Recently, a story broke about animal neglect in Indiana.
A woman named Chrissy Francies had first ten, and then an additional six, horses seized from her property after a neighbor called the local animal control because he was alarmed at how many horses were being buried on her property.
He reported having seen seven horses die in the past year, and three within the month of January, and finally decided to do something.
Animal control came to the farm and found ten horses with a body condition score of 1- and yet almost all of their bodies hidden with thick winter blankets. But once those blankets were pulled, a horror scene was noticed underneath. Pelvises which showed months, if not years, of malnourishment. Ribs protruding. Spines standing alone, unattended by muscle or fat. And soulless eyes of these animals wondering if anyone cared. Two have already died since being seized.
But the truly horrifying thing was that, in almost each of these cases, someone did care. And still does.
So many of these horses were given to Chrissy by a legitimate source. Adoption agencies like New Vocations, or a trainer like Jen Roberto. People who rehome, rehab, and resource thoroughbreds for a living. People who have been doing this their whole lives, like Stacy Emory or Michelle Craig. People who are impassioned by finding the perfect home for the perfect mount.
People like me.
I almost gave Chrissy my own horses. She had inquired about a friends HenryTheNavigator. She had inquired of a farms retired broodmare. Hell, she had inquired about Kennedy—my very own homebred that I was so adamant about finding a life of love for.
And each time, I was excited that she was interested. We had hundreds of mutual friends. I had met her at a local charity show sponsored by a rehoming organization. She messaged me frequently with questions regarding veterinary care, breeding, and genetics. And she showed no signs of being anything other than what I thought she was. A good person.
Chrissy appeared to take the horses that were so hard to rehome-so hard to find a permanent fix for. She offered to lease, or buy, the ones with injuries. The older broodmare. The War Horse.
And because we knew of nothing out of sort, we gave them to her.
And honestly, I do not know what is worse. The fact that this woman, who apparently suffers from some form of mental illness predisposing her towards hoarding, had so many horses in her care which suffered endlessly-some resulting in death.
Or the fact that apparently so many people knew of her transgressions and never said a word.
We have read in the comments that she was referred to as Crazy Chrissy. That she was run out of boarding facilities, and that it was known that she had too many horses and that none of them were receiving proper care. It was known that she didn’t pay her bills and that her social media was a spectacular joke.
But that was local.
And it is 2018. We live in a globalized world. And so many horses had to suffer because no one was willing to take a risk. To stick their neck out. To be the bad guy and cry foul.
I know what that’s like. I am usually exactly that guy. I have been the one to stick my neck out and receive the threats. I have been sent letters from attorneys, and comments threatening injury to my body and my home. I have been sent messages from friends telling me that I am in the wrong.
That the number of times I risk sticking my neck out for the betterment of the horse will be directly proportionate to my inability to make it in this business.
And to that, I say fine.
I am sick of living in a world where we ignore criminal action. I am sick of living in a world where we fear doing the right thing because it might highlight your wrongdoings in the past. I am sick of living in a world where we attempt to dig dirt on anyone who casts a stone. And I’m sick of living in a world where our consciences can’t be clear enough to cast that first stone.
So here I am to say it.
If you hear something, search with your own two eyes.
If you smell something, there’s probably something rotting.
And if you see something, say something.
We live in a strange world. One where 50% of our industry is made up of 4-legged creatures which can’t fight for themselves. Which can’t leave a job they detest. Which can’t forage for themselves.
And animal cruelty laws are weak, but public notoriety is strong. We might not be able to change the laws, but we can most certainly change the path. For our fellow equestrians. For our beloved horses.
The government might not protect them, but we can protect each other. We can alert each other.
We just need to be stronger.
And the biggest advocate for the horses we love.
Because at the end of the day, if you know abuse or neglect is occurring and you’re turning the other way, you are no better than the abuser themselves. Remember that. Live with that. Take that to heart. And do something. Say something.
But until you do, I will.
There are horses you love for yourself. There are horses you love for others. And there are horses that you have never met and feel a connection to. And when we lose that love, that connection to one of the greats, it hurts more than a shot to the heart.
This morning, we lost one. And today, so many of us are feeling that pain.
A few weeks ago, while lamenting at the decline of our sport of eventing, I got into an argument with a group of friends. They argued that our sport has become one of money. The wealthy can afford the imports, the FEI events, and the fancy trainers. And while the wealthy rise, us lowly average middle-classed people stays stagnant.
We can’t afford to go south for the winter. We can’t afford to buy a 3* horse, or go shopping in Europe. And because of that, our chances at the big leagues are infinitesimal.
But I argued. I had seen it happen. I had seen one get there – both rider and horse. And I had had the honor of following it simply by luck.
Kelly Sult and I had grown up in Pony Club together, both members of the Lost Hounds Pony Club. We competed against each other on similar type ponies – hers named Hooter and mine named Chocolate, and we both outgrew them at roughly the same time. And then as so many do, we both moved onto bay thoroughbreds.Only hers was different.
Because I remember Reggie before he was Hollywood. Before he had jumped around some of the largest tracks in North America. I remember him as the recusant maverick of the barn. The horse no one wanted to ride, nonetheless own. I remember his tall lanky body, and his feared hind legs. I remember his owner lamenting of her fear of him, and the trainers response that he was nuts.
