R. I. P. Elf
Sometimes all the magical incantations and positive thoughts don’t make much difference. A fractured pelvis spits in the face of magical incantations and positive thoughts. And so our little Elf is no more.
It looked like she was improving for awhile. She was always eager to see the carrots coming and to hop out onto her front lawn for grass eating. She never missed her dinner. Last Saturday night she felt comfortable enough to lay down for the first time since she got home. In the process of getting down and up, however, the displaced pelvic bones cut into the major vessels which run under the pelvis, causing a large amount of bleeding into her right hind leg. To get a better handle on exactly what was going on, we got Dr. Tim Lynch to come over from Peterson & Smith to ultrasound the entire area. Before this, we didn’t really know whether the fracture was of the femur, the tibia or somewhere else. Dr. Lynch inspected the damage and told us the situation was pretty much hopeless from the day she took that one unfortunate step at Calder.
Some horses you just like better than others. Elf was one of those horses bound to be a favorite. She was always quick on the updraw, figured things out before everybody else. And she was spunky. Despite her size, she was always right in the middle of the skirmish, giving as much as she took from her pasturemates. She was the first foal born in her 2009 crop of three, a February baby, and she was thrilled at the later arrivals of Juno and Wilson. Juno eventually decided she would be boss but that was mostly because Wilson was a gentleman and Elf let her carry on.
When the three of them went into training, Elf was eager for the action. When the works started, she was fast off the first pole but seemed to understand the rider’s signals to keep to a controlled pace. She was supposed to be the first of the two-year-olds to ship to Calder but she got a slight filling in the right front tendon sheath a couple of days before her departure date and Juno went in her stead. Elf took a short period off and when the injury proved superficial, returned to training with her usual zest. She enjoyed our Saturday visits, probably because that was carrot day. She would take a bite, chew, and, when ready for more, signal by nodding her head up and down. When she finally got to Calder, she picked things up quickly. A short time before her fatal misstep, she had a nice quarter-mile work down the lane. Everybody liked her.
There are people who, when tragedies like this occur, tell you that racing horses is cruel but the horses don’t seem to think so. And, of course, if there were no racing, there would be no people out there breeding Elves merely to fill up their pastures. Happenings like this are rare but an occasional thunderbolt is inevitable.
We brought her out of her stall to enjoy a last little bit of the grazing she enjoyed so much while Dr. Lynch prepared the oddly beautiful pink euthanasia fluid.
“Well, ain’t this a kick in the head,” she said to me, looking at the crew from Peterson & Smith. “Looks like we’re getting ready to call it a day.”
“So sorry, little girl,” I told her. “You deserved a better deal.”
She reached her head out—which she never did before—and seemed to beckon me closer. I cradled her head in my arms, rubbing her forehead.
“Remember me to Juno and Wilson,” she instructed. “I might not have been around long but I had a hell of a time. I’m planning on coming back as a bottlenose whale in my next life. Better bone. Not so much running.”
And then Dr. Lynch, in that horrible moment well known to horse owners, injected the death drug and she slowly went to the ground.
People say that animals don’t have souls, but Elf did. And now, that soul rose from her lifeless body and soared into the cosmic plain and off into that Secret Garden reserved for the Special Ones, where it waits patiently for its next incarnation. And those of us left behind are forever diminished by her passing.
The Graveyard Grows
We’re running out of room in our Fairfield cemetery. We’ve got Vaunted Vamp buried in the small paddock closest to the house. Clockwork Orange and her daughter, Orange Orchid are nearby, as are Fast Janice and one of her foals. One of Siobhan’s first horses, Prize Model, is buried in the driveway right up close to the house, as I discovered one night early in our relationship when I drove up and quickly sunk into the morass. There are others, lots of them, not to mention Mike, the beloved Rottweiler, and Smoke, the not-so-beloved Doberman. Siobhan’s ancient Siamese, Dolly, has a spot and, just to prove we bear no malice toward humans, Siobhan’s mother and stepfather are sprinkled liberally about the place, as is the star-crossed Stuart Bentler. We can hardly wait to see who’s next. Approaching 71, I’m just hoping it’s not me.
Adding Insult To Injury….
