One of the first racehorses my dad bought was named Herode's Boy; a steel-grey, four year old gelding. Herode was one of our favourite horses because almost every race he was entered in; he may not have always came first, but he usually brought home a paycheck. I used to really enjoy watching him race because when the horses we're beginning to scramble around the last turn before heading down the mainstretch to the finish wire, he was generally in about 7th position and hugging the rail. The jockey could often be seen then, half standing up and holding onto the reins tightly with both his hands, trying desperately to hold him back, so he wouldn't make his charge too soon. It was great, when the jock slid atop the tiny saddle, slackened his hold and waved the crop along side his head; Herode didn't need a whip to get moving, just know that it was there. Didn't seem to matter if the track was lightning fast or thick mud, Herode's Boy would just start rapidly gaining on the leaders and passing them like they were standing still. His races were always very close at the wire; often a photo finish to determine the winner. I'd be so excited, my heart pounding in my chest as they thundered towards the finish line; I couldn't help but yell with many of the other screaming punters, "Come on Herode! Come on boy! You can do it!"
Herode was a one of a kind racehorse. The gelding was so high-strung and nervous, even when he wasn't racing and just relaxing in his stall, whenever he heard the starting gate bell ring; the horses charging down the track, the jockeys yelling in their ears, the cracking of crops; he'd rush to the half-open stall door and start weaving his big head from side to side; unlike Sweetie Pie (previous story) he loved to race. Even before I'd put the bit in his mouth and slide the bridle over his head to lead him to the paddock, Herode knew he was going to race and he'd proudly prance alongside me with his long light-grey tail swishing back and forth. I think he must of had a lot of racing fans because his odds were never very high and my dad and I always bet on him too. He was usually entered in the 8th race, the last race of the day and many the time I cashed in my tickets - even won the Quinella (need to pick the winner and the second horse) - he almost always put some jingle in my pocket.
I can still recall Herode's Boy's last race, which was at Lansdowne Park in Richmond, BC. He didn't seem quite right to us, not the usual spunky get-me-to-the-races sort of a horse that day. When the 8th race was held, it was usually beginning to get quite dark, so the flood lights were always turned on; couldn't have ten horses racing in the dark at close quarters and gambling spectators not being able to see them - never know what sort of hanky-panky the jocks would get up to. As per usual during the race, Herode's Boy was in about 7th or 8th position but when the jockey urged him to run, even gave him a crack or two on the ass with the whip, he didn't make his usual gallant charge; he finished last that day.
Herode still seemed pretty frisky when I picked him up at the end of the race and walked him back to the stables. He even jumped around a bit when we washed the sweat and grime off him. However, after we put the heavy horse blanket over him and I began walking him around the shed row, giving him a sip of water every time we came up to his water-pail in order to cool him out; I knew there was something wrong with him; he just wasn't the same old Herode's Boy I'd walked so many times before. For some reason or another, he kept passing a lot of gas and wanted to lie down. Each time he tried, I'd have to yank up his head and jab him in the ribs with my elbow to keep him walking. I asked my dad if I should put him in his stall and wipe him down with straw, which was sometimes another way to cool out a hot horse if he had pulled up too sore to walk after the race but he said no. I could see the worried look in my dad's eyes; he thought the horse was perhaps suffering from colic when he said, "Keep him walking and whatever you do, don't let him lie down."
I remember walking Herode around the poorly lit shed row for about another 15 minutes, frantically trying to keep him on his feet, when my dad sent for Doc Talbot, the track veterinarian. When the doc arrived, he told me to take the steel-grey gelding (his stomach was quite bloated by this time) into his stall and face him towards the back wall. After checking out the horse very quickly, he then filled a syringe with 10cc's of some sort of liquid and plunged it into Herode's neck. After extracting the needle and wiping the horse's neck with a bit of alcohol dabbed on a puff of cotton batten, I remember looking at my dad as the doc said, "Turn him loose."
I didn't like the idea of letting go of Herode and I could see in my dad's face that he felt the same way. I felt as long as I kept him walking, even if I had to walk him all night long: he would get better. Whether Doc Talbot knew what he was doing or not that night because we knew he was a drunk, I'll never know, but almost as soon as I turned the gelding loose, he laid down in the stall and began trying to roll over. It was heart-wrenching to watch Herode thrashing in the thick straw and when he tried to stand up, we could hear his pitiful groans. It wasn't long before his struggles ceased; his long legs stopped moving and his big, dark chocolate-brown eyes finally just stared at the ceiling after he'd twisted his bowels and died.
I can't say that I'd ever saw my dad cry, but he cried that night - we both did after I shut the stall door and we held each other. It wasn't because Herode was worth ex-amount of bucks or that he'd never win any money again; my dad and I both loved that high-strung, weaving and get-me-to the races, steel-grey gelding with all our hearts.
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