Saga shows blood-typing helps to protect integrity of the breedFof many years, back in the days before blood-typing, I boarded the horses of one Stanislas Craft of New York during the breeding seasons. Unfortunately, Stan passed away several years ago and racing lost a real gentleman. His animals were dispersed. This story is about one of them, in name at least.
Stan had quality breeding stock which he bred to stallions in the $25,000-to-$50,000 range. He never owned more than six or eight mares, and he usually sent four or five to me each year; the others he would breed in Maryland or Florida. One year, though, he bred all of his mares in Kentucky-six of them.
The first year I would board a particular mare for him, he would send me the mare's pedigree, race record, and all other pertinent data before he sent the actual mare. In the year in question, four of the six had been with me before. The information on the other two arrived in late January, and they were to come in the first group of four which would arrive in mid-February.
The two newcomers were Valerie and Artful Angie. Valerie had won a number of stakes in South America and had much black type on her page, but all of it was from down there and its significance was unclear to me. She was going to foal around February 1 to the cover of a Florida stallion.
Artful Angie was an unraced maiden four-year-old, but what a pedigree. She was a full sister to a horse of the year in Europe and to a top stakes winner in England, both of whom were at stud with prohibitive fees, and a half sister to three other stakes winners and a couple of stakes producers. Her dam had been a top-notch English stakes winner and her sire was, at that time, one of the world's leading sires. The first dam filled the page; it was one of the finest pedigrees I had ever seen. I was anxious to see her.
About three weeks after receiving the pedigrees, the van bringing the mares arrived.
"Wait'll you see what we brought you, Doc," said Jim, the van driver who frequently brought New York horses to me. "You ain't gonna believe it!"
He opened the van and he and his attendant each led a mare off. Both were mares I had boarded before; one was barren and one was going to foal with me.
"You get that one there on the left, Doc," Jim directed. "We'll be back to get the mare with the foal." He had a silly grin on his face.
I entered the van and turned to the mare on the left. "Jim," I called, "you're kidding!"
"No, I ain't, Doc. That's one of Mr. Craft's mares."
There in front of me was a little bitty dull chestnut mare, maybe 14.2-if you measured obliquely-and not weighing more than 700 pounds.

The look of possums
Thoroughbreds have been described as having the "Look of Eagles." It is a great description. This little mare, though, could best be described as having the "Look of Possums." There was no sharp, eager, intelligent glint to those eyes; there were just two soft, brown, retarded-looking mudholes.
Thoroughbreds are alert animals, as you know. In strange surroundings, they flare their nostrils for strange smells; they prick their ears for strange sounds; they are so intent on seeing strange sights that they often jump from shadows. The two mares that Jim and the attendant had were both acting this way even though both had been here several times before.
This mare in front of me, though, just stood there. Her ears may have been pricked, but I could not tell-they came out from the side of her head parallel to the ground.
Okay, I thought, this is a joke. Or a mistake. I knew the two mares who had already been unloaded and the mare with the foal had to be Valerie. All that was left, then, was Artful Angie. This could not be her.
I looked at the plate on her halter. "Artful Angie," it read. Oh, my. The pedigree of the century belonged to this ... this ... pony. This lop-eared, dead-headed, doe-eyed pony.
In time I learned that Angie was particularly worked up the day she arrived, because once she settled in, her ears sagged lower and her head was always held at half-mast. But in time I became fond of her because she was so agreeable. She was easy to catch and easy to load, and I could even palpate her with no one holding her (not recommended, however). And she got in foal on one cover, always an endearing trait.
Stan sent her back to me the next year and she foaled a colt which looked a whole lot like her, I am sorry to say. She conceived again on one cover and Stan sent her back to me once more.
This time she had twins. One was minuscule and died within minutes of birth, and the other was merely tiny, but very much alive. The survivor once again bore a striking resemblance to his dam. Stan did not want him, so he told me to put him down. I told him I would rather find a home for him. He was weaned at eight weeks, and we gave him to some friends who had two horse-loving daughters and four acres. Named Prancie, he has lived a good life.
Angie got in foal again, the third year in a row on one cover. Stan was giving strong thought to selling her, but that summer the decision was made for him. Stan died. He was in his 80s and it was not unexpected, but it was still a bummer. He had been a good man.
His wife shared his love of horses, but she was also in her 80s and they had no children, so the decision was made to disperse. His 20-odd horses went under the hammer in January. The group averaged nearly $100,000. Angie, with the jillion-dollar pedigree, brought only $37,000 in foal to a $35,000 stallion, and her first foal, then a two-year-old, realized the lowest price of the consignment: $18,000.

The point
About now in this narrative, you are probably asking, "What is the point?" Here it is:
Maybe six or seven years later, a new client came to me and asked me to check a few mares he was considering buying privately. There were four of them being offered by a big-name local farm. We went there.
My client was a wealthy man and these were expensive mares. Before each was brought from the barn, he read me her name, a few highlights of her pedigree, and the asking price. The first one was $200,000, the second $300,000, and the third $220,000.
Then came the fourth.
"This is the one I really want," he said. "This is one of the finest pedigrees I've ever seen. Her name is Artful Angie. They want $400,000 for her."
"Artful Angie?" I asked. "I know her."
The groom brought out a beautiful bright chestnut mare, over 16 hands. A heavy-bodied, big-boned individual, she must have weighed 1,300 pounds. Alertly pricked atop her head were two attentive, erect ears; nostrils were flared and eyes were wide as she pranced out in front of strangers.
These wide eyes were bright and eager. Maybe they did not have the Look of Eagles, but they sure had the Look of Pretty Hungry Hawks.
"Isn't she beautiful?" sighed my client.
"She sure is," I agreed, "but this is the wrong mare."
"No, that's her," he assured me, nodding and smiling. "They showed her to me when I was out here yesterday."
I looked at her halter. Sure enough, there it was: a shiny brass nameplate with "Artful Angie" engraved on it.
I looked at the copy of the pedigree he had. It was the same as Stan had sent me all those years before, but only now it was better. Angie's scroungy little first foal had placed in a small stakes and earned nearly $70,000, and the foal she was carrying when she was sold had won two stakes and over $150,000. The next foal had not earned black type but had nonetheless accumulated something like $80,000. The pedigree showed nothing to speak of after that, but she was in foal to the country's second-leading freshman sire.

The switch
I took my client aside and told him this was not Artful Angie. I thought he believed me because we left the farm then, but later I learned he went back the next day with another veterinarian and bought "Angie" as well as the $200,000 mare. And he never called me again.
It was not possible, for me anyway, to determine when the switch had been made. This latest seller may well have purchased the mare as Artful Angie, or maybe he had seen this as a way to make a big profit. I could have contacted the Jockey Club, but it was only my word against those who claimed this was, indeed, Artful Angie. Stan was gone, of course, and his wife had now also passed away. I had no idea of the whereabouts of the people who worked for me when Angie was there, and I had no way to contact anyone who had worked at Stan's farm, which had long since been sold. I had no proof, therefore, and this mare's markings were certainly similar to the real Angie's.
This is as good a reason for blood-typing as there is.
(The names of people and horses have been changed.)