THE NEW COLT AND A WILD RIDE IN KENTUCKY

2009-06-19T16:45:00.000-07:00

Above, the paddock at Keeneland and No Bettor Love's colt born in March of 2009.

MARYLAND, MARCH 2009

No Bettor Love was due to have her fourth foal on March 26th. I had taken her to the Christmas Farm to foal out, and the Mexican groom there, Nacho, was sure she would not foal until the moon was at least half full on April 2, and more likely when the moon was full on April 9.

"The moon," he said, "she pulla the foal out."

Meanwhile, No Bettor is getting bigger and bigger, and I’m quite alarmed by the obviously huge size of the foal in her uterus. Donny Christmas, who owns the farm tells me, "I had one like that named Soap. She used to have huge foals. The last one was so big it got stuck in the birth canal too long, had brain damage, and we had to put it down."

Thank you, Donny. I’m trying to forget that after 25 years of good luck, in the past three years I’ve lost two foals shortly after birth. They give you time to bond, fall in love, and then they’re gone. This business is not for the faint of heart.

I drive over and check on the mare every day, and for some reason I went twice on Tuesday, March 24. On the second trip, early that afternoon, I give her some carrots and peppermints and as a matter of habit, I lean over to examine her udder. The wax plugs on the teats have popped out, her legs are speckled with wax, and there is milk dripping down her legs. My God, this mare is close to foaling!

I grab my cell and call Donny. He doesn’t answer. I call my husband who always answers his cell. He doesn’t answer. I trot over to Nacho’s little house and politely knock on his door. He comes out, and I tell him about the plugs, the wax, and the milk.

"Nah, she not gonna foal," he says, gesturing at the sky. "No moon . . . maybe two three days. But I make stall." The mare has always lived outdoors with a run-in-shed, and is treated the same way at Donny’s. But when it’s close to foaling time, into a stall she must go. Still, Nacho’s expression suggests I might be a hysterical female. I march back to No Bettor Love’s paddock.
But a little while later Nacho comes over and looks, sees what I see and says, "She not gonna foal until the moon more full." I refrain from saying what he can do with the moon.

That evening, I’m to attend my mystery-writing critique group and I think I can probably check on No Bettor on the way there, and on the way back. I do. On the way there, she is still in the paddock, but she is calm, has eaten her tub of grain and is working on a nice pile of hay and alfalfa. Her stall has been made up by Nacho, and over the clean, knee-deep yellow-straw, a feed tub is fastened in one corner and two freshly filled water buckets hang in the other.

I attend critique, where my buddies have brought cupcakes, cookies and more cupcakes as my birthday is on March 31 and we won’t see each other before then. We have a great time eating cupcakes and pointing out things that could be better in the story one of the gals is presenting. I feel kind of silly, as this gal has been nominated for an Agatha award, and here I am telling her how her work could be improved. But that is how we mystery authors work together and become better writers. My cell phone has, of course, been in my pocket the whole time. Just in case.

My critique group breaks up a little after nine, and I put the pedal to the metal and roll south on the Washington Beltway toward Upper Marlboro. I arrive at Donny’s and find No Bettor Love knee deep in straw, and Donny up on a ladder, fussing with the camera he uses to watch the foaling mares at night. I look at the mare and see milk squirt out of her udder, and to me she seems quite restless.

Donny, an old time horseman, whose father bred Maryland stake’s winners, including Subaru, who won the Black- Eyed Susans on Preakness day, refuses to get ruffled.

"I suppose she could foal tonight," he says, "but tomorrow night would be more likely."

Who am I to question the wisdom of a man who has foaled out at least 500 mares and whose uncle trained the legendary chestnut mare, Gallorette. Gallorette ran back in 1940s, is a member of the Racing Hall of Fame, and among other stellar accomplishments, managed to beat the leading male horse, Stymie. Three times.

Donny gets off his ladder and goes to look for something. I promptly move the ladder which is blocking the solid-wood sliding-door to the stall. Pushing the door open, I step inside. No Bettor comes to greet me, then starts walking her stall in a circle. Crawling into the safe corner beneath No Bettor’s feed tub, I curl up to wait.

When Donny gets back, he looks through the Iron bars above and says, "You going to sleep in there tonight?"