And I remember Kelly coming and taking him, and beginning their journey. She wasn’t a professional rider by any means, in fact, she was just a kid. But in a family where a retired 4* horse or an import wasn’t an option, she took a chance.
Because where others saw fear, Kelly saw the look of eagles.And she will be the first to say that it wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies at first. They were eliminated from their first event with three stops at the water. Added another 60 at their second event at that same obstacle. But once they got him over that fear, there was no looking back.
And she just ticked off the levels, one at a time.
Kelly and I moved into different phases of our lives at this time, but I always followed along from afar. I appreciated her try. I appreciated knowing that someone could get up the levels with little more than natural ability, help from family and friends, a good horse, and a whole hell of a lot of try.
I journeyed North for college while she kept riding. Kept trying. She didn’t train with the big boys, and she didn’t buy the fanciest tack. Her father, a truck driver, purchased every book he could find on eventing, and he became her eyes on the ground. Her mother and sister came and groomed at every event they could. And her team from back in Erie, PA and its surrounding areas cheered from afar whenever we could.And I remember sitting in my fathers hospital room in Pittsburgh in 2008 trying to convince him to watch Rolex. With one eye on the screen and the other on the chemotherapy dripping into his veins, I can vividly remember hearing the name “Kelly Sult” come over the quiet volume, and turning my eyes up to the screen. I remember my fathers lack of interest in the Rolex Kentucky 3 Day event suddenly being perked when he realized we knew “that girl” from home. For a few hours my father pretended to be interested in eventing. For a few hours we spoke of horses without fighting. Without screaming. For a few hours, this daring young rider covered in purple and her rugged thoroughbred distracted us from the world. From the pain. And I will forever be indebted to them for that.
Soon after that inaugural Rolex (where she placed 14th and was the highest placed young rider) I moved to Lexington, Ky and got to see Kelly more often. With Area 8 Eventing extending from Northwestern, PA all the way to The Bluegrass, we attended many of the same events, and her family was always quick to lend a helping hand to a fellow Lost Hounder, or video a round for me. We would get to catch up, and I would always ask about Reggie, that bullish thoroughbred I had known since way back. She would always giggle, and say that Reggie was still Reggie. The man of the barn. Her heart horse.
And each April, my family would reconvene around the rolling hills of the Kentucky Horse Park, along with hundreds of other riders from my home grounds of PA, we would all search for that beautiful glistening bay with his ears up and his eyes searching. We would all cheer for Team Hollywood and scream as “one of us” made it around from one massive obstacle to the next.
Reggie ran his last Rolex in 2011, at the age of 19. He didn’t know his own age, but Kelly knew he was ready. He deserved a retirement of lush grass and turn out. Occasionally he packed around her kids for up/down lessons. Occasionally she swung on for a hack or to pony a young horse. But at the end of the day, he just enjoyed his time as the leader of the farm. The big man. The one who turned her into the rider she now was and forever will be.And this morning, after a beautiful day of sunshine in Pennsylvania yesterday, Reggie took him last breath. He did it with poise. He did it with grace. Just like he had done so much of his career.
For almost twenty years now, we have all been blessed by this horse. And now, on January 30th, 2018, we are all heartbroken.
And I say we because this team, this duo of unlikely ability, was an emblem to so many of us. For all of us at Erie Hunt & Saddle Club. All of us at Lost Hounds Pony Club. All of us in the Tri-State Region, and all of us from Area 8 Eventing.
Reggie and Kelly showed us that you didn’t need a last name. You didn’t need a fancy pedigree. You didn’t need to train with an Olympian. You didn’t need to have a team of working students, or a trust fund.Reggie was a beacon of the heart and soul that the thoroughbred breed encompasses. He showed so many what was possible if the horse is matched with the right rider. He proved to so many that taking a chance doesn’t always equate failure. He was everything that we hope to find in our next mount, and more. And at the end of the day, Kelly allowed him to be that horse.
I am so saddened for Kelly.
I am so saddened for her sister and her parents.
I am so saddened for her entire support crew.
But at the same time, I’m so happy.
I’m so happy I got to witness this journey. I am so happy Kelly got to be on it. I am so happy that we got to see this unfold. To see the path that can be paved if you just match the right rider with the right horse, work your ass off, and believe.
I am so happy that Reggie found his girl. And I am so happy that he left us with grace. In peace.
They say that when horses die of old age, they are finally free. From the aches and pains of a long career. From the slow and steady gaits they used to never know. I believe that is true here, and that Reggie is finally freed of a body that has aged more quickly than a mind.
So today, I hope he is running that Rolex track yet again. Soaring over the hammock and diving into the head of the lake. And if we look into the sky tonight, maybe we’ll just see a streak of purple as the sun sets and the clouds fade on another day. I know that’ll be Reggie racing the clouds. Running free. Running happy.
We’ll miss you Reggie. You were truly one of the greats.
I’m sure by now, many of you have seen the video about cloning and genetic engineering.
Published by the World Economic Forum in a short 60 second video, it proclaimed that a company was only two years from producing the first genetically engineered super horse. That through the use of cloning and altering the genome of our great runners and jumpers, we could produce horses that jump higher, run faster, turn tighter, and altogether are BETTER than the horses we have in existence.
