelf life. Many older show horses have had significant injuries that took them out of work for a while. Once they make it back, if carefully managed, a lot of them can go back into their previous line of work and compete successfully, despite old injuries.

So physical limitations to a career can often be overcome.
On the other hand, if that same horse who came back a year ago from suspensory surgery is now sound but has decided to stop jumping the water, the suspensory injury is no longer the problem. The horse is sound enough for the job. He just decided there’s a part of his job he doesn’t like anymore, or he is afraid of. Experienced trainers have tried an awful lot of not- very- nice things to get talented horses to jump water. It often backfires in their face, and the horse ends up with a change in career, if they are even willing to go to a jump at all. Confidence is the most important thing a trainer can instill in a horse.

Mental limitations are often much more career limiting than physical limitations.
So if mental limitations are a greater impediment to long careers than physical limitations, what do we do to improve a horse’s confidence?

First, we figure out where it hurts, with an accurate diagnosis, where possible. Then we institute a physical therapy program which may or may not include medical therapy, shoeing changes, chiropractic, and specific exercises to get the horse to use its body in an efficient manner, thereby developing soundness.

Next, it’s important for the trainer to build confidence in the horse that “this isn’t going to hurt.” Once the horse realizes that landing on a particular lead for instance, isn’t as painful as it once was, a habit needs to be ingrained. Depending on our level of confidence in the completion of previous steps up to this point, we need to be willing to tell the horse to do this. If we feel like we got to the bottom of his lack of comfort (or confidence, if he’s neurologic), and took our time building his confidence in the exercise, then it’s time for him to meet us half way.

We are stewards for these animals, and in my opinion, the social contract goes like this: we provide a roof and three squares a day. When they colic, or get a foot abscess, we seek medical advice to improve the condition. Left in the wild, these conditions would cause fairly immediate death at the hands of a hungry predator. In exchange for this stewardship, we expect the horses to do their jobs once in a while. Once we’ve ruled out or fixed physical limitations, and given the horse adequate confidence building, it may be time to find a less polite way to get the horse to stop cheating you.

That is, as always, just my opinion.

Not long after arriving in Louisiana, it became clear that Bobby was the only one who could get along with our best mare, who had been a stakes winner. Perhaps it was because he was too polluted for fear, but Bobby was the only one who could get in the stall with her. So naturally, he was put in charge of her. It wasn’t long before he started calling her Alice, after his ex-wife. She would pin her ears and swing her butt to the door as he tried to duck under the webbing. He’d grab a broom, smack her with it,

“Come on Alice. Get yo ass aroun.”

With a sly grin on his face, like there was an inside joke there he wasn’t sharing. Or maybe he wasn’t good at masking his affection. Either way, he seemed fairly amused by her nasty behavior, rather than put off by it. In time, he found that she loved hot honey buns from the track kitchen. He would get one every morning on the way to the barn. When he had spare moments waiting for other horses to come off the track, he’d lean against the wall next to her door, with his head turned away. She would reach over his blind shoulder and try to pluck the honey bun from his chest pocket, and when he turned toward her to stroke her face she would quickly back away into her stall, pin her ears and just about hiss at him like a snake. He’d chuckle and call her an appropriate name. Then rip off a piece of the bun and toss it in her feed tub, before walking away and getting his next horse.

Just plain ornery

“She just didn’t break from the gate” was jockey Larry Thibault’s excuse to the trainer, as he slid off the saddle and pad, and headed back to the jockey’s room.

Bobby led the sweat and mud laden mare back to the barn after her first start under his care.
“He held her” He mumbled ostensibly under his breath but intentionally loud enough that I could hear

It’s a great weight loss program, walking hot horses around a barn from 5:30 til 10:30 every morning. But once your body catches up to the constant motion, your mind starts to look for new exercise. You can only walk around the same barn so many times before you fall over from boredom. Despite the frequent budweiser stops on the other side of the barn, Bobby’s mind was always active, as was his chitter- chatter.

“You want to learn how to cook cajun food Frittah?”

I had a romantic notion of myself at 21 to be a rennaissance man. I thought it would be a tremendous waste to spend a winter in Louisiana and not at least learn how to do a roux.

“Start with shrumps. I been eating shrumps mah whole life. You can’t rune a shrump.”

Every coonass and mudbug thinks cooking is a congenital trait, passed down in their genes from a momma who did a gumbo second to none. It turns out that every gen-u-ine gumbo has a hint of swamp water aftertaste. I’m not sure how much culinary talent is required to achieve that result, but they’re proud of it nonetheless

Three weeks after her previous start, Bobby’s charge was entered again. She trained well up to the race, drew a fast track, easy company, and a good post position. Everything was looking up.