"I’m not sure," I say. "Thought I’d lie here a while and see what happens."

No Bettor throws her tail up twice and stretches her neck out. She tries to pee two or three times with little success. Then she cocks her head, just like she is listening, and I know she is listening to her foal. I know it, but say nothing. No Bettor paws a few times and lies down.
She groans a little, and Donny says, "I believe this mare might foal tonight."

Duh, yeah.

He bustles off to get a tail bandage, and feeling a rush of adrenalin, I curl up tighter in my corner. Even if all goes well with the foaling, the first thirty days of a foal’s life are critical. I have lost two foals in the past three years during these crucial days.

Donny reappears with a purple bandage, and kneels in the straw by No Bettor’s tail and starts wrapping. He’s about halfway through, and No Bettor’s water breaks and gushes all over Donny. With great effort, I refrain from a smart comment.

Donny gets the tail bandaged, pulls out his cell, and calls Nacho.
"This mare’s getting ready to foal. You better get over here right quick."

Using Donny’s phone, I call my husband, Daniel. "Her water just broke. Donny might need some help pulling this foal out."

Daniel says he’ll be right over, but I’m pretty sure he won’t get here in time. No Bettor Love gets up with a groan. Tremendous changes have taken place in such a short period. Her hindquarters near her tail bone have softened, the muscles almost flaccid. Her vulva is gaping wide, and . . . .
"Donny, there’s the bubble!"

A white membrane that covers the foal has separated from No Bettor’s placenta. It has pushed out about six inches from the vulva. The mare groans, circles twice, and folds herself gently onto the floor.
We rush over to No Bettor, and Donny grasps the membrane. I can see two sets of hooves and ankles through the thick film.

"Those are awfully big hooves," Donny says and slides one hand inside the mare a wee bit.

"Is there a nose?" I ask. Please, God, let there be a nose.

"I think I’ve got a nose," he says.

I almost do a little fist pump of relief. The baby should come out like a diver, front legs stretched out, nose tucked down just above the ankles. It should surge up and over – then dive down from – the mare’s pelvic girdle. Your worst nightmare is a breach birth, where the foal vainly tries to come out backwards with all the legs pointing the wrong way. In this situation, with a large foal, you’re lucky if you can save the mare. The foal’s chances are slim to none. Unless your're in a hospital setting, you cannot perform a C-section on a mare and expect her to live.

We both grab the ridiculously slippery front ankles and pull a little as the mare contracts.

"Look at the size of that muzzle!" Donny’s face is tight with apprehension.

We both work to peel the membrane away from the foal’s nostrils. The mare contracts and I have a little horse head almost in my lap.

"He’s breathing," I whisper. He has a beautiful white blaze, and I’m sure he’s colt. Nacho hurries into the stall, and I slide over to make room.

The hard work is ahead. The mare must push the foal’s large shoulders/withers/girth section through the birth canal. If the foal’s in there too long, he will die.

Donny and Nacho each grasp the foal’s ankles using both hands. The mare contracts and they pull in unison. The foal is not sliding out. Both men’s faces are grim and tight with effort and the fear they might not get him out.

Donny says, "The mare’s stopped pushing."

I look at No Bettor and she’s clearly exhausted. She groans and I call to her quietly, "Come on mommy, you can do it."

She starts pushing again, and Donny and Nacho’s faces reflect the tremendous physical strain they are under. I see the colt’s chest, the front of his withers.

"No Bettor Love," I call like I did when she’d come down the turf stretch on the lead in Virginia. Only, this time, I’m not screaming with excitement. My voice sounds more like a prayer.

The mare gives one last massive contraction, and the foal gushes out. With his narrow hindquarters stretched out behind, the last part of his dive over his mother’s pelvis is a quick slide home.

Everyone is panting. Donny and Nacho slump to the floor for a moment. The mare is breathing hard and lies still a few seconds before she raises her head and cranes her neck to look back at her foal.

Daniel arrives and appears mesmerized as he stares at the foal, the membrane that is still covering his hind legs, and the traces of blood that have splashed everywhere. The colt kicks, shoving himself away from mother’s hindquarters, tearing off more of the white membrane as he struggles toward the inevitable break with the umbilical cord.

