Nowhere to Hide: A Special Horse

LOVE: The Greatest of All      

Nowhere To Hide

There is always one. One special horse, every year, that captures my heart.  Of course, I love all horses of all breeds. And every horse that I have chosen as a MMSC candidate, I care about, and will commit unwaveringly to find it a new job and home. But there is always one that makes me smile whenever I see it; one I can spend time with quietly that restores me when I need sustenance; one that I am tempted to bring home to add to my band. 

There is no rhyme or reason to which horse will turn out to be “Susanna’s favorite.” Over my years at the MMSC, I have fallen for a sprite, a crusader, a diva, and a Confederate. There’s been an Iron Lady and a cynic too. No jocks, though. I like jocks, but I have never been in love with one, yet. 

I had already looked at a bunch of horses when Nowhere to Hide was led out of the barn on a cold day this February.  

“This one ran in the Kentucky Derby!,” the farm manager proudly announced.  

“Ah yes,” I mumbled as I looked at the eight year old gelding its groom was standing up before me. Clearly it had been a while since he had been in Kentucky Derby shape. This was a non-descript 16 hand bay. Shaggy coated. Unkempt mane. Under weight. With rain rot.  

“Tell me about him?”

“He is by Vindicaton who is by Seattle Slew out of  a Seeking the Gold mare.  His owners bought him for $250,000 at the Keeneland yearling sale. He was a good racehorse. Made over $200k. Ran in the Derby in 2009 when Mine that Bird won. He got claimed, much to the owners’ distress.  They went after him and claimed him back and brought him here to retire.”

“Any injuries?”

“In 2010 he suffered a tibia fracture which he had surgery on. He had a tie back operation too. But he had a full recovery and was straight forward to train after that.”

I went over to the gelding and stroked him gently on the neck.  “Hello, you,” I said, edging around in front of him. I looked him up and down. Offset. Slightly knobby ankles. Chips maybe? Decent chest. Then I swept his forelock back.

He looked at me with the most magnanimous hopeful eyes I may have ever seen in a horse.

I knew right then and there despite his condition caused by his claiming experiences and exacerbated by let down during a Polar Vortex winter, he had to come to the MMSC. It didn’t matter when his groom trotted him that his pelvis was sub-luxated, his shoulders were locked and his hocks were sore. He was also stiff, very stiff all over. And his stride was uneven on the right hind. Not surprising for an athlete of his caliber.

I stood back and took a good look. I saw expense dollar signs written all over him.

“I am sure he could make someone happy,” the farm manager said.

“Could be…”

Noah turned his head and locked me in his gaze.

“I’ll take him,” I heard myself say. “But I want to talk to the owners.  This one is going to take time.”

When I talked to the owners I told them that No Where to Hide was a special horse.

“But it is obvious that he has had a hard time after he was claimed from you. The harsh winter has set him back too. He is going to need a program of intensive care: special feed, supplements, alternative therapies, and training. And it is going to take six to eight months to straighten him out. The costs will add up. And there is no certainty that the horse will ever be fully sound.”

The owner explained to me that he should never have been claimed, that they were glad to get him back. He had earned a retirement. Did I think he could be ridden again?

“I never would not have agreed to take him if I didn’t think he had a chance. He is stiff and uneven and in less than ideal condition. We can fix those things. He looks like a horse that would be happier with a person and a job, if we can get him sound enough. But it is going to take time, and I will need your help covering his treatments and supplements.”

“I’d be happy to do that!,” she said.  “I love this horse and he deserves the best!”

Noah arrived at the MMSC in late February.

“I promise you that I will keep you informed every step of the way as to whether he can have a second career or not. I’m going to start this week with a vet exam and a round of X-rays. I’ll let you know what we find and how I think we should proceed based on that.”

“That sounds perfect!”

Ah me! What exemplary owners! Owners who breed and race for the love of the horse, not just for the thrill, entertainment, and spotlight of the sport.  Owners who take care of their horses once their racing days are over. Yes, I know that it is expensive to do this. But it is the morally right thing to do for the horse. 

We turn our heads and say that we can’t make a difference individually. But a cistern is filled one drop at a time. Collectively we can make a difference. We shouldn’t pretend this isn’t a problem. Thank goodness people are joining the aftercare effort every day. Hooray for the industry efforts!  But there is still much to be done and sometimes the challenge seems overwhelming.

I know. My demons tell me that I am kidding myself to think that the handful of horses I take in and rehome each year is important. They tell me that the never ending battles of raising money, or the efforts to raise awareness about the issue and to educate people about the value and versatility of the off track Thoroughbred in new careers are wastes of time. I should be a better mother, a better wife, a better friend, a better citizen. Stupid me.