Soon after this was posted, it was tagged along with the idea that these horses would be allowed in the *gasp* Olympics, and equestrian fans everywhere ran to their keyboards to say just how unfair this would be. How grotesque it would be. How we were all about to play God.
And I had to do everything in my power not to throw a little bit of science smackdown on the outpouring of rage.
I told myself that it wasn’t worth it, that the general public wouldn’t understand just how radicalized this video had made one companies mission statement.
But then I realized that this is exactly what this blog SHOULD be. Science. Written in a way for the mass public to understand it. So here I go. I shall try to talk you all off of your ledges, and hopefully educate some in between the lines.
Cloning: Single Cell Nuclear Transfer
Cloning is a quite simple idea, wrapped in some crazy complex science in order to get it to work. But in a nutshell, it begins with a horse that you want to clone. Now, as the procedure costs upwards of $100,000, it would be believed that only a horse of tremendous value would be considered. This horse, this valuable creature, is considered the “Somatic Donor” and donates their DNA through a variety of cell types – but usually hair.
Now, in addition to this horse, another cell from another horse is retrieved – specifically the oocyte, or egg. This horses DNA should not matter, as the nucleus – or the organelle filled with the genetic material, will be removed before it is ever utilized.
And in its place, the nucleus of the valuable animal will be implanted. This allows for the genetic material of one animal to be within the cellular structure of another. And this can then grow within the laboratory in a nice little petri dish full of fun nutrients at a specific temperature. And if the embryo survives, this is about where the cloning aspect of the procedure ends, and the embryo transfer aspect begins.
Because, just like in a standard embryo transfer procedure, this embryo is then implanted into a recipient mare. A mare that is chosen for her reproductive soundness, her physical soundness, her temperament, and her mothering ability. This is usually done at roughly day 7 after the clone is made, and when the recipient mare is heavily in diestrus and producing that magical progesterone which will both nurture the embryo while also telling the mare that she is pregnant!
And then, if all goes perfectly, in roughly 340 days, we have a beautiful baby pony.
Now, none of this is new. There are many famous clones walking amongst us – and there are quite a few commercial companies which will do this for you. The famous racier Storm Cat has a handful of clones existing in Argentina as polo sires, William Fox Pitts event mount Tamarillo has been recreated, and the first clone of jumper Gem Twist was born 10 years ago in 2008.
So where is the outrage stemming from?
It’s not the cloning. Its the genetic engineering.
CRISPR/Cas9: Genetic Engineering
For the past couple of years, researchers have been using a technique called CRISPR/Cas9 to edit the genes of research animals with the hopes of potentially being able to edit them in humans. Is this playing with God? Maybe. But when your child has a genetic mutation that can lead to life ending diseases such as Cystic Fibrosis, and you can change this by altering one gene within their genome, it sounds pretty amazing.
And this is where the science gets tough, and I won’t delve too deep.
In a nutshell, the CRISPR/Cas9 gene editing system allows us to cut, implant, or replace genetic material that we want to change. It has been successAnd in a life/death situation, this is fascinating. In a run fast/jump higher situation, it sounds simply ridiculous.
But that is where we all need to pause, and think about what exactly we intend to engineer.
There is only one gene that has been found to correlate with “running faster” and it is myostatin. Only the myostatin gene doesn’t predict if your horse will win races, it simply predicts which distance your horse will be best suited for, and this was well studied and found by Dr. Emmeline Hill in Ireland.
There are 4 types of molecules which make up our double stranded DNA: Adenine, Cytosine, Guanine, and Thymine, or A, C, G, and T. And these are what come together to create our genes.
The Genes to Engineer:
And in the gene for myostatin — an important aspect of muscle development — researchers found that C/C horses are suited to fast, short-distance races; C/T horses compete favorably in middle-distance races; and T/T horses have greater stamina and may be best suited to longer distances. Their take away? C/C and C/T horses will do better in the 2 year-old sales, while T/T horses *might* just be more well suited to marathon distance and possibly steeplechase.
Does this mean that we *could* genetically engineer a racehorse specifically to suit our distance preference? Sure. Except the Jockey Club won’t allow it.
And this is one of the main reasons why. While so many people lament the fact that the Jockey Club only allows the use of natural live cover breeding with no assisted reproductive techniques, at the root of it was because of something like this. In the thoroughbred industry, we do not want anyone to play God. And while everyone misunderstands the demand that we do not perform artificial insemination, or embryo transfer, or cloning, at the base of it is to avoid something like this.
But in the sport horse disciplines, we can.
Only in the sport horse disciplines, this information is fairly useless, at least now. The eventer, jumper, reiner, or dressage horse doesn’t just run. They also jump, turn, spin, and passage. And there is no gene that has been found to specifically correlate to success in any of these things in the way that myostatin was found to correlate with distance of race for the thoroughbred.
Therefore, there’s simply nothing to mutate, or engineer….now.
It is not the Olympic Committee, or FEI’s, job to discern whether a cloned horse can or cannot compete, as it is the breed industries and organizations which govern the actual registration of the animal, and just how that animal was created.
Because one could already say that the warmbloods which are bred with embryo transfer are also at an advantage over anyone bringing an OTTB to an FEI event.