No Bettor groans and sits up to look at her baby, but she’s too exhausted to rise. There is no rush. She has a while before the baby will find his sea legs and clamber up from the floor. But he tries, thrusting his front legs out before him, raising his front end a foot off the floor before he loses balance and sinks down. He looks around at everyone and whinnies.

I grin. It’s a manly little whinny; he has to be a colt. Using clean towels, Daniel and I rub the colt dry, stimulating his circulation and introducing him to the touch of human hands.

The next time he tries to rise, he scoots forward far enough to break the umbilical cord. Donny brings a plastic cup filled with the antiseptic, Novalson. Easing down next to the foal, Donny attempts to roll him over to expose the umbilicus – a veritable highway for bacteria to enter the blood stream of the foal. But the colt’s having none of it, his incredibly long hind legs kicking wildly like flying hockey sticks.

"He’s a colt," Donny says, nodding. "And a strong son of a gun."

Nacho moves in and gets a grip on the colt, and Donny immerses the umbilical stump into the cup of Novalson, letting the blue antiseptic splash over the entire area. I breathe a sigh of relief. One more milestone passed.

Thrusting her front legs out, No Bettor Love rocks forward, groans and getting her back legs beneath her, rises up. The colt struggles to get up, too, the nursing instinct strong. A few more attempts, and suddenly, he’s up! Once he gets his sea legs and starts walking, he begins investigating various parts of the mare, not sure what he’s looking for, but certain it’s there. Somewhere.

Donny, never one to stay up all night watching a foal play hit-or-miss, moves in and with Nacho’s help, directs the searching little horse-lips to the right spot. The magic of a foal getting his first milk -- sucking, gurgling, his whole body trembling in eagerness, his tail almost wagging. No Better has her nose on the colt’s rump now, pushing him in closer, licking him, encouraging him to get his fill.

It's all basic, but to me, it’s a miracle. As I watch, the muscles in the colt’s throat roll the life giving colostrum filled with antibodies into his system. As always, here is where I let go and cry.
We have done all we can do.

I thank God, The Force, Mother Nature, and anyone else who's up there. I go home, light a candle, and pray the little guy makes it through the crucial thirty days ahead.

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KENTUCKY, APRIL 2009

My former trainer, Barry G. Wiseman, calls in March to say Jonathan Sheppard will run some of the best horses in their barn during the Bluegrass Stakes weekend at Keeneland.

I really want to go and try not to whine as I say, "No Bettor Love is due to foal. She usually comes late, and I may be tied up with the foaling. Besides, I can’t afford the plane ticket from Maryland to Lexington."

But apparently many people are having similar financial constraints, and a couple of days later the airlines cut their fares, and the ticket from Washington, D.C. to Lexington drops by almost 50 percent! Then No Bettor Love foals two days early and produces a handsome colt, with whom I promptly fall in love.

I learn more details about that weekend in Kentucky. Informed Decision will run in the Grade 1 Madison Vinery, Just as Well in the Grade 1 Maker’s Mark Mile, and champion Forever Together will make her 2009 Comeback in the Grade II Jenny Wiley Stake. There’s no keeping me in Maryland. I book the flight.

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Thursday, April 9,I arrive at my economy motel about three hours before the first big race. I unzip my suitcase and fling hair products and makeup onto the bathroom counter. I know the Kentuckians get dressed up for these races and don’t want to be an embarrassment to Maryland.
Two hours later, I’m ready to go. I’ll admit to leaving damp towels on the bathroom floor, Bumble and Bumble products littering the counter, and assorted eyeliner, mascara, and makeup brushes lying in jumbled disarray, but the results in the mirror aren’t so bad.

I take a cab to the grandstand and while waiting for Barry to bring Informed Decision to the paddock for her race, I hunt for a drink to quell the butter flies in my stomach. My home-breds have never performed beyond the allowance level and one placing in a restricted Maryland-bred stake. Standing in the paddock with the Monarchos filly who broke the track record at Keeneland last fall and might win this Grade I stake will be a heady experience.

A mob of excited racing fans buzzes about Keeneland. Beer and bourbon flow freely inside the handsome, stone grandstand with its carved arches and balconies where fans can step outside and oversee the paddock. I get a Maker’s Mark, and knowing I won’t be allowed to carry it into the paddock, I gulp it down. When I step into the green enclosure, I’m buzzing like everyone else.

