and her investment, Mrs. Eden wielded her influence and got me into a big race in Virginia. Not one reporter from
Kentucky Bloodlines
showed a whiff of interest in the odds or the outcome. We weren’t even sure a new jockey could be found to do the job.
One blessed thing about my last race was the same as my first.
Filipia came. And I guess it shocked her how much I had changed.
“Monkey, remember me?”
I whickered softly.
I will never forget
.
She set her hand in between my eyes. I let out a defeated sigh. “Oh, my friend. Are you in there? You look so thin and tired. Like a bag of bones. Where is the fire in your eyes, Monkey?” She walked her fingers along my barrel, counting each of my ribs.
I suppose I finally needed to accept my fate and to acknowledge that, in my case, the bloodlines didn’t work out. I wasn’t made to be a great racehorse or to face the three great tests. Grandfather Dante had made a mistake.
If Filipia hadn’t been there on the day of my last race, I would’ve dug my hooves deep into the dirt and not budged out of the gate. Taken the whip, for the whip was surely coming my way, start or no start.
But I wanted to run for Filipia. Just before we entered the gate, I saw her in the stands, and we locked gazes. For Filipia, I gave it my all and finished in the middle of the pack. Nothing to be proud of, but no shame, either.
After the race, she came to tell me good-bye. “Dante,” she said, “you’re on the verge of a breakdown. I promise you will not race again. If I have anything to do with anything, you’re done.”
Just then Mrs. Eden came around the corner with Gary. The two of them locked in a whisper. You’d best believe neither of them was happy to see the girl who was really to blame. According to them, anyway.
Filipia pleaded my case. Neither Gary nor Mrs. Eden wanted to hear what she had to say. Nor did they want to face the truth. I had been worked to the ground, chasing for fortune.
“I’ll make a call,” Mrs. Eden said. “No promises.”
And so ended my career as a racehorse. The pedigree needed champions to win and stallions to breed. I was neither.
T he bloodlines granted me two last favors that day at the track. First, Filipia had showed up. She was still living in Virginia and had read I’d be racing. Second, she had succeeded in persuading Mrs. Eden to call up a nearby Thoroughbred retirement program. They had room to spare and were already on their way to the track for two fillies.
Though it was tempting to get down in the jowls about being all used up at age five, I knew life could have turned down a much harder road.
Why, just that very evening along the backside they’d had to put down the winner of the state derby. She was a horse in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d hardly cooled down from her race when the fireworks finale went up and scared the lights out of that big bay filly. She reared, and it was a grotesque sight to witness her strike a pole with her head, then twist and turn and injure herself to the point of no return. Life quickly drained out of her, and though her trainer eased her suffering in the final moments, her ending was a sad and sorry shame. They say she was on her way to becoming a true champion. A gal that could run with the boys. A tragic ending, for sure. God love that filly. Her racing career ended that day, and her life did, too.
Somehow, though, I’d been spared. I had been blessed early and often, showed my backside to destiny, yet the second chance shifted my way because Filipia loved me.
We had very little time for good-byes. Mrs. Eden and Gary were visibly relieved to let me go.
With tears in her eyes, Filipia walked me to the trailer. “Melon always says that God’s greatest act was to make one day follow another. Tomorrow is a new day, Monkey.”
Straight from the track in Virginia, three of us worn-down racehorses rode away together. The other two passengers, both fillies, were at least a hand
Kentucky Bloodlines
showed a whiff of interest in the odds or the outcome. We weren’t even sure a new jockey could be found to do the job.
One blessed thing about my last race was the same as my first.
Filipia came. And I guess it shocked her how much I had changed.
“Monkey, remember me?”
I whickered softly.
I will never forget
.
She set her hand in between my eyes. I let out a defeated sigh. “Oh, my friend. Are you in there? You look so thin and tired. Like a bag of bones. Where is the fire in your eyes, Monkey?” She walked her fingers along my barrel, counting each of my ribs.
I suppose I finally needed to accept my fate and to acknowledge that, in my case, the bloodlines didn’t work out. I wasn’t made to be a great racehorse or to face the three great tests. Grandfather Dante had made a mistake.
If Filipia hadn’t been there on the day of my last race, I would’ve dug my hooves deep into the dirt and not budged out of the gate. Taken the whip, for the whip was surely coming my way, start or no start.
But I wanted to run for Filipia. Just before we entered the gate, I saw her in the stands, and we locked gazes. For Filipia, I gave it my all and finished in the middle of the pack. Nothing to be proud of, but no shame, either.
After the race, she came to tell me good-bye. “Dante,” she said, “you’re on the verge of a breakdown. I promise you will not race again. If I have anything to do with anything, you’re done.”
Just then Mrs. Eden came around the corner with Gary. The two of them locked in a whisper. You’d best believe neither of them was happy to see the girl who was really to blame. According to them, anyway.
Filipia pleaded my case. Neither Gary nor Mrs. Eden wanted to hear what she had to say. Nor did they want to face the truth. I had been worked to the ground, chasing for fortune.
“I’ll make a call,” Mrs. Eden said. “No promises.”
And so ended my career as a racehorse. The pedigree needed champions to win and stallions to breed. I was neither.
T he bloodlines granted me two last favors that day at the track. First, Filipia had showed up. She was still living in Virginia and had read I’d be racing. Second, she had succeeded in persuading Mrs. Eden to call up a nearby Thoroughbred retirement program. They had room to spare and were already on their way to the track for two fillies.
Though it was tempting to get down in the jowls about being all used up at age five, I knew life could have turned down a much harder road.
Why, just that very evening along the backside they’d had to put down the winner of the state derby. She was a horse in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d hardly cooled down from her race when the fireworks finale went up and scared the lights out of that big bay filly. She reared, and it was a grotesque sight to witness her strike a pole with her head, then twist and turn and injure herself to the point of no return. Life quickly drained out of her, and though her trainer eased her suffering in the final moments, her ending was a sad and sorry shame. They say she was on her way to becoming a true champion. A gal that could run with the boys. A tragic ending, for sure. God love that filly. Her racing career ended that day, and her life did, too.
Somehow, though, I’d been spared. I had been blessed early and often, showed my backside to destiny, yet the second chance shifted my way because Filipia loved me.
We had very little time for good-byes. Mrs. Eden and Gary were visibly relieved to let me go.
With tears in her eyes, Filipia walked me to the trailer. “Melon always says that God’s greatest act was to make one day follow another. Tomorrow is a new day, Monkey.”
Straight from the track in Virginia, three of us worn-down racehorses rode away together. The other two passengers, both fillies, were at least a hand
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