But then, there is always that special horse. The one I seek out during the day no matter what I am doing because it gives me peace beyond understanding. The one that inspires me to be of service to something greater than mere day to day human life. The one that fills me  with that most powerful force of all: Love. 

And this year, that horse is Nowhere to Hide. And in the next few blog entries I am going to tell you Noah’s story. It’s one that amazes and uplifts me. From beginning to end, it’s a tale and a labor of love. It’s the reason why reschooling Thoroughbreds is such a joy and a privilege to do.

Cheery bye,

Susanna

Photo Album: Sips ’N Saddles #2

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Being an aficionado of the written and spoken word, I beg, sometimes to differ. But when it comes to Sips ’N Saddles #2 it would take many pages to describe this special night, and there simply are no words for the gratitude I have for every guest, sponsor, volunteer, board member, and staff member who came to the party. Thank you all for showing your appreciation of the magnificent Thoroughbred and for your support of the MMSC!

Cheery bye, 

Susanna     

A big THANK YOU to
our sponsor and namesake
Maker’s Mark!

Guests were greeted at the door by valet service and servers with 
Kentucky “champagne”-
Maker’s Mark and sparkling cider.

Delicious sweets (bourbon balls galore!)
and fine Kentucky fare
from Holly Hill Inn 

   

Kentucky Bluegrass band NEWTOWN

KENNY’S CHEESES!

                    

See you at Sips ’N Saddles 2015!

The Second Annual Sips ’N Saddles

You haven’t heard from me in two weeks. If you read my last blog you know why: Blitzkrieg! I have only overseen two big parties in my life: My own wedding and the first Sips ’N Saddles last year. Both of those were wonderful and flawed. I had hoped that number three would be the charm. No goofs or glitches. Big crowd. Impressive demo. Amazing food, drink, music. Time to visit with every guest.  Lots of money raised for the cause. In short…perfect.

But like a race horse that stumbles out of the gate, I had had a bad start. The perfect band, booked months before, dropped out three weeks before the party. And two other well established horse themed fundraisers for very worthy causes were being held that same night. We had sent out five hundred invitations already. Who would come to Sips ’N Saddles #2?  Should we cancel? I asked the board.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” came the response. 

Marching orders received, I flung myself into battle. I worked long days for three weeks straight—including Sunday, September 14 when I normally I would have written a blog entry.  The next Sunday, September 21, just 30 hours post party, my spirit was willing to attempt a blog post, the flesh,  however, was hopeless. Instead, I self medicated with a prescription of my mother’s old Russian hairdresser, Zaneida— a  “vwee-spat-sa” order. This prescription calls for the following:

• A prior declaration to all in your family that to restore your mind, body, and soul, you have to “fill yourself up utterly with sleep.” You are not to be disturbed. But you are to be served should you need something.

• Sleepwear attire: P.J.s, nightgowns, oversized T shirts, or nothing at all. Your choice. 

• All day napping alternated with reading. Preferably no TV or talking on the phone.

• No blog writing.

I highly recommend vwee-spats-ing, generally several times a year, most especially after a blitzkrieg effort (such as Christmas, for example). It works.

My silence thusly explained, let me sum up the party for you:

Angels come in all ages such as beloved
Enid and Tom...

The weather could not have been more spectacular. Mid 70s. Cloudless, cerulean skies. A little breeze. The tent placement, parallel to the arena this year, was ideal. The Holly Hill Inn catering coordinator Donna and her staff worked with the precision and fluidity of a Swiss watch preparing the food and drink, serving it silently and seamlessly. A legion of angels arrived from far flung places, (Minnesota, New York,Virginia, to name a few) to help. They were of all ages (high school students to retirees) and surged to the fore to do anything necessary: setting up tables, stuffing gift bags, grooming horses, vacuuming the office, bundling up carrots for the horses, sorting tickets and more.I was humbled by the outpouring of assistance, but sadly, I didn’t have any time to savor it. Before I knew it, I had to shed my dirty jeans, toss some water on my dust streaked face, slap on some make up, and slip into clean clothes. Show time!

and species! Stanley (and his jockey) brought good cheer
and kisses to all!

Guests were greeted at the door by handsome young valets to park their cars and pretty servers holding trays with bubbling glasses of Kentucky “champagne,” (Makers with apple cider). They streamed through the office, to the outside tent, where the bluegrass band, Newtown, played songs about Kentucky, horses, heartbreak and bourbon. There were games to play, and horses in the barn to visit.