Informed Decision appears in the paddock. A big, muscular grey filly, she stalks in like she owns the place. What a monster! But the favorite, last year’s Breeders’ Cup Filly & Mare Sprint winner, Ventura, sails in right behind like a reigning queen. A gorgeous, large bay with a white blaze, and multiple grade I wins. Ventura won this race in 2008 and has accumulated earnings of $1.4 million.

In the blink of an eye, Jonathan and Barry are saddling Informed Decision, and the jockeys are entering the paddock. Jonathan tosses the filly’s regular rider, Johnny Velazquez, onto Informed Decision’s back, and the field of six heads onto the track. Barry and I rush up some stairs into the grandstand where the usher has made a box available to us.

Moments later the horses finish their warmup and load into the gate. Informed Decision has the one hole, and Barry’s concerned she’ll get boxed in on the rail.

The gate springs open and Dubai Majesty breaks on top from the three hole, with Bear Now right behind. I can see Velazquez’s arms pumping, urging Informed Decision into contention, and she responds quickly. Velazquez settles her into third place on the rail and sits chilly. The field tears down the backstretch in that order, with Ventura bringing up the rear under Garrett Gomez.
Content to wait, Velazquez lets B Sharp Sonata go on by. With one furlong to go, Velazquez looks back, pulls Informed Decision off the rail, and asks her to run. But Ventura is rocketing down the center of the track now, eating up ground with powerful strides.

Will we get second? I’m so tense I can hardly see, but I hear the track announcer yelling.

"In the final furlong, heavily favored Ventura to the front, Informed Decision coming with her. Ventura!" A split second pause, then he screams, "Informed Decision gets up to take it by a neck!"

I want to collapse, but Barry’s already running for the winner’s circle and I’m right behind. We bust through the crowd, darting right and left around rowdy fans deep in their cups of beer. We’re out on the track now, my boots sinking into the Polytrack surface. In the distance, Velazquez gallops Informed Decision back toward us and the winner’s circle. The massive grey filly looms closer and closer, jogging toward us.

Cameras flash, the crowd yells enthusiastically, and I feel like I’m on the set of a great movie. I could get used to this.

But that evening, the weather turns cold and wet and Donny Christmas calls on my cell phone. In an instant my euphoria evaporates. My new Outflanker colt has come down with colic and Donny’s calling the vet. He thought I should know . . .

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Thursday morning the clouds and rain outside my motel window reflect the doubt that lingers from Donny’s phone call the night before. I pull on my Outback jacket and rubber Crocs and splash across the pavement to the Starbucks up the street, where I purchase a vanilla latte before sloshing back to my room.

Checking my watch, I decide 7:30 a.m. isn’t too early to call Donny.

"The Banamine seems to have helped that colt last night," Donny says. "But I left No Bettor and him up where I can watch them on the camera. He seems all right, at the moment."

Donny has a video camera in the barn that swivels back and forth on a remote so he can see two or three stalls at once. I am grateful the colt is being watched and vastly relieved his condition has improved. Donny says he’ll keep me informed and as I disconnect the rain is beating harder against the room’s window.

I have only brought new leather Ariats and the ugly rubber Crocs dripping on the floor by the door. Not a fashion statement, but good for weather that may push Just As Well’s race onto the dirt track if the turf course gets too soggy. But the colt should run well on either surface.
It’s the shorter, one-mile distance that might hurt him. I smile, remembering everyone’s astonishment when the colt finished second right behind Breeders Cup winner Kip Deville when those two ran a mile and one-eighth in the Gulfstream Park Turf Handicap (G1). But when Sheppard’s colt raced a mile a few weeks later, the horse didn’t even hit the board.

I finish the hot coffee and realize the room is chilly and damp. I turn up the room heat and glance at the array of cosmetics on the counter. What’s the point of hair products and makeup on a day like this? Still, being female and somewhat vain, I trudge into the bathroom and crank the spigots for a hot shower.

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Later that morning, the cabby drops me off next to Barry’s barn. Keeneland has the only backstretch I know of without fences or gates manned by security guards. Barry is busy and preoccupied with the upcoming race, but he hands me an umbrella and lends me his stable badge.
"Go on up to the grandstand," he says. "Isn’t your friend Paula going to be up there?"

