Saving Baby (4 page)

Not that Baby's grandfather was any low-level Thoroughbred. Nijinsky II, as he was known, was proving to be an even more productive sire of high-level racers than Secretariat.

Talk about dumb luck. Here we knew zip about horseracing, yet we were going to end up with two of the most promising Thoroughbreds you could imagine. I had never even thought about Secretariat's pedigree, and certainly not about Nijinsky II's. I had just wanted a piece of Secretariat in my backyard. In fact, while I watched the Kentucky Derby on TV every year, we had been to the track only once in our lives, giving each kid ten dollars to bet. I myself bet on a horse with the word “Scott” in his name because one of my nephews has that name. I knew nothing about looking at a horse's racing record.

Baby making his own equine version of snow angels with Cookie, our German Shepherd, watching.

On top of our beginner's luck, we felt like we were making money even before Baby entered a single race because of all those tax deductions. Incorporating at the accountant's recommendation, we called our new business Brookside Acres, for the huge brook right behind the barn.

It was going to be a full year before Baby started training, as he was still only an infant. Thoroughbreds don't begin to get ready for racing until they are yearlings—somewhere between their first and second birthdays.

In the meantime, he needed a real name. All Thoroughbreds must have a name registered with the Jockey Club in order to be able to compete. Often, it has a piece of the horse's sire's name in it, or a piece of the broodmare's. Baby's father was Reel on Reel, so we settled on naming him “Reel Surprise.” His gender had been a surprise as was the fact that we were able to keep him, so it made perfect sense. We never referred to him by his official name, however. Once in a while people called him Surpriser, but he always remained Baby to us.

It was an idyllic time, that year between finding out we could keep Baby and his going off to train. Like a gigantic, energetic dog, he would play with empty cardboard boxes in the pasture, sticking his hoof into one, flinging it into the air with his leg, then chasing it.

He experienced his first snowfall, rolling in it out of glee and curiosity. To see such a huge animal go down on the ground and roll from side to side, then get up, shake, and buck and run off—nothing beats watching that playfulness. To this day, it's not an event that we take for granted. If John sees one of the horses rolling happily in the pasture he'll call out, “Sissy's rolling” or “One of them is at it.” It's too adorable not to watch.

Of course, whenever a horse goes down on its side, there's reason for concern. While people have twenty-six feet of intestine, horses have eighty to ninety feet of gastrointestinal tubing that food must pass through, sometimes turning sharp corners that narrow to no more than an inch and a half wide. If everything doesn't go exactly right, a horse can end up with colic—a bowel obstruction or a toxic buildup of gas that unless treated quickly enough can kill him. A horse with colic will drop to the earth and start to roll in an effort to get rid of the pain. So you need to watch closely. Is the horse nipping at its side to try to extinguish horrific cramping, then pawing the ground after it stands up and perhaps walking in a tight circle, or is it getting on its feet again and shaking from head to tail out of pure joy? Ninety percent of the time it's the latter, but the other 10 percent is real cause for worry.

Not only was Baby such a happy horse, out in the pasture making his own version of snow angels, he was also an unusually calm one, especially for a Thoroughbred. They tend to be high-strung, twitchy. But Baby was so relaxed that when we had the barn enlarged to be able to accommodate not just Baby but also Pat's next foal, workers would walk across the roof, tarp slapping against the wind, tools pounding above him, and he would lie down in the straw in his stall and take a nap. On a warm day, he would come over to me to swat a fly off his rump or neck, where a horse can't reach. I was even able to enjoy his calm company in the car, courtesy of Rebecca. She made a tape for me of Baby chewing on hay, and I would pop in the tape of that rhythmic, mesmerizing munching to soothe myself while driving home after an intense day of taking depositions.

Things got even better when, in late May of 1992, Pat gave birth again, just a year and a few weeks after Baby was born. We were all experienced midwives now. This time I was ready with a knife in my foaling kit in case the sac needed to be cut open—but this foal's delivery went perfectly. She was a beautiful reddish bay, and we named her Scarlett Secretary. (Her sire, Secretariat's son, was called Treasury Secretary.) On her head, right above her eyes, was a beautiful white star, and she had white “socks” with black polka dots on two of her feet.

Scarlett, Secretariat's granddaughter, just after her birth. I could hardly believe I was touching a piece of history.