With embryo transfer, we can also discern the sex of the embryo, and are perilously close to testing embryos for genetic disorders and allowing the owner to choose which embryo they would like the veterinarian to implant into the recipient. And this is playing God nearly as much as genetic engineering with CRISPR/Cas9.
There is only one breed organization which does not allow assisted reproductive techniques, and as stated previously, that is the thoroughbred.
But even the thoroughbred uses therapeutics and drug interference to get mares which would otherwise be considered infertile, pregnant. Even the thoroughbred manipulates the stallions via hormonal therapy to get a stallion with low sperm count to cover the desired amount of mares. We’ve all given ovulation-inducing drugs like hCG or deslorelin. We’ve all administered Regumate to a mare with an incompetent cervix. We’ve all used immunomodulators on a horse that pools fluid.
In a way, we are all playing God.
We are a far, far, way away from finding specific genes which actually impact the success of a show horse. So much of it is because its not just one gene, so much of it is because of the nature surrounding a horse.
And you can take a genetically superb horse and it can get into a trailer accident and never again like confined spaces. You can clone Gem Twist and miss a distance to a jump at the age of 4 and train him to not enjoy the process. You can clone Tamarillo and have him find a divot in the water complex and choose to never go back in one.
Now what can/should genetic engineering be used for? Well, any genetic disease which has been found disastrous for the breed. HYPP in quarter horses, Lavender Foal Syndrome in Arabians, and maybe even diseases that have always had assumed genetic components without any scientific basis: like cryptorchidism, or Wobblers Syndrome. It would be possible to take a horse that you intend to use as a breeding stallion, but will not be allowed into the breed book due to a genetic issue, and clone him to produce a stallion who will.
Those reasons are legit, and will be interesting to study.
Will we one day find the genes which make a horse great performers? I don’t know, but honestly I don’t think so. So many horses have overcome bad genetics, while others have never risen to the fame of their siblings. This hasn’t been overcome by breeding with statistics or science. This won’t be overcome by cloning. This won’t be overcome by genetic engineering.
Because at the end of the day, the most important aspect of the horse isn’t the genes for its speed, or its jump. It’s the genes that transcribe to the heart.
And that, my friends, can never be engineered.
In 1988 my father bought season tickets to the Buffalo Bills.
And ten years after that, the Buffalo Bills are making their first playoff bid in my adult life.
It’s 2018. It’s time to BILLieve again.
The following week I submitted an essay on my belief system. I scripted my way through that first weekend in October spent far far away from campus.
My dad had been diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia after attending a Buffalo Bills game. We sat in the 27th row in front of the 30 yard line, and he had walked up the same flight of stairs he had every other game of the 19 years of his reign there – but for the first time, he felt winded.
He had left the game, scheduled an appointment with his general physician, and waited. His physician told him he was the epitome of health. His weight was down. His cholesterol was better. His BP great for a 51 year old man. He didn’t see the problem.
But my father remembered the exhaustion he had felt climbing those stairs and demanded further testing. And a surgeon himself, he wrote up his own bloodwork. Twelve hours later I received the worst phone call of my life.
My dad had cancer.
And so I travelled to Pittsburgh, Pa to be by his side, and I wrote.
I didn’t know what to believe. I wasn’t my father, and my faith in God wasn’t strong. I wasn’t my sister, who was finishing up her medical school to become a surgeon like my father, and my faith in medicine was weak. I didn’t have much to cling on to.
The internet told me that my father had a 27% chance at life. The doctors told us it was maybe a tiny bit higher due to his age and health. So maybe a 35% chance, or 40%.
The odds were stacked against him. The chances were not good.
And I sat down in front of the television that Sunday night thinking terrible thoughts. My father was going to die. My family was going to shatter.
And then I turned on the TV and began to cheer for my Buffalo Bills.
They played the Cowboys that night, and I knew their chances were terrible. The Buffalo Bills had lost their street cred considerably since the time my father began cheering for them.
He had gone to all 4 Super Bowls. He had seen them in all of their glory. But, in 2007 that glory was gone. They were pretty terrible.
And yet every season, every game, I cheered again. I adorned myself in the Kelly, and then the Flutie, and then the McGahee jersey. I drove to Buffalo from wherever I was living at the time. And I screamed.
I screamed in hope. I screamed in exasperation. I screamed in elatement. And I screamed in anger.
But I kept screaming.
Because I BILLieved.
I believed in a team that repeatedly was 6-10, or 7-9. A team that never had the odds in their favor but showed up to play every weekend, year in and year out. A team whose fans never gave up hope—even if we were playing the Pats or the Steelers. A team who never tired, even if they were jumping snow drifts into the end zone.
He might only have a 30% chance at beating that disease, but I was a Bills fan. I had rooted for worse. I had seen greater upsets. I knew it was possible.
And for 11 months, I held that firmly in my mind.
My father ended up losing that battle, but not without trying to make that 55 yard field goal kick at the very end. Just like my team.
He was cremated in his jersey, and we demanded the opening game of 2008 be played at his calling hours.
For three hours, as people attempted to say their goodbyes to a great man and sympathesize with his family, our eyes were trained to the televisions that we demanded the funeral home have. And we watched as OUR team stomped on Seattle that day. We knew it was for our dad. We knew it was for the Bills greatest fan. We knew he was smiling in heaven.
It’s been 10 years now since the Bills true Twelth man left us. Ten years where we’ve kept those season tickets, and kept the faith.
