The Kid and the Colt

26 JULY, 2016.     LONDON

In New Orleans, there are many interesting neighborhoods — each with its own unique character and charm. Before Katrina, these differences were even more noticeable. 

In the Seventh Ward, in an area that was once scrub and dairy farms, a very nice race track was built, opening back in 1873, when my great-grandfather was a child. 

By the mid-Sixties, nearly a century later, wooden houses and other structures had sprung up all around the track, to house and cater to those who worked there. My great-grandfather was a contractor, and during the 1920's, built a number of them. 

The neighborhood just off of Gentilly Road (now Gentilly Blvd.) was gradually populated with "race horse people" — as my grandmother often disparagingly remarked more than a few times as I grew up. 

It was true: my cousin, Billy, was a jockey - then later weighed the horses. The man across the street was a bookie, and my aunt's son was an official at the track. Miss Ethel sold racing tickets at the betting window. 

See what I mean?

Stables were nearby, and thoroughbred racehorses were housed, exercised, bred, and raced on that very oval track. Still, despite all this, I never managed to get up close and personal with a horse for my entire childhood. Today, however, that was about to change. 

One Saturday morning in about 1965, I guess, my grandfather, whom I called Paw Paw, asked me to get out my little Radio Super wagon that I had stored in the back shed. He had a project to do.

Always up for some adventure or other, I extricated my childhood toy, now languishing beneath quite a bit of junk, and we set out on the sidewalk, my little red wagon in tow, for what purpose, I knew not.

We didn't have far to go, though. Our destination was right around the corner, at the home of Mr. Edmund, an acquaintance of my grandfather, and a horse owner. 

This man was temporarily quartering a handsome young colt, bred to one day race on the circuit and earn a tidy sum for his owners. 

But all that was in the future. Right now, the young thing was trotting around the large, fenced side yard, and no doubt wishing he could, instead, tear off at breakneck speed over a vast grassland - as his ancestors had done for tens of thousands of years before. 

My grandfather's friend was in the yard, waiting for us and was watching the promising colt. He motioned for us to come on in. My grandpa didn't once hesitate, but my feet seemed to be glued to the sidewalk. I was scared to go in. 

"Come on!" my grandfather called out, beaconing me to follow. But I preferred to watch the spry cavallo from the far side of the tall chain- link fence. Animals always made me uncomfortable, and the bigger they were, the more uncomfortable I got. 

"I don't know what's got into that boy!" my grandpa told his friend. 

"Get a move on, Kenny! Edmund is waiting for us."

Cautiously I walked toward the gate and entered, I knew, at my own risk. I approached the two men,  pulling my little red wagon along as I now walked swiftly to the perceived safety of the adults. 

All this time I kept a wary eye on the horse, but he was more intent on frolicking and horsing around than paying any attention to a 13-year-old punk kid. 

I breathed easy, now. This wasn't bad at all!

The men were having a great discussion - about what I can no longer recall; It matters not. 

I took particular interest in whatever it was that they were talking about, and now and again they would include me in the conversation. It was a most pleasant day and the most fascinating of dialogues,  I must say. 

I will interject a fact here: by my own admission, I do not, nor have I ever excelled at situational awareness. My attention was focused intently on the conversation, so much so, in fact, that I failed to notice a large creature approaching me from the rear...

And, sadly, that is exactly what the horrid creature went for, and the bugger BIT me — HARD — right on the buttox!! I immediately hollered out - partly in pain, but I was also startled, taken quite unawares as I was. 

It was on, now! I immediately took off, fearing those incisors, which were never more than a few feet from my posterior. 

I ran as quickly as my legs could carry me, around the worn path that the spritely colt had taken many times before. What was oh-so-wrong with this picture was that this 13-year-old kid was trying to outrun the offspring of generations of thoroughbred racehorses!

The outcome of this bizarre corrido was never in doubt. The young buck allowed me to sprint on ahead and all too quickly closed the gap, and I jumped just in time to prevent his teeth from closing upon my rear once again.

"HELP!" I shouted, no doubt adding some mild expletives to emphasize the urgency of my appeal.   

Instead of corralling the colt, or at least trying to divert his attention away from me, the two men were killing themselves with the most jovial laughter. I was running quickly, that was certain, but my nemesis had barely kicked up his slow walk to a trot, so it became obvious, on the third go-around that I had to change my strategy. 

So I headed straight for the two men and took refuge between them. I was livid that this stupid animal had, for some reason, confused me with a bag of oats!

Laughing like two hyenas , my grandfather and Edmund both took the errant dobbin by the neck, and calmed him down immediately. 

They calmed HIM down, I say, but I was still very much both frightened and hurting. This little jaunt turned out to be, for me, quite a pain in the butt!!

With the colt's attentions elsewhere, I slyly and quietly eased over to the gate through which I entered, thus putting some mighty strong chain-link wire between the beast and myself. 

Once his source of diversion (me!) had made good his escape, the young equine entertained himself as best he could within the confines of the side yard. 

Safe and sound and out reach, I caught my breath, rubbed my poor, throbbing bum, and collected my thoughts. 

What I did not know then, is that the colt was doing all this - just for sport! In retrospect it is obvious that the colt was indeed playing, and if there had not been so many teeth in his silly grin, I would have readily joined in the game. 

As it is, hindsight is 20/20. This was, unfortunately not the case in this instance, because I certainly could have used some rear-vision when I was attacked from behind! 

The dust settled, and my grandfather then proceeded to pick up a shovel which was near at hand, and, to my surprise, began collecting the manure that was decorating the yard at frequent intervals, and loading it into the wagon.

Unbelievably, our whole purpose for going to Mr. Edmund's house was to load up on horse poo, but I for one had already had an elegant sufficiency of horse crap for that day, of that I am quite certain!! And I had a sore rear end as well.

What gets me is that PawPaw always told me that he wouldn't take any crap from anyone, but that day, he DID... and went out of his way to do so!