Unlike Baby, who came out short and stocky with little ripples of fat along his rump, Scarlett had legs that went on forever—more typical of a Thoroughbred. I have hilarious video of her taking her first steps, looking down as if thinking, “Are these things supposed to work?”

Baby looked so forlorn at all the attention newborn Scarlett was receiving in her stall that I had to go over and comfort him. “We're not neglecting you, Baby,” I whispered.

As soon as the leggy foal found her source of nourishment on Pat, I took the big wooden board on which I originally painted “It's a filly” in pink for Baby on one side, then, when the mistake was found out, “It's a colt” in blue on the other. I brought the sign to the road with the pink side facing out, and almost immediately, friends and family started coming by—with pink helium balloons, with carrots for Pat. Here we all were, touching a piece of Secretariat, a piece of what was probably the most famous horse in the world.

Baby, across the way in his own stall, looked so lonely. I went over and kissed him, breathed into his nose, feeling guilty that all the attention was going to the new foal. “We're not neglecting you, Baby,” I whispered gently. I asked neighbors who brought carrots for Pat to please give some to Baby, to pet him.

Baby and Scarlett weren't allowed to play with each other until Scarlett was several months old. A playful kick from Baby, now a seven-hundred-pound yearling, could have killed the young filly. But from the beginning, I let them smell noses over the fence, and they took to each other immediately.

Once Scarlett turned about four months, I let them in the pasture together, keeping a line on Pat at their first introductions so she wouldn't become aggressive with Baby if she thought he was going to hurt her young foal. But she allowed her two children together without chasing Baby around, never doing more than perhaps pausing in her grazing and watching the two of them intently for a minute or two to gauge the intensity of their frolicking. After a while, you could tell that she enjoyed seeing her babies play well together. Her pride wasn't surprising. Even a decade after being separated, a mare put in with her progeny will recognize them.

Only a month or so later, in the fall of 1992, it was time for Baby to go to training. Despite my excitement at the prospect of his racing, I continued to have mixed feelings, not just because he wasn't going to be out my back window anymore but also because I was now going to have to lose Pat. Scarlett was essentially weaned, so it was time for Pat to go back to Don Shouse. This killed me. We had come to adore this gentle broodmare who had now been living with us for eighteen months. She loved to be groomed. She had particular spots where she enjoyed being scratched—under her mane, behind her ears, in the crevice under her chin between her two jaw bones. And she was such a proud mother. How was I going to be able to give her up? It had actually been nagging at me for a year, since I learned that we were going to get to keep Baby and Pat was pregnant with Scarlett. I was ready to plead for her, prepared to beg Don to let her stay with us while she went through any other pregnancies he decided on, even if we didn't get to keep the foals.

As with Baby, I didn't call Don, because I didn't want to risk speeding up the process of Pat leaving. When Don finally phoned me, he came right to the point. “I told my wife that we're not going to get that mare away from Jo Anne unless I hold a gun to her head,” he said to me. “On top of that, my health isn't improving,” he added. “I'll give Pat to you with her Jockey Club papers.”

I was overjoyed. The mother of our children would be staying with us permanently, and now our family was complete.

I met with Don's wife to receive the papers as soon as possible because I didn't want to give him time to change his mind. She handed Pat's Jockey Club papers to me at an exit off the expressway, halfway between our two houses.

Now, with a little less trepidation as the business of Pat's future was settled, I could let Baby go to his trainer. The plan was for him to board at a training facility for two months, after which he would come home for the winter and then go to train at the track in the spring. The training facility was only a half-hour drive from my house. I would go to see Baby every single day, groom him, bring him treats, be with him. Still, it was hard, like letting your child go off to kindergarten. You want them to do well. You know they have to grow up. But it would never again be the same. Baby was now going to be under someone else's influence. Except for the time Beauty went to be bred, none of our horses had ever left our little farm.

Baby and me shortly before he went off to train.

Baby, unlike me, was not at all nervous. He walked right out to the trainer's truck, took a look at it, and didn't freeze or try to bolt. He stood still for a moment, allowing me to rub his neck by his mane, after which he was led onto the trailer.

That night was a restless one, and the next day, when I went out to the training farm's stables, I was not happy with what I saw.