“That motherf**cker held her again!” Bobby exclaimed on the way back to the barn after another inexplicable loss.

Alice had by now not hit the board in her last few starts, all in allowance company, and our boss was worried that something was wrong. Was it physical? A parade of vets visited her over the next two weeks. Had she lost her heart? He decide that running her in a race below her ability would restore her confidence. So he dropped her in for a $50,000 tag, knowing most people would be afraid to take her, as it would look on paper like she lost a step, and he was trying to unload a used-up asset. People tend not to take a chance and hang a halter on a horse that looks like its career is on a negative trajectory. But going to the windows, that’s another thing. The morning line had her at 20 to 1, but we knew there was nothing wrong with her, so Bobby put down $100 across the board on her, his entire paycheck.

Her groom was school boy giddy the morning of the race.

“You gonna get your picture taken today Bobby?” I asked.

In an instant, the skies turned overcast.

Bobby froze, clenched his jaw, then glared at Tim, our barn manager, who was walking by.

“What? I didn’t say it?” was Tim’s response to the hole being burned into his forehead.

“Yeah but he don’t know sh*t but what you tell him. You can’t teach him to keep his mouth shut?”

I was standing right there and I voted in the last election. I knew racetrackers were superstitious, but I didn’t know how complicated that became.

There was silence in the barn for the rest of the day.

Backside

The jockey kept the mare out of traffic and she won easy, just on class. When we went down to collect her after the race, another groom was standing there putting a halter on her. Someone had entered a claim before the race, and we lost her to Tom Thibault. Tom Thibault was a local trainer who had a medium sized stable. He did a decent job and was fairly well respected by most on the backside for his competence. He also happened to be our jockeys brother.

There is always more going on than meets the eye in New Orleans, and nowhere is this more apparent than on the racetrack. Speculation and Conspiracy Theory are favorite racetrack pastimes. But at the Fair Grounds, these theories often prove themselves out. I once watched 7gray horses win 7 races in a row on the same card. What are the odds on that? Impossible to one, unless you’re at the Fair Grounds. All winter long there was a trainer with a small stable who couldn’t win a race. He was the son of a well respected trainer who died years ago, and was able to keep a couple of the old clients through loyalty to the father’s memory. Unfortunately for them, he somehow managed to get to middle age without ever learning how to train a dog to sit. As long as you could find an owner to send you a couple horses, you could survive as a trainer. Hard work, talent, respect on the backside not required. Just horses. He was buddies with the racing secretary; they had lunch every day at a pub just down the street from the back gate.

“You watch, Frittah. Before de end o’ de meet, he’s gonna win one race. Every year he wins one race. Not zero, not two. you watch”
Sure enough, on the last day of the meet, the secretary wrote a race with conditions that only a few horses on the track could qualify for, and his friend had a horse that was easily the best of the group. The horse won big, and the trainer’s son got to make his owner happy. He got the photo in the winner’s circle that he could put on the wall of his office, that would sustain him for another year of training bills. And all the racetrackers in the know cashed a ticket.

Tom Thibault didn’t waste time with his new charge. Two weeks after picking her up on the cheap, he entered her in a small stakes race.

At the post

On the day of the race, the racetrack owners had paid for a crawfish boil for racetrack employees, to celebrate Mardi Gras, and give a thank-you to the little people.
“Bastards make al dat money off our be-hinds an dey can’t spring for some shrump” .
Picnic tables inside the track kitchen were covered in brown rolled paper, then smothered with huge mounds of corn, potatoes, onion and crawfish, all boiled in beer and bay seasoning. We followed the races on the kitchen monitors between gulps of cold sweaty beer held to our lips by slimy salty fingers.

Larry Thibault hussled his brother’s mare out of the gate and clear of traffic. She set the pace and outlasted a late challeger to win the race by half a length. I glanced over at Bobby to see his reaction, but his head was already back down on his crawfish.
“I’m glad the bitch is gone.”

And he dove back into his work, twisting off heads and pinching off tails.

As the horses were being unloaded from the trailer, it became apparent that the Hispanic fellas had decided not to make the trip. A couple of years before, a Mexican groom had killed a black racetracker in a knife fight on the backside. At the Fair Grounds Racetrack in New Orleans, it was well known that Mexicans were not safe.

I was immediately promoted from hotwalker to groom, leaving my former task vacant. As is customary at the racetrack, we hired the first person to walk in the door asking for a job. It’s an easy business decision: if the new guy doesn’t work out, not to worry. Someone else who has just been fired from another barn will come round looking for work. And the racetrack ecosystem, based on underpaid employment for the unemployable, will come full circle again. Like Mutual of Omaha, but the lions are junkies and the zebras have gambling addictions.

