one.
“That tickles.” Filipia lifted her shoulder to her ear, a gesture that sent me away. After a while, I came on back. She laughed again. “Okay, I’m ticklish. You win!”
She started telling me a story, and I got so busy listening that I hardly realized what she was doing. The sound of her voice and the effort she was making wrapped me up and I felt safe.
“Let me tell you about my home, Dante. I am from an island where horses roam freely. They walk straight up to the mayor himself. Some of them — the strawberry roan ponies — even belong to him. The tourists call these ponies the wild horses of Vieques. But they’re not really wild. They are free. The opposite of you, Dante from Hades. Ah, you prick your ears? So, you hear the nickname they call you? Well, you are the opposite of the wild horses of Vieques. You are wild but not free.”
As she whispered into my ear, I’ll be honest, I tried to find a good reason to hold a grudge or at least start up a new one. But there was something honest and true about Filipia.
She and I got off to a good start. Heck, a great one. ’Course she helped her cause immensely by keeping her hands free of crops, needles, and other sharp, pointy things.
I even looked forward to her mucking my stall, so I could stand in there with her.
One day, she told me, “I know your racing name is Dante’s Inferno. But that’s just what the Jockey Club says. All those numbers tattooed on your lip? If I trace those numbers I can then discover your birth date and place, and also your parents’ names. I could find out where you were born, though I know you are Kentucky-bred. A true Thoroughbred.”
She was talking about the code that Gary had arranged to have tattooed onto my upper lip, shortly after I had arrived to train. There exists, for all Thoroughbred racehorses, a code in the form of one letter and five numbers. Get a look in my mouth, which I’m nowise suggesting will be easy, and there’s the gateway to my pedigree.
Filipia stopped picking at my bedding and leaned on the pitchfork. Sounding all dreamy, she said something else. “Some people think that everything they need to know about you is carried right here.” She tickled my upper lip. “But I know there is something else about you. You are special, so I’m giving you a special name.
Monkey
. Okay? When you hear that name, you can relax and come to me when I call you. That way, you’ll be like the horses of my island.”
After that, with Filipia taking good care of me, everything seemed to be unfolding exactly according to Gary’s ticktock. That is, until they tried to mount me.
A round my second birthday, Gary brought over a saddle and a rider. I should’ve seen that coming. After all, everybody knows Thoroughbreds don’t race by themselves. Running takes two — one horse, one jockey.
I don’t know what I had expected, but, sakes alive, I sure hadn’t wagered that the man would fling himself on top of me without first looking me in the eye, asking permission, and coming to know me.
Now, there’s plenty of respectful ways to communicate with a horse. Even if your mind can’t accept the possibility that words can be understood, universal languages do exist between nearly all species.
For starters, try making a soft sound that is not a growl or a bark or a yowl. For instance, those calico cats that like to hang around barns? They can purr or they can screech. Every animal on earth knows the difference and what means what.
A respectful pause at the stall door? What a nice way to greet a horse. The equivalent of saying, “Hello! Do you care to receive company at this hour?”
These methods, combined with a good-intended heart, surely will help when approaching a horse for the first time. And, of course, planting yourself where you can easily be seen.
The long and short of it is that many men at Gary’s facility tried to break me. Every one of them came at me like a twister in an open field, in a
“That tickles.” Filipia lifted her shoulder to her ear, a gesture that sent me away. After a while, I came on back. She laughed again. “Okay, I’m ticklish. You win!”
She started telling me a story, and I got so busy listening that I hardly realized what she was doing. The sound of her voice and the effort she was making wrapped me up and I felt safe.
“Let me tell you about my home, Dante. I am from an island where horses roam freely. They walk straight up to the mayor himself. Some of them — the strawberry roan ponies — even belong to him. The tourists call these ponies the wild horses of Vieques. But they’re not really wild. They are free. The opposite of you, Dante from Hades. Ah, you prick your ears? So, you hear the nickname they call you? Well, you are the opposite of the wild horses of Vieques. You are wild but not free.”
As she whispered into my ear, I’ll be honest, I tried to find a good reason to hold a grudge or at least start up a new one. But there was something honest and true about Filipia.
She and I got off to a good start. Heck, a great one. ’Course she helped her cause immensely by keeping her hands free of crops, needles, and other sharp, pointy things.
I even looked forward to her mucking my stall, so I could stand in there with her.
One day, she told me, “I know your racing name is Dante’s Inferno. But that’s just what the Jockey Club says. All those numbers tattooed on your lip? If I trace those numbers I can then discover your birth date and place, and also your parents’ names. I could find out where you were born, though I know you are Kentucky-bred. A true Thoroughbred.”
She was talking about the code that Gary had arranged to have tattooed onto my upper lip, shortly after I had arrived to train. There exists, for all Thoroughbred racehorses, a code in the form of one letter and five numbers. Get a look in my mouth, which I’m nowise suggesting will be easy, and there’s the gateway to my pedigree.
Filipia stopped picking at my bedding and leaned on the pitchfork. Sounding all dreamy, she said something else. “Some people think that everything they need to know about you is carried right here.” She tickled my upper lip. “But I know there is something else about you. You are special, so I’m giving you a special name.
Monkey
. Okay? When you hear that name, you can relax and come to me when I call you. That way, you’ll be like the horses of my island.”
After that, with Filipia taking good care of me, everything seemed to be unfolding exactly according to Gary’s ticktock. That is, until they tried to mount me.
A round my second birthday, Gary brought over a saddle and a rider. I should’ve seen that coming. After all, everybody knows Thoroughbreds don’t race by themselves. Running takes two — one horse, one jockey.
I don’t know what I had expected, but, sakes alive, I sure hadn’t wagered that the man would fling himself on top of me without first looking me in the eye, asking permission, and coming to know me.
Now, there’s plenty of respectful ways to communicate with a horse. Even if your mind can’t accept the possibility that words can be understood, universal languages do exist between nearly all species.
For starters, try making a soft sound that is not a growl or a bark or a yowl. For instance, those calico cats that like to hang around barns? They can purr or they can screech. Every animal on earth knows the difference and what means what.
A respectful pause at the stall door? What a nice way to greet a horse. The equivalent of saying, “Hello! Do you care to receive company at this hour?”
These methods, combined with a good-intended heart, surely will help when approaching a horse for the first time. And, of course, planting yourself where you can easily be seen.
The long and short of it is that many men at Gary’s facility tried to break me. Every one of them came at me like a twister in an open field, in a
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