I fell in love with an old racehorse on December 10, 2014. During finals week, of all times, I drove to visit a bay Thoroughbred named Canoe In A Slew who retired that fall from racing at the age of nine years. His age did not put him anywhere near the end of his lifespan, for horses can live to be around 30-years-old. In horse racing, however, Thoroughbreds retire at earlier ages in the way that human athletes stop competing when the collateral damage of adulthood takes over their bodies. Canoe reminded me of a graduating athlete at some northeastern private college, ready to pack away his racing shoes and pursue something else with his life. I could make him into a dressage horse or jumper, but looked forward to riding him through my fields back home and watching him become a companion to my other horse. Three days later, when I returned home for Christmas break, my new Thoroughbred arrived at my stable back home in Pennsylvania.
When the trailer door opened I met the same kind face who stared at me from his stall the day we met. He eyed his new surroundings with interest, neither panicking nor ignoring my presence while I approached the trailer. I know you from somewhere before... I seemed to read through his mind. But I do not see a racetrack among these grassy fields and woods outside.
I led him from the trailer into the turnout ring outside my barn. He found his pile of hay to munch on with his eyes still locked onto my father and I while his trainer's familiar trailer left the property. His velveteen muzzle sniffed an apple delicately, which I held out for him, and he eyed it like a restaurant critic.
We rode. I learned that Canoe In A Slew would not become one of the horror stories seen on equestrian Facebook pages, or gossiped about between saddle racks in the back of a tack room about "crazy" ex-racehorses who have a conniption every time they're asked to ride at any speed other than a full gallop. On some thrilling days, I trotted toward the back corner of our pasture before turning around and galloping off, flying over the field, and only stopping because fence lines don't stretch forever. Some more of my favorite rides, however, took place along the neighborhood roads. We walked around the block, passing mail vans and barking dogs, viewing dormant brown cornfields and cat shadows slinking across wooden porch railings. At the bottom of a hill stood a tall black horse inside his paddock, who whinnied to the visiting equine neighbor. My horse strolled past almost any traffic, and when encountering any stressful obstacle, expressed his refusal like a prep school student facing his assignments. I absolutely detest these cows and their most bothersome noises, his pinned ears told me while he backed steadily away from a herd of cows who decided to greet him during our ride. He never reared and, thankfully, refrained from spinning around to bolt back toward home. He merely planted his hooves while refusing to move until he decided the cows could become tolerable after all. Then, with the revolting cows behind us, I heard calmness return in the rhythm of four steady hoofbeats.
The excitement of seeing my Thoroughbred never diminishes with time. He reminds me how fortunate I am to own such a wonderful horse.