My father created a strong family. A family who doesn’t give up. A family who roots for the underdog, who doesn’t care when the odds are stacked against them.
My little brother thinks my dad was holding up that ball that Dalton passed. My sister thinks he was smiling on the sidelines. My mother cried, and I screamed. We were all in different states and different worlds, but we were together on that field.
We were going to Jacksonville.
We were going to that game.
We didn’t care how much the tickets, or the flights, or the hotels would cost.
We were going to reunite on the side of that field, and we were going to scream.
This belief system has gotten us through so much. It has gotten us through decades of grief and pain, the good and the bad. It has gotten us through devastation and regret. Losing our #1 fan.
It has gotten us through life.
So on Sunday, I BILLieve.
On Sunday, I’ll throw my faith behind a team who’s odds are stacked against them. Who’s chances are small. I’ll scream for the team my father learned to love in the 80’s and for the team his children have learned to love since.
I’ll be surrounded by the biggest Bills fans I know to exist, and missing the biggest Bills fan that used to.
He’ll be watching.
He’ll be BILLieving.
I hope you will too.
About two weeks ago, I sold a horse.
It’s been a few years since I have actually sold one, although a few have been for sale, and one even left my care only to return quickly.
And through that processes: the showings, the vettings, the negotiations, the panicked phone calls and the trek to Virginia, I started to think that maybe horse sales were not for me.
Two years ago I thought I could sell anything, and so I took on a horse that didn’t fit the majority of my prerequisites of what was a good project horse. Nixon was a little bit too old, a little bit too angry, and a little bit too much of a pro ride to be an easy or quick sale.
But like the rest, I put the blood, sweat, and tears into him. What he lacked in rideability, he made up for in good looks. What he lacked in amateur friendly bevahior, he made up for in athleticism that a professional would crave.
And yet when push came to shove, he was both too good and too unmarketable to sell. On a good day, Nixon is worth $50,000, and on a bad, I wouldn’t be able to get him on the trailer to even head to auction.
So, after 12 months of hard work, numerous tear-ridden phone calls to friends and family, and one blue ribbon at the RRP Thoroughbred Makeover, I took him off the market.
Mak was everything Nixon was not. He was kind, he was calm. He was amateur friendly and a packer type.
And just as quickly, he was home.
I don’t know who suffered more in that escapade: Mak or me. While Mak came home fairly unphased by his month in Virginia, I was left fairly traumatized by the whole process and the aftermath.
Because I have always considered myself two things: a good baby trainer, and a good match maker. I do not consider myself a horse seller or trader, and never take on more than one at a time.
I am not good at teaching horses upper level movements or selecting the ones that will go to the international stage, but I am good at selecting a sound body, a good brain (well, minus Nixon), and then putting a solid foundation on that young horse.
And once that foundation is there, I used to love nothing more than finding the perfect match to take that horse to the next level. And I love following them in their journey. The Ainsleys and Skylars of my resume have brought me so much joy, and knowing that we found a great horse for that perfect rider and then watching them blossom together has been so rewarding.
But with Nixon, and then Mak, I began to question every aspect of this process that I used to enjoy. I hadn’t selected the best brain in Nixon. I hadn’t found the best match for Mak. And because of my delinquency, I believed my horses had suffered.
I always wondered about what Mak went through during his trip to Virginia, and if he resented me for putting him in that situation. I always wondered if Nixon could be at the 2* level by now if he had gone to a better rider, someone more capable than me.
So for two years I stayed away from it. I didn’t take on a project and I didn’t sell a horse.
But then I began to realize just how much I missed the journey. How much I missed watching that perfect person sit on a horse you created yourself the first time. The first time you get to cheer them on at a show. The first time you get to watch them tackle that next level or new movement.
So I got another project horse. A polo pony who had grown too tall was bestowed upon me by the farm my boyfriend is a manager of, and on October 1st, I began to lay the cement of this foundation.
And for 2 months we bonded.
I took Sig for his first trailer ride, his first horse show. I showed him his first Dressage ring and his first cross country fence. I put his first blanket on him, and his first brush boot. We went for first hacks and first gallops, and everything in between.
And after a little bit of time, I had a pretty good idea of who I wanted to match him with. I wanted a capable rider who could bring out the best in him, while understanding that he didn’t need a professional to finish the job. I wanted someone who would do the things he loved while understanding that he was a blank slate that could go in any direction. And most importantly, I wanted someone who would love him as much as myself, my friends, and this farm had come to.
And I found her.
Lindsey contacted me a few weeks ago and inquired about the big baby. She asked all of the right questions, and I answered as honestly as I had ever done. I knew that I was never going to be the sketchy seller, who lies through their teeth. My prior failed sales had taught me that a bad sale was worse than no sale at all, and I responded as such.
I told her he could be a turd to bridle. I told her that he had gone through a phase where we couldn’t catch him. I told her that he had only ever been on a trailer with a ramp. And I told her that he would do just about anything if grain was involved. I told her he hated saddlebreds dressed as peacocks, and he demanded to be in the lead.
And she responded by saying that none of that phased her—he was only 3, wasn’t he?
So she made travel arrangements and drove to Lexington less than 48 hours later. And we bonded the minute that we met. We talked ponies and politics, relationships and friendships, and then I threw her up on the sweet baby and knew from the first circle that it was meant to be.
