From A Horses Mouth

Written for

FORUM

The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPs! #333655 by Sophy

The New Prompt is:
Write a poem or story about a horse in the Kentucky Derby.

From the Horses Mouth

The most notable difference in this years Derby is that the jockeys and owners are now involved in a new commercial advertising game that they hope will do for horse racing what it has done for NASCAR and the PGA tour. On this night, the night before the race all of us have been brushed, combed, fed, and bedded down in our comfortable stalls on the grounds of Churchill Downs. We have been rubbed with liniment, covered with blankets, and fussed over.

It is late now. The anticipation of our owner’s, and jockey’s expectations has left the majority of us in a sleepless and restless state.

“Pssssst, Limehouse, are you still awake?” Lion Heart asked in his best Wilber voice.

“Of course I am you broken down old nag, and will you stop that. Does your trainer keep you up at night and make you watch old reruns of Mr. Ed on Nick at Nite, or what?” Limehouse replied.

“Why can’t you guys shut-up and let the rest of us sleep? We all have a big day tomorrow, you know.” Borrebo interjected in his typical “I am better than you are” tone.

“Don’t pay any attention to him. Since he over heard the trainers talking about his father, El Prado, who is known for producing colts that like muddy tracks, he actually thinks that he has a chance at winning tomorrow.” Imperialism quipped.

“Nay, my friend, nay!” Came a chorus of replies; they had all been practicing this very response to be made on cue, which was when Imperialism snapped at any one of Borrebo’s expected snobby comments.

We were all annoyed with Borrebo. His tactics about lying to Friends Lake that he had overheard that his owner had sold him had more than started him out on the wrong hoof with this year’s Derby gang. He had Friends Lake so upset that the trainers thought it was from fear of enclosed spaces, and they have had him out at the starting gates practicing for the last two days. While it may be true that Friends Lake is not the sharpest tack in the shed there was no need for Borrebo to be so unnecessarily cruel. We are all pretty high strung, pampered creatures.

“Hey, where is that new kid, Smarty Jones? Neither him or his jockey, Stewart Elliott have ever been in a Derby.” Read the Footnotes commented.

“Yea, I heard that, too.” Song of the Sword chimed and added, “Me and my jockey either.”

“As a matter of fact no new horse and rider has won the Derby since… since trainer and jockey duo Bud Delp trained and Ronnie Franklin rode Spectacular Bid in 1979.” The words popped out of Tapit’s mouth before he could stop himself.

“Hey, how’d you know that? You, your trainer Michael Dickinson, and jockey Ramon Dominguez are first timers too.” Pollard’s Vision stated with the sound of astonishment in his tone..

“Don’t you read the Chicago Tribune?” Tapit asked.

“Where did they find you? Horses don’t read.” Snorted Imperialism.

“Well, I most certainly do read, and it is my trainers daughter that taught me. I can read and understand French and German too, but I cannot speak it.” Tapit said softly hoping not to become the star of the conversation. He thought that he would quickly change the topic of conversation by asking, “Who is actually going to win tomorrow?”

For a few brief maddening moments a solemn hush fell over the paddocks. Then a typically deep stallion’s voice was heard from the far end of the stable, “You idiot. Haven’t you been paying attention these last few days? First, we voted to allow Wimbledon to win, and then he got scratched due to a leg injury, then we all agreed that St Averil would take the purse, and he got scratched for having tender feet. Now, for the first time in over 75 years we are all going into this totally undecided.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” Tipit replied shyly, but added while noisily pawing the ground, “Why not let Imperialism win, he is a favorite, or we could let Song of the Sword win.”

“Why would we do that?” Borrebo asked in one of his best angry, uppity tones.

“Well, first of all Imperialism is a favorite, like I said, and his trainer is Kristin Mulhall, and she would be the first woman to win, as well as the youngest, after all she is only 21. Jennifer Pedersen saddles Song of the Sword, and both are women, and this would be another first for the ladies.” Tibit stated with a measured amount of pride in his voice.

“So, you can read, and you see yourself as some champion for the ladies, do you?” Another stallion’s overbearing voice shouted from the opposite end of stable from where the last stallion’s comments were heard.

“Well, we will all have to be sharp, with this new advertising gig on the jockeys pants leg. We certainly would not want the television cameras to detect our little scheme, and have them blaming our poor unsuspecting jockeys, now would we.” Another added.

“All in agreement that we will make Derby history by letting Imperialism take it, stomp and snort.”

We made so much noise stomping our hoofs and snorting to show our unanimous agreement that all the stable boys came running to see what was causing all the commotion.

While we were all prepared to race to make our owners, trainers, and jockeys rich and happy; we are all also looking forward to the annual display of flamboyant hats known to mankind. It is a tradition that dates back centuries when hats served the more practical purpose of protecting a lady’s fair complexion from the sun. Today, however, the hats paraded at Churchill Downs are similar to a New Orleans Mardi Gras parade. Many an unsuspecting Derby entrant has admitted that they have more fun watching the hats than running the race. Some hats have been so distracting as to cause some of my less initiated, high-strung thoroughbred friends to lose it just before entering the starting gate.

“Aren’t you interested in winning the Derby tomorow, Birdstone?” A voice across from my stall quizzed.

“Nay, my jockey was in here the other night crying and explaining how sorry he was. Something about how he could make more money by promising that I would not win, place, or show. Actually, I am thinking about bucking his little skinny ass off my back just as I leave the starting gate. I don’t need him to win this race. You do all know that, don’t you?”