The sound of the angry buzzsaw could be heard a mile away. The old black walnut tree had graced our horse farm for two generations of the Horton family. Little did we know that once we decided to raise horses, at our daughter’s repeated vocal requests, the tree was doomed.
Hank, our first horse, started to show signs of laminitis. His lower legs began to swell and he was reluctant to move. If we asked him to move he would rock forward and backward and lose his balance.
None of those horses out there are anywhere as good as my first little girl. She was born to run. She had that gene from her father.
She came a long way from her birth place in Paris Kentucky. She made Stuart and Barbara very proud and not a little bit better off financially. “Queen of the Fillies” was what everyone called her. She won her maiden race by 15 lengths. None of those cocky boys could catch her. She won her first ten races. What a girl!
The only race she ever lost was the one that killed her.
Jacinto was on board when just after the first quarter-mile when her right foreleg snapped. She still tried to run and finish the race. She had such a big heart that Jacinto said he could not stop her. She was even running when she was under anesthesia.
I know, my little unborn, that you will make your mother proud. Just remember little girl to get out front early and let the boys try and catch you. You know they will be after you because that’s what boys dream of. Mom will teach you that part.
Bill and I have become good friends over the last couple of months. He just moved it down the road. I met Bill when I was out on my regular walk.
Bill is a kind of mellow type guy. It took him a few weeks before we began communicating. Me with “Good Morning, Bill.” Bill with a friendly snort. The first few times I walked by he just glared at me with eyes that were more curious than sad. Bill kind of got an idea of what I was doing. One day he gave me a few hundred feet head start and then roared down along side of the fence that separated us. You could the power of his hoofs made as they made contact with the turf. When Bill got to the end of the fence he stopped, turned around, and snorted at me. Like he was saying “Now that’s how you run buddy.” If he is in the back of the pasture when I walk past he trots over as if to say “Hello, old man. What’s up?”