During my 10 years, working at the racetrack, besides my dad, I worked for several other trainers as a groom. I imagine that after I graduated from the Vancouver School of Art (Emily Carr), if I hadn't found a good job using my creative skills, I most likely would have become a racehorse trainer too. However, hopefully not like Bob, or Bob-A-Needle-Bob as he was known around the track. He was a nice enough fellow but a smile doesn't always camouflage the dark side of a person. He'd been banned from the track for several years for doping horses and had just been reinstated when I went to work for him. However, instead of drugging horses, I noticed when his jockey showed up in the mornings, he was usually in a foul mood until he and Bob went into the tack room and closed the door behind them. It was obvious he was shooting the jock up because whenever I gave the little guy a leg up on a horse, his eyes were very shiny and his mood had changed considerably (not always for the best either; because sometimes, the belligerent little bugger was even more of a pain in the ass).
Bob trained 8 horses and they were all owned by this big, good looking guy who wore a black wide-brimmed fedora low over his dark eyes that matched his black hair, black suit and shiny black shoes - I'm surprised his name wasn't Mr. Black or perhaps it was in the world of mobsters. He usually arrived with this absolutely drop-dead, stunning, gorgeous blonde - she just took my breath away every time I looked at her and she had a voice like husky-honey that made my knees wobble. I have no idea how much she cost per hour and I doubt that a month of my wages would have been enough. However, my good friend Sam at the time, climbed up the outside of an apartment building and had her for free on a bearskin rug, which was apparently lying on the living room floor - lucky guy - in more ways than one because if Mr. Black had known, I doubt that Sammy boy would have been around very much longer!
With a trainer on the bottle and a crooked, junky-jockey in his hip pocket, for reasons his real name best not be known, I'll call him Mr. Black, you'd have thought his horses would have won a lot of races but not so. One horse I rubbed (groomed) was a real class equine - a No. one horse - he'd raced for $60,000.00 purses in California and often won. He was always entered in Handicap races at Exhibition Park in Vancouver, BC that had the highest purses, but my heavens, that horse was the sorest horse on four legs that I ever worked with, especially the front two. After one of his morning work outs, the horse pulled up so sore, he could hardly walk. I had to cool him out in his stall because Bob-A-Needle-Bob didn't want anyone watching him limp in agony around the shed row, especially since he'd entered the horse in a race.
But it was no secret, everyone, including the track steward, knew the horse was in more pain than a beat up hooker but I guess the pimp's girl wasn't earning enough money when I took him to the paddock that day. About four hours before the race, I held the horse in his stall while he stood with two bags of ice up to his knees that were looped together over his neck. The horse's legs must have been almost frozen solid because when I wrapped his legs with running bandages, he didn't even flinch. Why they didn't scratch that poor broken down son of a bitch is beyond me, and what surprised me even more, was when we were in one of the small paddock stalls and the track vet lifted the horse's front legs to see if he was sound enough to run and the horse groaned in pain, he still gave the go-ahead.
Of course the 6 furlong race was a disaster for this classy horse; he'd barely left the starting gate before he pulled up lamer than a one-legged, drunken sailor. The jockey was forced to dismount and had to lead the horse over to the outside rail so he wouldn't be in the way of the other horses when they came charging around the last turn. Of course, the pimp, the jockey and the trainer were upset about the race when they gathered together that evening and what really amazed me (perhaps they were all on drugs) they blamed me for the horse's condition and why it didn't win the race. Needless to say; I was fired that night but I can't say I lost any sleep over it. However, I did feel sorry for the horse because I was probably the only one that cared about him and looked after him when he could barely walk, let alone run in a race.
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