Who Is The Lucky One | A Sad Horse Story

It’s hard to tell who the lucky one really is.

After all, there was no reason to think that I could actually get a horse, at least not at that point. For most of my life, in fact, horses weren’t a big deal to me. Unlike a lot of children, I did not grow up a horse fanatic. I never read the books of famous authors like Walter Farley or Marguerite Henry, wishing I were the one in the middle of the action. I never drew horse pictures, never begged my parents for riding lessons and never spent my days dreaming of the moment I’d finally have one to call my very own

It wasn’t until I was 15 that I began to pay attention to them, and it happened almost by accident. Things changed for me that morning in tenth grade when I opened the local newspaper and decided to look through the horse racing page. I didn’t know very much about racing, and most of what I read that morning I didn’t understand. But something had grabbed my interest, something that made me want to learn more. From then on, I was hooked.

Soon, stories of fast horses, great jockeys, and unforgettable races captured my imagination. While my classmates focused on the Super Bowl or the NBA playoffs, my attention was drawn instead to major events like the Kentucky Derby and the Breeders’ Cup. I became so captivated that by the time I left high school, I finally had a horse dream of my own. I decided that at some point – - ten, 20, 30 years in the future or whenever – - I wanted a racehorse.

The thought of owning one filled my mind with exciting images. I dreamed about the big moments, about watching my horse storm down the stretch at Churchill Downs to win the Kentucky Derby, the world’s greatest race. I pictured the quiet times, too – - standing with him in the afternoon breeze, admiring his beauty as he munched on grass. It was an expensive dream, I knew, but one I was determined to reach someday. And it was that dream which took me to an out-of-the-way ranch one hot September Sunday. That’s where I found him.

The circumstances, which brought him to that same ranch, I may never fully know. He was a gelding, eight years old and chestnut in color, and the tattoo beneath his upper lip said that he was a registered Thoroughbred. Other than that, he had no identity. Nobody knew his name, and nobody knew exactly where he came from. Part of his life had been spent on the track, and though he was a descendant of the legendary Man O’ War as well as the great sire Bold Ruler, he couldn’t earn his keep as a racehorse. He simply wasn’t good enough. One way or another, he eventually wound up at that ranch – - unlucky and unwanted.

But he wasn’t the only one there, and this wasn’t a place where horses went to have a peaceful life. This ranch was not a home. Instead, it was a dead end, the last stop for this gelding and many more like him – - horses of all breeds and sizes, ages and colors. Some were sick and injured, some were healthy and useful. But they were all abandoned. These were horses who had no other place to go, horses who were living out their final grim days. Eventually, this young chestnut would be crammed with several others onto a truck bound for Texas. There, after a nonstop journey without food or water, this young chestnut and the rest would be killed, slaughtered for their meat.
On that Sunday afternoon, however, his life and my life changed forever. I still remember the first time I laid eyes on him, too. As he stood in the corner of a pen, towering like a giant over the others, only one thought sped through my mind: “There’s no way I’m going to get on him!” To that point, my experience with horses was very limited. Yes, I had spent the summer working for a stable at a nearby racetrack, but that was about it. Riding this massive beast seemed like it would be a rodeo, and when it took six people and nearly ten minutes just to catch him, my confidence was shaky.
It wasn’t as if I was looking to buy a horse anyway. I didn’t have any place to keep one. I didn’t own any tack. And I certainly didn’t have the consent of my parents. In no way was my family and I prepared to take such a big step. Plus, my money was being saved for my dream, for that future-racing superstar, not some hopeless, forgotten soul who refused to cooperate.

But then I witnessed a transformation. It happened the instant we got the halter on him. No longer was he a wild runaway. Instead, the big guy really surprised me with his kind behavior. I led him out of the pen myself, and he walked like a gentleman the entire way. He stood quietly by a tree, allowing me to brush him up. That’s when I started to wonder. Was this really the same horse that had me nervous just a few moments earlier? Was I actually going to ride him? Was this the horse I was truly looking for?

His body showed the scrapes and scars of neglect. He didn’t have his own stall, his own feeder, or his own water tub. For weeks, maybe months, he had been forced to fight for both space and food. Those with more educated eyes would have immediately noticed his flaws – - his crooked front legs, his beat-up, fragile feet, the odd, bulging veins around his right eye. What I saw, though, was a beautiful coat as red as brick. I saw the thin blaze running down his face, those two socks, and that relaxed attitude. I also saw an animal in desperate need of rescue. In my eyes, he seemed perfect. When I finally settled into the saddle a few minutes later, I knew for sure. This was the horse for me.

It has been almost a decade since that unforgettable day. For just $1,500 – - money I earned through the sweat of hard work and a bunch of recycled cans – - I eventually bought that gelding. Life for both of us has never been the same. Somehow, I can’t say what it is exactly that makes him so special. Maybe it’s the way he nickers when he hears my voice each day, or the way he scratches his sweaty head on my shoulder after a long trail ride. Perhaps it’s how he stretches his neck out while he eats watermelon, savoring every bite. What’s clear, however, is that Trivet – - my racehorse, my friend – - is a dream that came true.
I guess it’s not hard to tell who the lucky one is after all.

Craig Harzmann