Sig shipped out last weekend to Maryland where he will pursue a life full of mystery. Lindsey has prehistorically done the jumpers, but has also dabbled in fox hunting, eventing, and dresssage, and I’m sure Sig and I will be able to convince her to do all of the above.
And for a week now, I have been reminded of why I used to love this. The comfort in knowing your horse is safe. In knowing he is loved. The excitement over what lies ahead and what updates you will receive. And the enjoyment you get out of watching the journey from afar.
I don’t know if or when I’ll get another project horse, but I do know that my heart, my conscience, and my soul are ever so slightly healed. Sig and Lindsey showed me that I do have a purpose in this massive world that we live on.
That I am still good at laying that foundation. At making that match. And at watching it unfold.
So who knows, maybe I’ll get back in the game. In the meantime, there’s one more horse out there that I get to cheer on. That I get to point to and say “I helped him find her.” And that I get to love from afar, knowing how good his life will be because of that good start. That solid foundation. And the love that went into it.
I awakened on Friday morning and just stared at the comments. Thursday evening had been spent in a state of distress; a state of overwhelming fear, sadness, and this sick sense of loss.
I am not good at ignoring things. I am not good at not doing. I am not good at sitting on my hands. I am not good at being still while watching others suffer.
And therefore watching the barns of San Luis Reys Training Center burn was excruciating for a doer like me.
I had been through barn fires before. I had watched as the entire 2yo crop of a farm my partner managed go up in flames. I had watched a trainer need to be sedated as he heard his horses scream. And I had seen the devastation afterwards.
And yet this time it was bigger. It was greater. It was scarier.
But I didn’t know what to do, sitting in Lexington Kentucky.
So I shared a few Facebook statuses of where donations could be made. I asked my California blog followers and numerous friends which this writing has connected me to to go help. I begged for clothes and toiletries to be shipped. And then I sat on my hands, not knowing what else to do.
Until I saw a Facebook status of a kindred spirit-another horsewoman who felt the same. Renee Dailey had posted that she was in a state of distress watching her fellow horsemen suffer, and wanted to help. She wanted to gather a group of horsemen and women from Kentucky and get them there.
So I called her.
I had worked sales for Renee and her partner Tom VanMeter before, and asked if I was what she was looking for, and she immediately said yes.
She wanted horsemen who could handle a 3yo intact colt, bandage a leg, and triage a case. She wanted someone who could stay calm under pressure, and not be unraveled by the severity of the situation. I made the cut, as did my significant other Luke Sullivan, who needed to do little more than tell his boss Greg Goodman of Mt. Brilliant Farm that he had been offered an opportunity to help the horses in California to be given the time off.
Renee found the people — and quite easily. But what she then needed were the money and supplies, and the way to get us there.
So she hit the pavement. She and Tom called every connection they could think of. And what started as a simple Facebook plea and a phone call quickly became a thing in it of itself.
Spendthrift offered their private jet to get us horsemen and women to California. Ron and Barbara Perry offered their home in addition to their truck and trailer for once we got there. And countless companies and farms offered their money, supplies, and medications to help us once we got there. Hagyard Pharmacy immediately gathered boxes of meds, KBC Horse supplies gathered bandages and supplies, and we packed our bags with a change of clothes and chain shanks.
We were off.
And as I looked around the plane flying there, I couldn’t think of a more miscellaneous crew of people from Kentucky. Or a more perfect.
We had a broodmare manager in Luke-but someone who was also skilled in hauling and handling dangerous horses. We had a business manager from PM Advertising in Caroline Walsh, but someone who was a skilled horse handler herself and whom had unlimited connections. We had the Thoroughbred specialist for Kentucky Equine Research (KER) in Erin Hogan, but a woman who had worked as a veterinary technician for decades, and who had triaged countless other disasters. We had Twin Creeks farm and stallion owner Randy Gullett, who had trained countless racehorses himself and knew the backside like the back of his hand. We had bloodstock agent Sean Feld, who knew California racing and had a limitless supply of connections to get supplies and donations. And we met up with Allegra Lee and Renee Dailey once we arrived. Two fierce, impassioned, and driven women who were ready to delegate.
And we had me. Previously a farm manager, currently a scientist, and continuously associated with every entity that is this breed.
Renee was truly the woman in charge, and got us arranged and on our missions.
None of us had a famous pedigree. None of us had a famous last name. No one came for a publicity stunt or for good PR.
So we simply unloaded our trash bags and cardboard boxes of supplies from the fancy airplane and hit the ground running.
The Racing Office was well organized and knew exactly what they needed us to go hunting for. Horses had already been triaged by the time we arrived and the medical need from our side was limited.
But what was needed were THINGS.
Trainers had not only lost horses, but also tack rooms full of supplies. From their own saddles and bridles to their personal medical supplies, blankets, desks, and grooming kits.
Grooms lived in the barns and dormitories and lost even more. These men and women who stayed behind to save and rescue their horses had taken the hardest hit and lost everything but the clothes on their backs. They needed, and will continue to need, everything from clothing to supplies like microwaves, hot plates, food, and assistance.
