THOUGHTS FROM A BACKYARD TRAINER
By Sandy Lowery
Forest Hill, Maryland
Connie, "She's going to the killers." That was Friday. Saturday
to see her. Sunday to set up hauling. Monday to get her. Tuesday the killer
truck left empty. And so Connie arrived at our farm. "You owe me your life,
fat mare." She is by nothing- out of nothing, but beat the odds and paid her
way. Her career ended the day her heart finally outran her legs. She has a
blown knee and is big... too big. With other horses she is evil, downright
wicked. The mare had little going for her except being in the right place
at the right time. Her saving grace is her way with humans, especially children.
She is so careful - a gentle giant among the little people. Connie loves them,
follows them, adores them. She will leave dinner to be pet by the tiny fingers
of a three year old. Connie was bred to a sport horse and is due in thirty
days. The young man who has appointed himself foaling manager is all of four
years old and perches himself on a bale of straw to watch his charge. As his
mother picked the stall one evening, he dozed at his post. Connie went to
her guardian, lowered her massive black head and began grooming her tiny friend.
As he slept she nickered and nuzzled him as though he were her own. "You owe
me nothing, fat mare." "Let's go for a happy ride." That's what we call trail
rides. I grabbed a shank and hustled out to the paddock. Jean tacked her hunter
as I brought Samantha to the loading ramp to climb aboard. Off we went- through
woods and cornfields, over streams and jumps. And all Samantha wore was a
halter and a cotton shank. Pretty impressive for a three year old, eh? Oh...
by the way, two days earlier Denan's Prospect, Samantha's proper name, worked
five out of the gate at Pimlico. Now that's a BACKYARD RACEHORSE!