I have never met my "friend" Paula Weglarz – only "talked" to her on Facebook. We’d exchanged cell phone numbers and were supposed to hook up. Suppose we hate each other on sight?

Still, I can take the hint that Barry needs to focus, so I clip his track pass to my rain jacket, pop open the umbrella, and follow the walkway running between the barns toward the grandstand. The umbrella shelters the hairdo, and with the pass I’ll get into the grandstand for free. In spite of the rain, I’m smiling. Life is good, or would be if it wasn’t for the colic cloud still hanging over my colt.

Inside the grandstand, I decide the first order of business is to find a drink. I’m directed to the second floor, where I ask a track security guard for further directions. Thirty-something, he looks me up and down.

"The Blue Grass Bar would be a nice place for a lady to get a drink," he says. "But they may be sold out, and I don’t know as you’ll get in."

Barry’s pass allows me through the door, and inside, the place is mobbed with just about everyone dressed up. Except for the dreadful rubber shoes, I fit right in. Hopefully, nobody’s looking down. The hostess tells me there’s one seat left at the bar, and I take it. I sit between two nice young men, and even though they are well into their beers and bourbon, they’re extremely polite and well mannered.

Since Just As Well is running in the Makers Mark, I order one of those and get a free Maker’s Mark bourbon glass as part of a promotional special. The whiskey’s plunked down before me and it tastes great. I’m deep into the glass, talking horses with the fellows on either side, and having a grand time when my cell phone rings. It’s Donny.

"Your colt’s not doing well," he says.

"What?" I can hardly hear him for the noise around me.

"Your colt. He’s colicking again, and it’s pretty bad. The vet’s here. Do you want to talk to her?" "No," I say. "I mean . . . I’m in a bar. I can barely hear you."

"You’re in a bar?"

Feeling about two inches tall, I say, "I’ll call you right back." Damn it!

The bar tender, a jovial gal around twenty-five, stares at me. "Honey, are you all right?"

"No." I can feel the tears running from my eyes. There goes the eye makeup. "My foal is colicking. Do you have a napkin?" I wipe my eyes and explain the situation.

Only in Kentucky would everyone leap to attention at the news of a sick foal. The hostess hurries over and leads me to a bathroom where I can close and lock the door. It’s relatively quiet in there and I call Donny back.

Donny knows that money is an issue for me and I have already told him I don’t want the colt going to some place like New Bolton Center which inevitably charges thousands of dollars for treatment. Colic surgery is a minimum of $8,000 to $10,000. The previous year I sent an eleven-day-old filly to a clinic in Virginia. Twenty-four hours later she was dead, and I got a bill for almost $2,000. I can’t do this again.

Donny puts the vet, Dr. Kennedy, on the phone. I tell her I am not in a position to send the colt anywhere, that if he’s too sick to survive at the farm, she should put him down.
God Damn everything! We disconnect, and after slinking back to the bar, I toss down the rest of the bourbon.

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Standing beneath the portico outside Keeneland’s beautifully landscaped paddock, I stare with dismay at the driving rain that darkens the long enclosed oval stretching the length of the grandstand.

The portico is mobbed with people avoiding the rain while they wait to see the horses enter for Just As Well’s race, the ninth. Looking around, I wonder how I will ever locate Paula Weglarz. I key her number into my cell and she surprises me by answering right off and telling me she’s in the paddock

"I’m wearing a ball cap and I look like a drowned rat," she says. "I’m out in the rain, and it’s God awful!"

"I’m under the portico," I respond, "and I’m waving my hand over my head."

"I see you!"

I peer through the rain. A good-looking and substantial woman with red hair and a baseball hat is walking toward me. She’s dripping wet, yet has a big smile for me. On FaceBook, Paula has impressed me immensely with her diplomatic and knowledgeable posts. Her enthusiasm for horse racing is endless, and the gang of FaceBook friends that follow her posts also enjoys her sense of humor.

I shake hands with Paula, pop open my umbrella, and we move into the paddock to wait for Barry and Just as Well. Knowing Paula’s read my FaceBook posts about the birth of No Bettor Love’s colt, I blurt out the colic story and explain I’m more than a little preoccupied.