I couldn’t resist getting my picture taken with all the handsome swains of X-Press Valet!
Take your cookies when they are passed! I say!

The demonstration illustrated the facets of the Horse Centered Reschooling Program®.  Horses were good… and bad. Some bucked and shied, as young horses will do. Some had jitters, too. But all behaviors were welcomed as a way of describing what we do and how we do it as well as the issues we face, and the solutions we have to come up with to reschool these horses so they can go on to second careers. We bomb proofed the horses dressing them up in costumes and took them over obstacles.

We showed off a hunter prospect, a dressage prospect, a polo pony prospect, a Western pleasure prospect. A former adopter brought back her horse that she is training for eventing. One seasoned campaigner, Bordeaux Bandit, a nine year old gelding which last raced the May, was ridden bareback, with a rope around his neck.  

Having the Ians--Ian Cole of Darby Dan (left) and my son Ian Thomas (right) and my husband Jim and daughter-in-law Elaine (not pictured) as well as

dear friend and Hall of Fame Jockey Patty Cooksey (right) at Sips N’Saddles 2 were
highlights of the party for me

Bids were made at the silent auction and over 40 items were purchased. The live auction was successful too, raising for us twice as much money as it did last year. At party’s end, gift bags were handed out. Guests left in good cheer.

So all, in all, it was a big success! So many things went well. But perfect?… No. There were glitches and goofs for sure. Just different glitches and goofs from last year. I made notes so 

Board member Louise Riggio (second from left) and friends

we don’t repeat them at Sips ’N Saddles 2015. The next day, I checked in with board members to get their take on things and their suggestions for improvements. I made more notes. So be it. Good. But not perfect. But, as Zaneida, my mother’s Russian hair dresser always says ”Perfection is death.” Zaneida knows her stuff. I need to remember that.

This said, there was an absolutely perfect moment in the day. I was zooming around campus , in the barn out of the barn, to the tent beyond the tent, talking to the caterer, the light men, the volunteers, Tony my Tiger about the arena and the campus, the sound system, Cat-erine about the horses, the demo, the demo props, to office manager Lori about the innumerable unexpected things cropping up at the last minute. Zipping and buzzing, tired I blitzed into the office and almost tripped over a small  bespectacled man in a wheel chair waiting in the foyer.

I stopped and focused on his face. I knew it well. I seen it in newspapers and books a lot. Since 1973, in fact. I had met him twice before. The last time was four years ago at the World Equestrian Games.

“MR. TURCOTTE!!!!,” I exclaimed.  

He looked up at me, smiled, and opened up his arms for a hug.

“I have to be at the Secretariat Festival in Bourbon County tonight.  But I thought I’d come by to check up on you, Susanna, and to wish you luck with your party tonight.”

I was flabbergasted.  Ron Turcotte! Secretariat’s jockey! He remembered me! He made time before the Secretariat Festival in Bourbon County to visit and show his support for the MMSC!

“Oh, THANK YOU!” I said, hugging him. “THANK YOU!"

That, my friends, is better than perfect.  

That is GRACE. 

Cheery bye,

Susanna

Ron Turcotte with the MMSC stature of Secretariat

BLITZKRIEG!

Blitzkrieg.  That’s what my first week back after vacation was like. 
We all know that returning to work after time off is like an oafish airplane landing. You hit the tarmac unwittingly, slam bouncing hard, brakes straining, tires screaming. It’s not comfortable or reassuring. You wonder how long the pilot has been flying for a living. Clearly, not long, you conclude. Thank God you’re on the ground!

Blitzkrieg or “lightening war,” is a term coined by the Germans in World War II. It was the name for a sudden fierce military attack of coordinated land and air force offensives designed to stun and quell the opponent. (Millennials think “Shock and Awe” tactics in the US-Iraq war of 2003.) You come in fast and from a variety of directions. You hit hard. You wipe out quickly. (Or so you  hope!)

Anticipating an onslaught of memos, phone calls, invoices, and requests facing me on my first day back from Maine, I decided to make a preemptive strike. I returned to Kentucky on a Saturday and fired up my computer. With fifteen  hours of MMSC counter offensive efforts logged in before I even set foot in the office on Tuesday, I assumed I had a decent handle on the situation.

One should know better at my age. Those who ASS-ume prove themselves to be just that. Self assured donkeys. The stack of papers that faced me on my desk made me draw a quick breath. I had expected the usual stuff: Adoption applications, profit and loss reports, phone messages, donations to record and acknowledge. I also knew with the final quarter of our season drawing nigh, and our annual fundraiser, Sips ’N Saddles on the September horizon, that my “to do” list would be in balloon phase. I didn't anticipate it being Hindenburg size, however and fit to burst.