Don't let the view fool you.

At first glance, Bobby wasn’t straight out of central casting for a hotwalker on the racetrack. He was a short, curly haired white man in his 50s with relatively clean jeans, relatively dirty glasses, and a New Orleans accent that he was proud of. He didn’t say New Ahlins, or New Orleens. He said N’Ollins. And he meant it, every time. He’d been skating through life since his paper route, one job to the next.

New Orleans was his home, and he considered himself her first son. So when the meet left town in the spring, he’d find other work, to never stray far from her bosom. Officially, he spent most summers as a cabbie, picking up tourists from the airport. Unofficially, he was the one-man welcoming committee for the en-tire Crescent City. He knew every street corner on both sides of the river, and could recite at least one great story that took place on each one of those corners. Bobby mostly loved to tell racetrack stories, or so it seemed. Perhaps if I had met him in bakery, he would have filled our days telling stories of late night flour escapades. In retrospect, maybe all of his stories were fabrications. But when he told them, they were real.

When he got the job, Tim, our barn manager, walked around introducing him to everyone.

“Bobby, meet Alex. He dropped out of college to come on the racetrack.”

“Really?” Bobby’s eyes quickly traced a path from my head to my shoes and back up. “You look normal enough.” Barely a pause, ” So are you de ass-istant trainuh or de in-sistent trainuh?” and he walked off laughing.

He spent much of the rest of our time together alternating between grooming me for one position, and making fun of me for the other.

“Hey Frittah! You know the two best things to look for in an owner, dontcha….? Deep pockets, and distance.”

Every story was meant to be a lesson, of some sort.

“Mistuh Boudreau liked to sell a 25 percent share in a horse to 6 or 7 people who didn’t know each otha. Den when he worked one of his otha hosses, he’d tell de clockuhs dat he was workin So-and-So. It would do a bullet work, and be published in de racin’ form de next day. He’d call de owners of So-and-So and say ‘Your hoss is almos ready to run.’ But ole So-and-So would still be in de barn wit a bowed tendon, where he been de last two months’. Deep pockets an distance. You remembah dat, Frittah.”

I couldn’t have been more Caucasian. No matter how dirty I allowed my jeans to get, or how much of a slumped, foot dragging affect I imposed on my stride, everyone stared at me whenever I went into the track kitchen. I wanted so badly to just fit in. To instantly have the horse and life experience that was respected by these guys. But experience comes at it’s own pace, and no amount of determination can abbreviate the process. Though you couldn’t have told me that at 21.

Besides storytelling, Bobby had a weakness (some would say strength) for Budweiser. The trainer we worked for was a pretty clean-cut fella, and Bobby quickly figured out that he wouldn’t get away with drinking publicly in the barn. A small consolation for getting a reliable paycheck, as most “telephone trainers” were at least given that much credit for. Like most addicts, Bobby had the ingenuity to quickly adapt, improvise and overcome.

As a hotwalker, you spent your entire morning walking horses around the perimeter of the barn. On the backside of our stalls was Mr. Jones, whose groom for the last 30 years was Burl, whom Bobby has known for almost that long. Burl always put his horses in ice tubs up to their knees for an hour after they got off the track in the morning. And what better place to store a 6 pack of Budwieser than in an ice tub on the other side of the barn from your boss?

“Whoah back! I’m thirsty.”

He was a shining example of what I’ve always admired most about addicts: their perseverance, in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.

Nation!

The problem with Washington these days isn’t the sleazy louses we elect. Ok, they’re not helping. But their spineless posturing is the product of something greater than their inadequacies; they are not by themselves bright enough for an orginal thought, nor humble enough to recognize the fact. The real problem is the effect of for-profit media creating de facto direct democracy. Cable tv has found that promoting dogmatic idealogues is good for the bottom line.

I’m all for capitalism, but the problem with this is the fallout it has created: people are actually watching, and eventually becoming polarized in their views, according to which network they prefer watching. With 24 hours of airtime to fill, the cable folks have plenty of time to clearly define the boundaries of their beliefs, and spit on anyone slightly on the other side of the line. It’s great that people are paying attention to the issues. But at some point we need these talking heads to just shut up and let the people we elected make adult decisions, without being held under the microscope for everything they do.

See? No tv cameras.

