Raja, Story of a Racehorse (20 page)

Paddy Murphy?

“He taught me to crinkle the wrapper so that the horse can hear and know that they're going to get a treat. He's a horse dentist now, in Pennsylvania. I spend my school holidays at his farm and ride his horses.”

Yuri laughed his deep laugh. “It's very nice to meet someone else who appreciates a good horse. My name is Yuri and this is Sasha.”

Dee finally took a breath, flashing a grin at Yuri. Then she hugged me tightly with abandon, breathing in deeply. “Oh, I love horse smell. I miss it so much.”

I nudged her. She was really cute and open, more like a horse than a person who hides their emotions behind words. What you saw was what you got.

I choose her, my new young friend, Dee.

Dee rode her bike to see us every morning after that, watching our dressage moves intently and asking Yuri questions afterward.

“Was that a shoulder-in? Why the leg yield before you cantered?”

“If he steps underneath with his inside hind leg to my outside rein, his transition from the walk to the canter will be in a better balance. See that? That's the canter I'm looking for.”

I think he enjoyed having a student. I loved having an audience again.

“My grandfather was a horse trainer,” Yuri told Dee. “He used to say, ‘There are no shortcuts in horse training. It can be like watching the grass grow, but at the end, you have a beautiful lawn.'”

He sounds like Michelle.

Yuri reminded me of Michelle. The way he spoke with movements and knew when to ask and when to give — as though he knew my mind, sure and calm, listening to me. And his way of patiently asking and asking again when I was trying to learn a move, then rewarding me when I got it. He made me feel like I could do anything.

Some mornings, we added Cossack trick riding to our sessions. Yuri would stand up on me or practice picking up a glove or paper cup from the ground at a gallop. One of his favorite tricks was the “under-the-neck switch.”

As we galloped across the Sheep Meadow, Yuri climbed out of the saddle, hugged my neck, then swung under my neck and over to the other side. I helped him, lowering my head as he hooked his leg over my withers, then, lifting my head up at the critical moment to flip him back into the saddle. It became our signature move.

“Hooray!” Dee clapped with joy as she watched a perfect execution.

“I can't help it. It's in my blood. I'm a Russian and a Cossack. Cossacks were the boldest, fiercest, best horsemen of Central Asia. These tricks are all from waging war. The good ones could jump their horses over a single sword stuck in the ground or fire a pistol from underneath the belly of a galloping horse. I'll bet that you didn't know that dressage's origins are in training horses for the battlefield.”

“Really? I thought dressage was formal and proper.”

“Well, there is that element.” He laughed deeply. “I can't deny that. I've known a few ‘dressage queens' in my day. The word ‘dressage' literally means ‘training.' Many of the movements and training methods we use today came out of cavalry schools, like the Spanish Riding School in Vienna. You know, the place with the Lipizzaners. I can't let centuries of tradition die, can I?”

Oliver popped his brown dish-face next to my stall, sneaking a bite of my hay net one night as we waited for supper. It was getting chilly outside and I had started to wear a stable sheet in the evenings.

“Next week's the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Biggest day of the year for a cop horse. Ready for it?”

I had no idea what he was talking about and was more interested in my food and irritated that it hadn't arrived.

“I'm sure I can handle it.”

“Just wait and see. First time is always interesting. Especially when you see the balloons and floats coming down the street.”

What is he talking about? And WHERE is my dinner?

“Can I pat him?” asked an endless flow of teeth-chattering, runny-nosed, pink-cheeked, bundled-up children as we stood on the corner of Broadway and 45th Street on the day of the parade, watching decorated cars passing by, occupants waving and throwing candy into the crowd and people marching in groups. When a troop of horses ridden by people in uniform passed us, several nickered to me in greeting. I nickered back.

Suddenly, the sky in between two tall buildings started to get dark as a big cloud-like thing passed overhead.

Whoa! What is that?

I stopped, heart pounding, gulping in breaths of air.