“Where’s Tony?” I asked our office manager, Lori, noticing that our farm manager and his circumspect dog, Tank, weren’t anywhere in sight.

“He announced that he was taking some time off this week,” Lori said.

Hmm. Does one announce things like that? I didn’t remember his asking for time off? How could I have missed that?

Lori stated that she, too, needed to vamoose. Knowing how she always gives 110% and knowing that she had some stressful things going on at home and espying her frazzled expression, all I could do was sputter, “Ok,” forgetting when I did so the upcoming Monday was Labor Day and the day after that was a board meeting. Clearly I was not fighting fit.

The next day, the reality of having 50% of my platoon MIA, hit me full force. My infantry was gone too: Interns had gone back to college. Volunteers too. Summertime was over. The air smelled of September. I had forgotten how quickly the fall lobs itself upon us.

It’s hard to get from A to B on a day  even when fully staffed (me; Lori the office manager; Catherine the barn and media manager; and Tony the campus and farm manger). Slice the staff in two. Subtract the interns as well as our head rider, Carolyn, who was starting school, add four or five horses laid up with issues that require time consuming treatments and what you get is a very long day in action. As it is, you are lucky to get from A to a.

In addition to the depletion of troops, several fracas had taken place in my absence:

1. The band that we had booked in May for our only annual fundraiser, Sips N’ Saddles on September 19 and which we touted on our invitations canceled.
2. I found out that two other horsey fundraisers were occurring in Lexington on the night of Sips ’N Saddles. One to raise money for cancer research, colloquially named “the Betsy” after a beloved local horsewoman who lost her life too soon to this malicious disease, and the other celebrating... guess who? SECRETARIAT!!!!

TALK ABOUT BLITZKRIEG!

I remember learning about the term blitzkrieg from my Dad. He is a biographer and historian. He also was in the Navy. He has written about many wars in his numerous books. Inherently, battle tactics don’t float my boat, but when my Dad talks or writes about them, I am on board. That’s because he wields the written and spoken word with force. As a child I remember watching his eyes narrow and focus as if zeroing in on an important target when talking about battles of yesteryear. His jaw tensed as his lips launched a fusillade of precise words. I marveled at his blitzkrieg use of language!

My mother could unleash an offensive like that too, but her tactics were different. She could fell an audience with her deployment of charm, humor, and metaphor. Her critics during her Reagan years complained that she left “the President in a romantic haze after their debriefings.” I don’t doubt it.  As a story teller, she could blow Scheherazade away.

With the examples of my parents very much in mind throughout that intense first week back, I inventoried the present campus assets I had to work with: Catherine; Britanny a former intern who stepped to the plate to volunteer when she could; Jackie, who signed up for a leadership project this semester; the MMSC board; local fans and well-wishers; my ability to strategize, and I, hoped, a fledging talent for blitzkrieg English myself, that was perhaps genetically predetermined, although more likely acquired by osmosis at home. Clearly we had resources and could and would fight back.

And we did. We attacked and cleared out the piles on my desk. We got the horses treated and trained. We welcomed all visitors and adopters. We attended all meetings on the schedule. We booked a new band. We sent out another 300 Sips ’N Saddles invitations to people we had overlooked on the first mailing. We made new improved plans for our life-blood fundraiser, and I know it will be more fun than ever! We prepared for and had a good board meeting. We logged in many hours. (Which is why when grocery shopping on Labor Day weekend at 8PM, I found after unloading the top items in my cart that all the rest were not mine! I wonder who got my stuff--heavy on the gluten/lactose free stuff-- poor soul?!)  Forget about weekend time or Labor Day, but with intense effort we survived. Not only that, we thrived.

Thrived? 

How so? 

Because in life when under assault, we get turned upside down. We have to rethink our priorities,  redirect our efforts and reach out for help. We grow stronger.

I am not a fan of blitzkrieg attacks, but for these reasons, I do acknowledge that they can be instrumental in the long run. 

So what would happen, I ask you, if we all took a “blitzkrieg” approach to solving the aftercare issue? We could join forces and launch a brilliant offensive from the ground (those of us in the trenches who care for-literally and figuratively Thoroughbreds) and from on high (the industry leaders themselves). Would we win the war for the Unwanted Horse?

It’s something to think about. And, I hope, someday to work towards.

Cheery bye,

Susanna