"Aw, that poor little baby’s going to be all right, and you have every right to be upset," she says.

We are both high energy talkers, and our words tumble and race, covering horses, sick foals, the miserable weather, and what a damper it puts on a girl’s looks.

Barry enters the paddock with Just as Well and Jonathan Sheppard. Moments later, the horse is saddled, and the jockeys enter the paddock. Jonathan gives Julien Leparoux a leg up onto Just As Well, and the field of six horses moves out of the paddock and onto the wet, rainy track.

Jonathan disappears into the crowd, and after hurried introductions, Barry, Paula, and I run to our gratis box in the grandstand.

As Barry predicted, our colt needs the extra eighth of a mile. Though he’s surging forward at the end, when the field sweeps under the wire, Just As Well finishes in third place. I’m disappointed, but remind myself I should ever be so lucky as to own a horse that gets the "show" in a Grade 1 stake, finishing only two lengths off the pace.

Barry suggests Paula and I get another drink and watch the last race. He leaves to check on Just As Well, and Paula and I walk back to the Blue Grass bar. My two drinking buddies are still there, my spot between them available, and another seat has opened for Paula. We order drinks, and Paula snaps a picture of me and the two Kentuckians before we leave.

Outside the grandstand the rain has eased and by the time we reach Sheppard’s barn, the last bit of drizzle has stopped.

A man and a woman are standing outside the shedrow holding dogs on leashes, and with a start, I realize the man is George Strawbridge. I’ve only seen photos of this highly-regarded, wealthy horseman who’s bred many a famous horse, including the phenomenal sire, Storm Cat.

With Strawbridge, is his lady friend and companion, Julia, who’s dressed in a good-looking black-and-white outfit, nylons and heels. I glance down at my ugly rubber shoes. I notice my pants are splattered with mud, and Paula looks like she lost a battle with Niagra Falls. Nice time to meet George Strawbridge.

I have followed the career of this major-heir to the Campbell’s soup fortune in magazines and I know George and Jonathan have shared a longtime friendship as racehorse owner and trainer, which is unusual in the business. So much so, that some columnists have suggested George’s champion, Forever Together, was named for this lasting friendship.

That seems a bit syrupy to me, and find it more likely the mare was named after her dam, and sire -- Constant Companion, and Belong to Me.

Barry, leading his little mixed-chihuahua Gizmo, joins George and Julia. In spite of drowned hair and ugly shoes, Paula and I walk over and introduce ourselves. Paula is not the least intimidated by wealth and fame, and we chat amiably even after I raise George’s eyebrows by saying I have met Paula on FaceBook.

When Gizmo and one of Julia’s dogs get into a growling match, we leave George and Julia and walk into the shedrow. Paula thinks Gizmo is about the cutest thing she’s ever seen. She scoops him up in her arms and the little dog ends up cuddled on her ample bosom.

"Looks like Gizmo would be happy to stay there all day," I say to Barry.

He glances over at Gizmo, who appears to be grinning. "Forever," Barry says.

My cell phone rings and the caller ID indicates it’s my husband, Daniel. I’m sure it’s about the colt, and my stomach tightens into a knot.

When I answer, Daniel says, "Your colt’s colic is much worse and Donny’s taking him to New Bolton Center."

"No," I say. "I told him we can’t afford to do that! I told the vet – "

"The colt’s on the van, Donny’s already left with him."

"God! This is awful, how bad is he," I ask. "Not good," Daniel says. "Donny said the foal was in agony, on his back with his legs up in the air and his belly distended. Doctor Kennedy gave him another dose of Banamine and they managed to load him and No Bettor Love up."

I mumble something incoherent, and Paula puts Gizmo down and comes to stand beside me.

"He understands we don’t have the money," Daniel says, "but there was no stopping him. He wasn’t going to let that colt die. He said he’ll pay for it."

I’m speechless a moment, fighting back tears. "We have to pay him back."

"Of course we’ll pay him back!" Daniel is shouting now.

But how? With a strangled voice I tell Daniel to keep me informed and we disconnect. I repeat some of this to Paula who puts her arms around me and gives me a hug. What a nice lady.

Barry finds me a chair and after collapsing into it, I think again how I experienced 23 years of good luck breeding and racing until Barry left to work for Jonathan in 2005. Six horses have died since Barry’s departure.