But if they were lucky and didn’t have their living quarters burned down, they were now tasked with the additional commute from where they lived around SLR to Del Mar, which takes 30 minutes on a good day, and 60 in traffic. Men and women who were accustomed to, and could afford, a 5-10 minute commute are now draining their accounts just to get to the horses that they love and the jobs they need.
And some of those horses were still missing. Still unidentified. Still lost to the world and unknown if they were dead or alive.
So our groups divided and conquered. Erin to help the veterinarians. Allegra, Renee, and Sean to gather and deliver supplies. And Luke, Caroline, and I utilized our donated microchip scanners from The Jockey Club and various Lexington veterinarians to go identify missing horses—3 of which we were able to locate and return to their trainer, which was one of the most emotional and gratifying experiences of my life.
It was a whirlwind few days, and yet we were happy to realize that we were mostly unneeded, and have now begun our return to Lexington and the Bluegrass. The horsemen and women of California had it under control.
If there was anything that we learned or saw the most of while in Southern California, it was their tenacity and resilience. They had lost almost 50 horses, with a handful still missing. They were tired, they were grieving, but they were strong, and tough, and would be ok.
I also learned other things during my travels up and down the Pacific coast trying to find horses. Trying to relieve owners of their pain. Trying to assess, organize and help the situation. Many of these things need to be discussed on another day, many need to be handled now.
One: Please, microchip all of your horses. We learned in our whirlwind weekend how helpful this was in the identification of them. And this goes for young and old, expensive or cheap, thoroughbred or none. The microchips cost between $25-50 and are invaluable in the identification of horses in scary, extreme, and dangerous situations.
Two: Have a plan. And stick to it. I watched the video of the horses being turned loose and was just in shock and awe of how they ran together and for the most part stayed uninjured and intelligent. It was the best plan for the horses, and the men and women who did it did the right thing, and saved hundreds of lives. So sit down with your staff and talk about these things. What do we want them to do in a fire. A tornado. A flood.
Three: This is the hardest one for me, and I know I will get enraged comments to type it, but here goes. We need a national governing body for thoroughbred breeding, racing, and everything in between. There were so many people doing so many things, and while it stayed relatively organized, there were still moments of chaos and confusion.
We cannot always rely on donations from farms and owners. We cannot always assume that the racing office will have the time, energy, or ability to alert the troops. We cannot always turn to Thoroughbred Charities of America and ask them to man disasters and problems as if they were the Red Cross. Or FEMA for thoroughbreds. We will not always have a Trifecta Farm across the road from the disaster, or a team of capable horsemen within driving distance. We need a plan in place for ourselves. Our industry. Our horses.
The men and women of California were shocked and appalled that horsemen and women came all of the way from Kentucky. We heard constant thanks and a lot of gratitude, but moreso we just heard their stories.
Stories of bravery. Stories of heroics. Stories of desperation, and of despair.
We found trainers in a panic that they still hadn’t found their horses, and heard their tears when we called them back to say we had the horses and they were alive.
And we saw an industry that, yet again, came together. An industry that is constantly berated for only being “in it” for the money. An industry that made no profit off of these last few days, and in fact lost tremendously. But an industry that rallied together, raised over a half a million dollars, jumped into cars and planes, and simply HELPED.
That is my take away from this experience. They are battered. They are bruised. They are bleeding. But we, the entity that is this beautiful, tragic, amazing game of thoroughbreds will rebuild. We will be full again. We will be back.
To donate to the relief of these men, women, horses, and industry, please donate to Thoroughbred Charities of America Horses First Fund.
On Thanksgiving Day, while the turkey roasted and my family gathered, my significant other and I huddled on the couch with shoulders touching and a tiny iPhone in front of us.
We screamed at the tiny screen, and smacked our thighs as a plain bay swapped leads and surged to the front of the field. And when he streaked past the finish line with his head at another horses saddle cloth, we smiled and embraced.
It was the first time that “our” boy had placed. It was the first time he showed any true effort. And although it was only a $5,000 claimer, “our” boy finally showed some promise.
I put apostrophes around “our”, because we have never actually owned this horse. But as is the life of a farm manager, we became immensely attached to the overgrown heathen from birth, which I blogged about in Loving and Letting Go. In fact, Luke no longer even managed the farm that did in fact breed him, and we haven’t seen him since he sold as a beautiful yearling at the Keeneland September Sales of 2015 for $150,000.
But he is ours. And we are his. And every time that he changes hands, I reach out to the new owners, or their trainer. I send the cliche message that I always have, complimenting them on any success they have experienced with the horse, and then proposing that if – or when, the horse is ready for retirement or a second career, that they can reach out to us – no questions asked.
And I have sent this message out countless times, for countless horses, and countless farms. I have done it for Chesapeake breds, and Hinkle breds – farms which I personally worked for. I have done it for foals born on Don Alberto, Alastar, and Mt. Brilliant – farms which I have no personal connection to besides through my boyfriend Luke and his managerial position. We are tightly connected to the breeders, and yet we usually do it without any affiliation to them.
About 10% of the time, the trainer or owner will respond. And only twice have I actually secured the horse. Often we have resorted to offering money, or even claiming the horse ourselves. But many times, the horses disappear and we are left bereft and confused. Wondering what it was we could have done more of.
And each time that that happens, I message a little bit more often. I call a little bit louder. And I try a bit harder.
