On this day, sixteen years ago, a sweet little Thoroughbred colt was born in Kentucky.
Okay, I very much doubt that he was sweet. But he is a Thoroughbred and he was born and it did actually take place in Kentucky. When I imagine the Bold Archer as a foal, I visualize flying hooves unencumbered by arthritis and training, I see a mischievous glint in his eye that has not dissipated, and I hear the baby version of his scream.
I've been fortunate that I've had the internet wiles and the assistance of more internet-suave people (L. Williams) to acquire his history. I know the (many) races that he lost, the couple that he placed and the one that he won. I know his tattoo number and his breeder and his trainer (not personally, of course). Eventually, I'll be able to track down the photo finish of that first place.
I have a vague understanding of where he went between racing and meeting me. I know that he spent two years in a pasture, getting fat on grass, before I started working with him. Prior to that, he was a 4-H flunkie.
In our years together, we have jumped jumps, galloped ponds, trotted to the point that I think I would know his rhythm by feel alone, and cantered endlessly. We have had tantrums and falls and mental fatigue and physical failings. Our relationship strengthens every day. I learn more on how to communicate with him and he, in turn, understands better what I'm asking.
When I purchased him and my trainer told me that I could take him to a few shows and immediately resell him for three times what I paid, I scoffed. Since that first trot, it has never crossed my mind to actually sell him. Archie is my "heart horse." I'm sure there will be other horses and I'm sure that I'll love them as much, but never will another creature speak so strongly to my soul.
Here's to sixteen more, Bold Archer.
Okay, I very much doubt that he was sweet. But he is a Thoroughbred and he was born and it did actually take place in Kentucky. When I imagine the Bold Archer as a foal, I visualize flying hooves unencumbered by arthritis and training, I see a mischievous glint in his eye that has not dissipated, and I hear the baby version of his scream.
I've been fortunate that I've had the internet wiles and the assistance of more internet-suave people (L. Williams) to acquire his history. I know the (many) races that he lost, the couple that he placed and the one that he won. I know his tattoo number and his breeder and his trainer (not personally, of course). Eventually, I'll be able to track down the photo finish of that first place.
I have a vague understanding of where he went between racing and meeting me. I know that he spent two years in a pasture, getting fat on grass, before I started working with him. Prior to that, he was a 4-H flunkie.
In our years together, we have jumped jumps, galloped ponds, trotted to the point that I think I would know his rhythm by feel alone, and cantered endlessly. We have had tantrums and falls and mental fatigue and physical failings. Our relationship strengthens every day. I learn more on how to communicate with him and he, in turn, understands better what I'm asking.
When I purchased him and my trainer told me that I could take him to a few shows and immediately resell him for three times what I paid, I scoffed. Since that first trot, it has never crossed my mind to actually sell him. Archie is my "heart horse." I'm sure there will be other horses and I'm sure that I'll love them as much, but never will another creature speak so strongly to my soul.
Here's to sixteen more, Bold Archer.
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