Am I stuck in some kind of deja vu loop where my horses get sick and die? Their names spin through my head – Tumbling Dice, Glow West, Do You Love Me, Love of Honor, and No Bettor’s second born, the colt we never had a chance to name. And the biggest heartbreaker of all, the horse I named For Love and Honor.

Three of these horses were home-breds I’d sold, and they’d been lost while owned by others. But once a horse claims your heart, he owns it forever.

And now this new little fellow. Not having enough money to do right by this horse sucks so bad. Having a friend who steps up to the plate for the colt is incredible. That Christmas family has always been stubborn as hell, and for a moment, I smile.

A while later, Paula leaves, and Barry suggests we get some dinner. I go with him, and my cell phone remains quiet while I force down food I’m unable to taste. I spend the next couple of hours in a daze, watching the time, imagining Donny on that long drive to New Bolton, and wondering if the colt is still alive.

Barry drops me off at my motel after dinner and tells me not to give up hope

"Try to get some sleep," he says. "Tomorrow’s a big day. Forever’s making her comeback."

I nod, and retreat into my room, where I make the phone call to Donny I’ve been dreading. "Donny," I say, "how is the colt."

"They gave him an MRI and had him all prepped for surgery," he says. "But just before you called, he passed some manure."

"He did?" Knowing a severe colic is usually caused by a twisted or blocked intestine that halts the passage of waste matter, I felt like popping the cork on a bottle of champagne.

"He might be all right."

"But what was it?" I ask.

"Don’t know. They don’t have the results back from the MRI yet. Maybe that’ll tell us something."

Wow. New Bolton hasn’t done surgery, and I haven’t racked up a $10,000 bill. But most important, that little colt might make it.

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I sleep pretty well that night and in the morning, when I pull the cords on the motel curtains, sunshine pours into the room and onto the day champion Forever Together will make her 2009 comeback. No rubber shoes for me!

I decide a tall cup of Starbucks is just the jumpstart I need, and at eight, I call Donny. He hasn’t heard anything from New Bolton yet, but suggests no news is good news. I put on the radio and they’re playing Sting’s "Brand New Day." I boogie a little, do the hair and makeup thing, call a cab, and head for Keeneland.

Paula and I have agreed to meet outside the paddock, and watch the races while we wait for Forever Together in the Grade 2 Jenny Wiley running later. I’ve been surprised by how many people on FaceBook are familiar with this mare, including a gal named Nicki Fox who’s all about Kentucky horse racing. When I reach the paddock area, I’m delighted that Paula has brought Nicki.

First thing I notice is Nicki’s young, with beautiful blond hair and pretty eyes. Compared to Paula and me, she’s not much of a talker, which is probably a good thing since we make it hard to wedge a word in, anyway. Paula's hair is coiffed and quite stylish. She looks greaat.

While Forever’s post time creeps closer, we find a place inside the grandstand to get a bite to eat and order drinks. I’m surprised when Nicki mentions she needs to lose weight. She must not realize how good she looks.

"What," I ask, "you want to be one of those anorexic Victoria’s Secret models with enlarged breasts?"

"I’d like my arms to be slimmer," she says.

"Nah," I reply. "I read one of Madonnas exes complained that being with her was like getting in bed with a piece of gristle. Probably, men don’t want gristle . . ."

As I say this, the field for the eighth race is loaded into the gate. Forever Together’s race is up next.

"We’d better get a check," Paula says.

We pay up and rush from the grandstand to the paddock area. When Paula and I start to walk past the guard posted at the paddock’s entrance, Nicki balks.

"I can’t go in there. I don’t have a pass. They’ll throw me out."

"I have a pass, and you’re with me," I say.

Still, Nicki’s nervous to be in the paddock with the rich and famous, and as we wait for Forever Together, George Strawbridge and Julia enter the far end of the paddock. Julia is wearing a bright yellow spring-coat and a flowered hat. George, in a brown fedora and conservative threads, is right off the cover of "Town and Country" magazine. Walking down the paddock’s center aisle, they make a smashing entrance.