That’s why our Federal Government was designed as a representative democracy, not direct democracy. California has Direct Democracy: Since 1911, if you wanted an amendment to the California Constiutution, for say, not allowing anyone to pick their nose in downtown Chino between 10am and noon, you can propose a ballot initiative, and every voter can decide that all important issue during the next election. But this is unwieldy business, allowing the public to decide every issue for themselves, based on a couple of simpleton sound bytes that resonated at the moment they heard it. For most of these decisions, the issues deserve in- depth expert analysis, and wisdom gained by time spent on the job.

At some point, I need to correlate this to the horse world or I’m going to be excused from this site. And here it is… I am a big believer in educating owners, trainers, riders, grooms and farriers about what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. The more we know, the better prepared we are to make important decisions. But at some point, we need to recognize that there are those who have greater wisdom than ourselves, by virtue of time spent on the job. This is particularly true in the horse purchase situation.

Seal the Deal

I try to be as open as possible to owners regarding my findings on the purchase exam, so that they understand the medical part of what I found. But they really need to rely upon the trainers to help make the decision to purchase the horse. It is not our job to comment on sale price or suitability. Shortcomings on the physical exam need to be considered in the context of the above factors, and not supercede them. This is really why trainers deserve a commission, in my opinion. True, they have often spent many hours on the phone looking for horses and arranging trials, and are often out their own money for travel to see these horses. But the reason for giving them a commission really boils down to a compact between the purchaser and their agent. The agent (trainer) has found a seller who they trust, and by taking money on the deal, are implicitly vouching for the trustworthiness of the seller, the suitability of the horse for the price, the competency of the vet, and the entire situation. This is representative government at its purest. Direct democracy is messy, because it relies upon decision making by people who have no time to study the issues enough to really understand them.  Find someone who lives and breathes it every day. They know what a horse is worth, where to find it, and who to buy it from. And for all of that expertise they’ve accumulated over years of pounding the pavement, they deserve to be compensated. And giving them money for where their mouth is, is like buying insurance.

Ducking a torrential downpour, I decided to stay in the covered arena to watch a couple more classes. I had stopped in to the Morgan show this morning, to make sure the horse that I treated last night for a little stall accident went ok. You’ll be happy to know that the horse went great. I saved another one! Or something like that.

I go to horse shows all the time, but this was the first time I had been to a gaited horse show since I went on a date to the Shelby County Fair nearly 15 years ago. At first glance, it was entirely different from what I’m used to: old school organ, old school outfits, tons of makeup, people with shaky cans waving their hands at bug eyed horses.

But as I looked around, some other things started to look really familiar. Unbalanced seats of amateur riders causing them to hang on their horses’ mouths, and throwing them off their gait. Little kids who tried to look calm, but were more bug-eyed than their mounts. Overworked and underslept young women in dirty jeans who at 25 can’t dream of doing anything else with their lives. Vendors trying to scratch out a living by traveling from show to show to pawn their wares. A trainer/ parent (they’re universal, and easy to pick out) giving sophisticated instructions to her jockey/daughter on the way through the ingate, then the next time she passes by, barking out “…and smile!!”, more drill sargeant  instruction than supportive life advice.  I thought that was the most layered irony I’ve witnessed in a long time, and a (genuine) smile crept across my face. Of all the possible things that this 11 year old kid could have swirling through her head:

“Just the right amount of contact to keep him in this frame but still moving forward”

“Counter bend in the corners to the left because he’s lame there”

“I better do this right or this horse won’t get sold and we’ll lose our house”

“Oh my God I hope this beast doesn’t run off with me”

I’m not sure smiling was at the top of her list of things to think about at that moment. Smiling is probably quite the opposite of what these kids were feeling. And yet, in spite of that, we tell them to pretend like they’re enjoying the moment, when in reality, they’re about two minutes from vomiting in front of a live audience.  That’s a whole lot of pressure on little shoulders.

But yes, they do smile. Big, when the ribbons are announced and they can go back to the relative safety of solid ground.  Away from the scary organ, or the scary jumps, or the scary barrels. And we’re rewarded as parents by that great big oversized smile. It’s that big because it has to fit in enough room for the smile from being on a horse and winning a ribbon, as well as the smile of relief that they made it back alive.

As I started paying attention to the horses, I found it wasn’t that difficult to pick out the winner, even though this was the first time I had been to a gaited show. They were the most brilliant, and the most even. Horses that were lame in front or behind didn’t do so well. Horses who looked good but lacked push didn’t do so well either.  Horses were rewarded that had the talent, soundness and fitness to hold themselves in the correct frame. Sound familiar? I don’t really know the terminology, but once you get past the funny outfits and the shaky cans, these horses and the demands placed on them aren’t really that different than any other discipline. I could have just been describing a dressage test. Or a western pleasure class. Or a hunter division.