Because there is a fine line between communicating with the current owners and their trainers and harassment. And it is unfair to always equate cost, or level of race, with level of care. I have seen horses who never won a race in their life come home looking like a shiny show pony, and I have seen horses retire after winning graded stakes races who deteriorate rapidly. I have seen horses who need years of rehabilitation, and horses who can head to the showgrounds after only mere weeks from their last race.
There is no tried or true equation to the madness, and there will never be a standard with which to make assumptions on the thoroughbred breeding and race industry.
And yet, time and time again, I see one common statement about this industry. It is usually from the naysayers, or from the external fans surrounding the business.
It is that the breeder is responsible for the entirety the horses life.
And I can’t tell you how much I disagree with that statement.
Now, this is not because I do not think that the breeders shouldn’t care, or that they shouldn’t give a thought about the horses entire life as they select matings, or produce these foals. I don’t think that breeders should consider their horses life over at the yearling sales, or when they turn five.
But I do believe that a horses care, livelihood, safety, and welfare lie on one person and one person only’s shoulders – and that is the owner at that moment of time. The one name on the sales contract. The one who is currently paying the bills and securing the care.
By saying that it is the breeders responsibility for the horses life, we are not only enabling the current owner to be irresponsible, but we are also running the breeder through an impossible gauntlet. One where they are spending their time picking up the pieces of others shattered messes.
I have blogged time and time again of the current state of affairs in this industry and just how difficult it is to track a horse. And this is coming from someone who attempts to track from the get go – from the first moment in which the horse leaves my care. I have watched horses trade hands over ten times from the moment they leave my care – and shown just how difficult it is to secure that horse back into that care without spending thousands of dollars just on a purchase.
I have let you follow my journeys with horses like Marilyn’s Guy – who was only retired once he was injured after we begged and pleaded for his retirement for years. I have let you in on the details of Called to Serve – who’s prior race owners took it upon themselves to claim the 6 yo gelding for $5,000 just to secure a safe and sound retirement.
But what I haven’t blogged about are the countless others who I have watched fall through the cracks, and through no fault of the breeders.
The horses that we have purchased for $2,500 only to find out that after the injections wore off, the horse was unable to even withstand turn out. The horses that I have reached out to numerous connections of only to find out he had been purchased privately and to the sisters, cousins, brother in laws, neighbor. The horses that we have found at auction ten, fifteen, or even twenty years after they last walked off of our four planked fence line.
This is not to say that “we” – and by we, I mean the breeder, their farms staff, and the team which surrounds them – hasn’t tried. That is not to say that we haven’t lost claiming hand shakes, or had our propositions fall on deaf ears. That is not to say that we do not care, or are not pounding the pavement.
Many farms spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on aftercare. The breeders like Stonestreet, and Adena, and Darley. These mass producers which the naysayers lament for breeding such a large crop are actually following their horses and beseeching for their sound retirement. They are then either rehoming themselves, or donating massive grants to organizations like New Vocations, Second Stride, or ReRun. Or the breeders like Stone Farm and Hinkle, which place a note on every foals Jockey Club paper with a contact number to call if the horse is ever at need. The ones who bring them home to their own farm.
But they can only secure this aftercare for the horses who’s current connections are cooperative. Who do not desire that one last race, or that one last turf circuit. They can only help the owners who want helped. They can only assist the horses who can be assisted.
And on 90% of breeding farms in central Kentucky, there exists a field full of geldings which could not be brought home in time. Which could not be rehomed through the adoption agencies or their friends. A field full of large ankles and screws. A field full of horses which ran that one last race….or twenty.
So no, I do not think that the responsibility lies on the breeders shoulders. The breeders which are already attempting to fix the problem. The breeders which have cut the foal crop down to almost 50% of what it was only a decade ago. The breeders which pledge mass amounts of money to aftercare and the TAA.
No, it does not rest on them. Instead, hold your owners accountable. Hold your trainers accountable. And hold your racetracks accountable.
Enforce their anti-slaughter policies. Enforce their drug restraints. Enforce the vetting that happens before a race, and disallow any injured or obviously neglected horse from running. Open their minds to legit punishments, that are more than a smack on the wrist and a fine that can be paid off mucking stalls for a day.
Increase the transparency over the options these owners and trainers have. Show them the CANTER website and inform them of competitions such as the Retired Racehorse Projects Thoroughbred Makeover. Increase the number of “End of the Meet Showcase Days”, where trainers can highlight their horses which are ready for retirement while attracting local equestrians to attend.
And at the end of the day, a sound horse is a safer horse. A sound horse has a 90% chance of finding a second home – a second career. Us breeders have to prove our horses soundness before they are purchased at the mass auction houses like Keeneland and Fasig Tipton. They leave our farms able and ready. But they do not always leave the track in the same fashion.
So encourage your owners, trainers, racetracks, and any fan affiliated with the sport to support the One Last Race campaign. Retire the horses before they need retired. Let them come off the track fresh faced and ready to jump a jump, run a barrel, or play a chukker.
That is what needs to change. And that does not lie on the breeders shoulder. Our sport can always improve, but lets target and attack the pieces that are missing, not the parts of the picture which are already being painted. A beautiful piece of artwork exists if we all work together – the breeders, the buyers, the owners, the trainers, and the tracks. Now we just need to find the appropriate colors and paint the piece.