Nicki, in a dress and heels, fits right in, but when she sees Strawbridge, she’s ready to bolt. She reminds me of a nervous filly, and instinctively, I latch onto her arm. George walks straight to us with Julia at his side, and Nicki mumbles something about being thrown out for sure. But George extends his hand graciously, and greets Paula and me.

I’m quite familiar with Jonathan Sheppard’s sense of humor, and take a chance that George wouldn’t be such a longtime friend without sharing Jonathan’s appreciation for the absurd. I introduce him to Nicki.

"I met Nicki on FaceBook, too," I say. "Just met her for real today."

George’s raised brows suggest he’s still uncertain about the propriety of meeting someone on the internet.

"My mother," I continue, "asked me how I knew Nicki wasn’t a serial killer."

George bursts into laughter, and Paula says, "And my dad’s always warning me about psycho internet stalkers."

Our conversation remains silly a moment, but soon shifts to the upcoming race. Forever Together enters the paddock, and when this statuesque, grey mare calmly walks past the large crowd on the rail, she creates a buzz excitement. She is, after all, a champion and the favorite in the Grade 2 Jenny Wiley.

Like the previous day, Barry and the groom steady the horse while Jonathan saddles her before tossing jockey Leparoux into the saddle. Once Forever’s on the track, Barry, Paula, Nicki and I run to the same box to view the race.

My cell phone rings as I sit in the box, and seeing it’s Donny, I pray it’s not bad news.

"Lynda," he says when I answer, "New Bolton called. They say No Bettor’s colt is nursing like a fiend and galloping around the stall!"

"Oh my God. That’s wonderful!" I say, my voice cracking.

"They want to keep him up there a few days, but we can pick them up when you get back from Kentucky."

"Donny, I want to thank – "

"Don’t worry about that." He mumbles something about fixing a broken water line and disconnects.

I start to tell Paula, but the horses are already in the gate. Forever has the three hole and breaks evenly with the field.

In her usual style she drops to the rear of the field, letting Kiss With a Twist and I Lost My Choo lead the pack of racers. With Leparoux sitting like an ice carving in the saddle, Forever races at the back through the first turn and the entire backstretch. The pace is slow, the first quarter in 24 and 4/5 and the half creeping along in 51 and 4/5. Wont the front runners easily hold on at this pace?

They’re halfway through the last turn, and Forever’s still galloping in the rear with only one horse beat.

"Come on," Barry says.

"Forever Together’s being pushed along now," cries the announcer, "and has to swing wide at the top of the stretch."

"She’s five wide!" I say, not liking her taking the long route home.

"Here she comes," the announcer yells.

Everyone in our box starts shouting as Forever makes her patented late kick. As Forever sweeps toward the front, the millionaire, Rutherienne, is gaining ground, too. Kiss With a Twist has held on in first place and looks dangerous. And just like that, Forever, Rutherienne, and Kiss With a Twist are three across on the lead, and I start pounding the rail in front of us with my fist.

"Come on Forever! Come on!" I shout.

She and Rutherienne are head and head as they edge in front of Kiss With a Twist. The noise around us is so deafening, I’m sure every one of the 27,000 plus racing fans is screaming.

Leparoux is hand riding the mare, and without a touch of the whip, Forever glides to the front and wins by a length.

"Oh my God!" Paula shouts.

Being associated with a winner like this gives me a buzz I’ve never received from liquor, and as we race down to the track for the win picture, I’m high as a kite.

But it is after the winner’s circle fanfare, with the press and high society, that the experience truly touches me. As Barry and the groom lead Forever Together from the winner’s circle past the grandstand, I trail just behind, my smile so wide it almost hurts. The crowd’s enthusiasm for the grey mare bursts into a roar as everyone stands to applaud. Thousands of people call out to her, hundreds of flash bulbs explode and like the class act she is, Forever takes her standing ovation in stride.

I’m so thrilled to be a part of this moment, and then it hits me. My colt’s going to be all right! An irrepressible laugh escapes me, and suddenly, I can’t wait to get home.

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No Bettor Love in training with Barry Wiseman at Laurel Park racetrack in fall of 2002.

THE NEW COLT AND A WILD RIDE IN KENTUCKY

THE NEW COLT AND A WILD RIDE IN KENTUCKY

PICTURES FROM KEENELAND. Captions at end.

Pat Lang Photography - Official Win Photos