Raja, Story of a Racehorse (19 page)

Yuri urged me up into a hand gallop, heading directly for Beth and the volunteers, then halted me, less than ten feet in front of them. Reins in one hand, he dropped his feet out of the stirrups, lifted them onto the saddle and stood up in a single, graceful movement. Before I knew what was happening, he dropped the reins and sprang off, feet over his head, flipping over backwards and landing lightly on the ground.

“Ladies,” Yuri bowed deeply, “you've found Raja a new home. I'll call the police re-mount school to book a training session for the two of us. We'll go next week. I'd like to have him ready for patrol in six weeks or so. Also, I know some say it's bad luck to change a name, but Raja needs a Russian name. Henceforth, he will be Sasha.” Break out the caviar and balalaikas. Tonight, we celebrate!”

October, Manhattan, New York

 

“So this is our newest mount, eh?” Troop Captain Dennis Rourke patted my neck as I took in the tidy, high-ceilinged, light-filled stable, looked down the two aisles of 20 or so horses, and tried to identify the strange new smells: saddle soap and brass polish mingling with diesel from the boats splashing on the river next to the stables and trucks rumbling along the road on the other side.

“He's a looker, isn't he? What a beauty. He's going to bring this troop up a notch or two. Welcome to the Big Apple and the New York Police Department, Sasha.”

Fresh, clean shavings and full hay net waited for me in a large corner stall. After drinking deeply from the slightly metallic-tasting water bucket, I rolled.

Ah! fresh shavings, my favorite.

As I stood up and gave my body a good shaking, a dark brown, dished face with wide eyes and a shaggy forelock popped up and stared at me through the stall dividers.

“Hullo there, pleased ta meet'cha, I'm UVM Oliver. I'm a Morgan and a Veh'montah. I've bin with the patrol for seven years. Welcome to Manhattan, the strangest island, strangest people you'll evah see. By jeezum, when I fust came to the city, I couldn't believe all of the cahrs, and people and noyse. Couldn't sleep fuh weeks. No green grass, ya know. All I knew was mountains and cows. It's a shock, I tell ya — horns, engines, sirens, all day and all night.” He took a sip from his water bucket. “Ayuh, not too many of you high-strung Thoroughbred fellas on the force, but the ones that make it are good ones.”

He paused to catch his breath, then continued, “Here's what ya need to know: every horse here is a professional, even the ones that don't look like much. In fact, they're the best ones. Whether you're a Thoroughbred, a Morgan, a Quarter Horse, or a cross, your job is protectin' people. They say one mounted officer is worth ten on the ground. ‘Ten-foot cops,' they call us.”

He stopped to lick the block of salt on the wall of his stall. “Ayuh, since Officer Yuri is your partner, you'll get Times Square and Central Pahrk. I had Central Pahrk for yeah's with my partner, Officer Mike. Loved it.”

For two weeks, we walked up and down the bike path outside the police stables down to the big boats docked on the river and back to “acclimatize,” as Yuri put it. As if anyone could get used to the traffic, especially the speedy yellow taxis blaring their horns and weaving in and out of the flow of cars, drivers shaking fists and cursing. This was a strange place, with sidewalks that rumbled and steamed, strange people wearing strange clothes and speaking strange languages, and more smells than I could possibly remember. Lights kept the city as bright as day, even in the middle of the night.

A north wind rushed over the river on our first day of real patrol, blowing bits of paper down the street and flapping awnings on the storefronts we passed. Every second I looked at something new, sometimes stopping and snorting, not sure what was safe and what was dangerous. Yuri patiently waited for me to take a good look and spoke to me the whole time.

“See, Sasha, we're on 44th Street and ahead there is the Met Life Building. Wait until you see Times Square. It's really something.”

We weaved our way past vans and trucks and honking taxis, past a river of people marching determinedly down the sidewalk, cell phones held to their faces, past carts of food with delicious, complex and mysterious smells.

Whoa! What's that?

I stopped, snorted, and did a double take at the big, smelly, blue plastic box. Yuri eased me closer.

“It's a garbage can.” He laughed heartily. “Why is it that every horse in the universe spooks at garbage cans?”