In case you didn’t think God has a real sense of humor, when the backhoe man came to dig Elf’s grave, he managed to cut our telephone line, which, for reasons unknown, ran through one of our pastures. This, of course, promptly disabled all of our phones and computers which constantly accept messages for Siobhan’s business. It was 24 hours before we got back on track and with a legion of customers to pacify. That’s what happens when your horses at the track start doing well, the Cosmic Arbiter gets back at you.
Racing Report
And speaking of racing, Super Chief (secret identity, Wilson) is running in the ninth at Calder on Saturday in a Maiden $50,000 claimer. If he remembers to leave the gate this time he should win. The race for Cosmic Crown (Juno) didn’t go so we’re twiddling our thumbs waiting for something for her. Calder yields to Gulfstream December 4 so we’ll probably be shipping to Tampa Bay for a few races over there. Some of our readers live in Tampa. Their presence will be expected.
It’s That Time Again
Well, we managed to wean Puck and Hannah without anybody getting killed or jumping over fences or the like. Puck, in particular, didn’t like it but he’s adjusting. Hannah, whose mother is a crotchety old thing, didn’t seem to mind so much. They’re following Shamu, the new babysitter, around but they’re not entirely sure about the mules, which they eye suspiciously and stay away from.
“What are those things, Hannah?”
“I don’t know, Puck, and I’m not sure I want to find out.”
Health Report
The neck stitches came out the other day and things are looking up. Unfortunately, the same morning they cut off a piece of my nose—right in front, too—and , just to be funny, stuck on a big, thick bandage. It’s only a little better than having one of those red clown balls on your nose. Siobhan tried not to titter when she saw it but she didn’t do a very good job of it. Siobhan has a tendency to be amused by disasters so she would not be the one to call for sympathy if your poor Aunt Edna gets skwushed by a falling satellite.
Anyway, I told my surgeon (who looks just like the medical examiner on Rizzoli and Isles) that if things didn’t work out I would secure an actual red clown nose, put it on and stand in front of her office carrying a sign saying Doctor Whoever Performed My Surgery. You’ve got to give them an incentive to do a good job, right?
On the 27th, I return for one final incision, this one from my back. At least, I won’t have to look at it. And when that’s done, you won’t have to listen to any more of this stuff.
The ‘Occupy’ Movement Grows (condensed from an article by C. S. Monaco, a historian from Micanopy)
The emerging social movement that began on Wall Street four weeks ago and which has now spread to myriad cities across the country has puzzled many in the mainstream media.
“What is their precise agenda?” ask the corporate punditry, most of whom seem flummoxed by the strength and staying power of a truly grassroots phenomenon, the likes of which has not been seen since the civil war era.
It is vital to acknowledge that this movement-in-progress is actually a counter-movement and not an isolated byproduct of bizarre malcontents, as a New York Times writer recently suggested.
Beginning in the wake of the 2010 elections, a coordinated attack by right-wing politicians continues to focus on dismantling the very pillars of progressive accomplishment. This scheme not only includes disempowering labor unions but aims at eliminating the Department of Education and, indeed, the entire public school system.
As absurd as it may seem, the right to popularly elect U.S. senators has been seriously broached and the previously revered “third rails” of American politics, Social Security and Medicare, continue to be in peril.
The bitter irony is that this extremist upsurge follows on the heels of the catastrophic Wall Street meltdown. Instead of being chastened and humiliated by the wholesale failure of this style of capitalism, elites—in concert with their Tea Party followers—have obstinately chosen to push this faulty ideology to further extremes.
All things considered, it is small wonder that a counter-movement has surfaced and gained significant support from a wide coalition.
The “Occupy” movement may be, in fact, the last chance for our ailing democracy. Successful movements embody an “insurgent reality” that directly challenges the status quo.
Those who ask “What are their demands?” should consider that social movements are not ideologies. In this case, the movement is an emotive response to massive abuse by power-holders.
Activists therefore purposively position themselves outside mainstream politics. One of the most obvious protest threads is “anti” Wall Street corruption, pure and simple. The particular policies whereby citizens can purge themselves of unbridled corporatism will, hopefully, emerge thanks to the rise of this extraordinary counter-movement.
And that’s all, folks….