“Easy, Sasha, It's OK. It's just a balloon. It won't hurt you.” Yuri stroked my neck, singing his Russian lullabies to me in a low melodic voice until I took a deep breath and relaxed, letting the air out in a giant rumbling sigh.

As more balloons and giant cars followed down the street, crowds of people, children carried on shoulders, pushed at the barriers trying to get a better view. Children laughed and parents waved, caught up in the parade spirit. I had a momentary feeling of unease.

Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.

Suddenly, Yuri froze. I felt his energy focus on a dark alley halfway down the block. A man with a hooded sweatshirt stood facing a well-dressed older couple.

Why aren't they watching the parade?

My ears suddenly stood at attention as I saw the sun glinting off something in his hand, something shiny and metallic. Yuri slowly picked up the reins and nudged me into a walk toward a crowd barrier. He sat up and squeezed his legs. We jumped it from a standstill, then halted. Quietly and deliberately, we weaved our way through the crowd. Ten yards away from the couple, Yuri put his heels sharply into my side. I responded, exploding into a gallop toward the robber, while Yuri kicked the gun out of his hands. We pulled up in four strides, did a perfect pirouette, and galloped back toward him.

This time, Yuri wrapped a leg over the saddle and leaned over backwards, Cossack style, grabbing the gun off the ground and climbing back in the saddle. Another pirouette, then spring off my hind legs — like shooting out of a starting gate — back to the robber, cornering him against a building, like a cat with a chipmunk.

“Car support, Broadway and 45th, code two-eleven, armed robbery, suspect apprehended,” Yuri barked into his radio after dismounting, handcuffing the robber and handing their watches and wallets back to the relieved couple. Applause erupted from the people gathered around us, parade forgotten, as they watched the drama in the alley. I nodded my head, waving to the crowd.

They love me! I love them back! My people!

Now I understood the pride police horses took in being “cop horses.” We're heroes! Protectors of people — making wrongs right. It felt really good, as though I finally had some control over life's random bad moments.

The next week, school kids came to the police stable to meet the “cowboy cop horse.” One of the officers pinned up a picture of me from the newspaper on the front of my stall until Officer Rob, the stable manager, tore it off the door and threw it away.

I got a strange feeling from Officer Rob. A bad vibe, as Speedy used to say. He wasn't like the other officers: all fit and athletic, efficient and dressed in tidy uniforms with polished boots. Rob shuffled around the barn lazily with his uniform stained and wrinkled and a glazed look in his blank, washed-out, pale blue eyes. He was shorter than most of the other officers but much fatter than the jockeys I knew. Worst of all, he smelled sour, like some of the drunks Yuri and I met in Central Park.

Even though his job was to make sure we were well taken care of, he didn't seem to like horses the way the other officers did. He was nervous around me and the other horses and it put me on edge. I noticed that Yuri watched him carefully, too. Something wasn't quite right.

December, Manhattan, New York

After Thanksgiving, the north wind finally made up its mind to stay. The bare trees stood starkly in relief against the grey skies as the last lingering red, orange and yellow leaves gave up their grasp and floated to the ground. It was strange. I was happy and I loved Yuri, but I couldn't help feeling that something was going to happen, something bad, and that my life was about to change.

“It's getting chilly. Do you think it's time to clip everyone?” Officer Mike asked Yuri as he stamped his feet and wrapped his cold hands around a mug of steaming coffee, trying to warm up from his morning shift.

“Oh no, not clippin'. I hate clippin',” Oliver moaned. He turned to me, “I'll bet you've nevah bin clipped, ‘ave ya? By jeezum, it takes forever and those clippehrs buhrn and pinch and tickle, but the sweat does dry fasteh and you don't sit there with a wet coat, freezin' to death.”

“Let's clip tomorrow,” Yuri nodded to Mike. “The horses will need to start wearing their heavier blankets indoors and quarter sheets on patrol. We wouldn't want anyone to tie up with all of that stop-and-go and waiting around we do. When are they next due to be shod? They should have borium. It'll snow any day. Those streets are slippery this time of year.”

“I'll make sure and remind Rob about the borium. The farrier is due next week,” Officer Mike replied.