Thank goodness he kept talking to me in a soothing voice and stroking me, because when we turned the corner, I froze. Thousands of colored flashing lights and moving pictures covered the buildings. Strange people smells assaulted my nose. The sounds were worse — so loud, so jangly. Street vendors calling out, music, sirens and car horns. I felt it physically, as if I were being hit. My heart raced as I sharply looked around, left, right, straight ahead. People, so many people, all moving in different directions. It hurt my head to look at it all. I lifted my head up sharply, snorted, and started pawing the pavement and tossing my head, not knowing what to look at first.

RUN!

Yuri, reading my mind, relaxed his body and took a deep breath, all the way to his belly. Then, deliberate and focused, he gently put both his hands flat on my neck, bringing me back to him, the energy from his hands tingling where he touched me.

“Shhh, Sasha,” he whispered, cajoling, completely focused on me. It was just the two of us, alone, with a blur of colors and sounds outside our bubble.

“Trust me,” I felt him say.

I took a deep breath and walked forward calmly, held by Yuri's concentration.

Together — better together.

“Will he eat a roasted chestnut?” A man next to us with an interesting smelling food cart offered me a small, round treat. I sniffed cautiously first.

Yum! Delicious — nutty and sweet.

Central Park! Oliver was right. When I saw it, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, not realizing how anxious all the cement and taxi horns and people and energy of the city was making me until I got into the cool, green, leafy park. How could anyone not love Central Park and the grassy fields, trees, boulders, children, bicycles, runners, squirrels and pigeons? Especially the tough city pigeons, swaggering down the pavement like pit bull terriers.

“Ah Yuri and Sasha, the most handsome pair on Park Avenue, good morning!” Yuri's buddy, Maurice, the doorman at the Plaza Hotel in his crisp, spotless uniform greeted us each day with an elaborate white gloved bow and an almond pastry for me from the Plaza's French pastry chef. Then we made our rounds, visiting our friends: Gregor, the carriage driver in his straw hat and wool vest, and Periwinkle, his large red feather-plumed Clydesdale mare, waiting in line for tourists in the row of other carriages; Aunt Betty, the bag lady who fed the pigeons while she scolded herself angrily every morning; Anna, the nanny, pushing her charges in their stroller and gabbing with the other nannies; and Lizzy, the dog walker, with a tangle of six dogs straining and sniffing and peeing on the roots of the big oak trees lining the park, deliriously happy to be outside.

Early mornings when the mist rose from the duck pond and runners and bikers streaking through the park were our only company, we practiced dressage in the Sheep Meadow, a field in the middle of the Park. Yuri communicated subtly and effortlessly; with a slight shift of his weight, a nudge of his leg. I understood him perfectly. Circles, serpentines, figure eights and transitions, exactly like the flatwork I had done with Michelle. Stretching, bending, extending. My favorite was doing a powerful yet contained trot, then bursting into a lengthened stride, feet flashing and body stretching.

Oh, how good it feels to be strong, flexible, and “in training” again!

“Hi, that's the most beautiful horse I've ever seen.”

Disheveled chestnut braids framed the earnest, chip-toothed grin of a wiry young girl. She looked as though she might take off running at any moment if startled. Her skinny frame hid behind baggy jeans, ripped at the knees, dirty sneakers with laces untied and a big wool sweater with holes at the elbows. Big hazel eyes found my gaze as she stepped off her bicycle, gently laid it on the ground and walked toward me. She spoke quickly, as if she was afraid that she couldn't get it all out.

“I'm Dee. I grew up on a horse farm in Ireland, so I know a good horse when I see one. He's a good one,” she pronounced with authority, then kept going without stopping to take a breath.

“I'm 14. I hate New York. I had to leave Ireland because my mother died and I live with my dad but I never see him because he works too hard and travels. Did I tell you that your horse is beautiful? May I give him a peppermint?”

Yuri didn't have a chance to respond. She took a peppermint out of her pocket, crinkled the wrapper and held out the offering to me, first letting me sniff her hand. She took a breath and started speaking again.

“My uncle, Paddy Murphy, was a champion steeplechase jockey in Ireland and he won the Aintree Grand National, the most famous steeplechase race in the world.”