As much as I think we’re probably overmedicating and overtreating (I’m guilty) these horses, the truth is, it’s a competitive world out there.  The horses in every sport are better than they’ve ever been, and the horsemen are increasingly clever. Ask an old timer in any of these sports who will give you an honest answer, and they’ll all tell you how much better bred, better trained and better ridden the average horse is at a serious show these days.  People spend the money and want to win a ribbon. When you can walk into an arena and watch horses go round that you have no familiarity with, and pretty quickly pick out the winners and losers by their degree of soundness and how it effects their movement, then vet work must be a central element in every successful program, everywhere. Just when I start trying to inject some perspective into this madness, I’m reminded pretty handily of just how intimately comfort is associated with performance in equine athletes.

Everyone is a little different. Some want to be there to lend a helping hand, perhaps because they think it’s going to be harder for me than for them, or because they don’t want to be an inconvenience. Others want to be there to comfort their old friend until he’s asleep for the last time. A lot don’t want to be there at all, having already said their peace at a more private time. Maybe they just prefer to cherish a last quiet moment together. I believe some are worried that they will be embarrassed by an outburst of emotion that often occurs when the final moment arrives. The difference is not only in how people grieve, but also what exactly they are grieving over.

I met Slugger (call names have been changed to protect the innocent airman), in the fall, when he had been retired from the Air Force for about a year. My fascination with his career allowed me to draw out of him that in his prime, he was a fighter pilot of some distinction. Like many great men, he understood that the gravity of his accomplishments superceded his need to tell the world about it, so he mostly kept it to himself. As we ambled across the field to an old abandoned dairy barn that was built into the side of a hill, I came to understand that his service was its own reward. Like most upper level career military officers, he was a fairly charismatic guy. Being higher up on the totem pole requires some degree of sophistication and affability, and affords independence of thought that lower ranking soldiers aren’t allowed. He was conservative by choice, not culture. His moderate frame moved with practiced assertiveness, but today you could detect a slight slump in his posture.

Slugger had a wife who hadn’t enjoyed Slugger’s retirement as much as he did. She had moved out about a year earlier, leaving him, his 70 or so acres of rolling but unmowed Virginia countryside, and one old retired racehorse behind. As we stepped into the old barn, he made it clear that his disdain for his ex-wife extended to his feeling for her horse. He kept it fed through the winter just because it was the right thing to do, but the black gelding just hadn’t kept weight on all summer, in spite of being stifle deep in 70 acres of lush green groceries, all by himself. The horse had earned his retirement; he had a long career, winning a few small stakes races along the way. Slugger called me because he wanted to make sure the horse didn’t need its teeth floated, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the money on it. The military man may have had an easy nature, but he still valued the practical over the emotional. He wasn’t taking care of the horse out of love, just duty.

From across the stall you could count all the ribs on the 30-year-old gelding and even see some grey hairs on his chin. He wasn’t neglected, just old. We looked in his mouth, and I did a general physical. He did indeed have some dental problems, but so do most people of equivalent “experience”. Of more concern was the yellow color of his gums and the irregular heart beats. I pulled some blood and told him I would call him that evening with the results. Walking back across the field to the truck, Slugger made it clear that he wasn’t planning on spending any money on his ex-wife’s horse to save it, but just running some bloodwork was probably the right thing to do.

When I called with the bad news that evening, Slugger’s response was not uncharacteristic:

“I understand.”

“That’s the right thing to do.”

He told me that tomorrow he would be out of town all day, but just to come and the horse would be tied under his favorite tree, down by the creek. If I could do my part without him, he would take care of the rest.

When I pulled up to the farm the next afternoon, the black gelding was sure enough tied to his tree. As I got closer I saw that he was wearing a brand new leather halter with his name etched on the brass plate, like a proper racehorse halter. There was a little baggie hanging from a branch not far from where the horse was getting his last great mouthfuls of grass.  In the baggie were some carrots and some peppermints and a note to please let the horse have a few bites before I did what I had to do. We offered the treats to the old guy, and then gave him a little pat. Then, when the moment seemed right, I injected a barbiturate into his jugular, and a few seconds later, he became unconscious and his body slumped to the ground. His newly liberated spirit was already running around its new green pasture in the sky before his spent heart beat for the last time.

We pulled out of the drive and onto the road, which turned a tight corner before going up along the ridge overlooking the farm. Between the trees I could see Slugger had already made his way out of his house and over to the horse. At the next break in the trees I saw him slumped over the body, and it looked like he was sobbing. I drove silently into the dusk, wondering which loss he was mourning.