Some veterinarians cannot cope with early hours and inept trainers

I once did quite a lot of racetrack work, but I found I was not really suited to it. There are several reasons, among them:

• Lamenesses often remained a mystery to me no matter how diligently I searched for the causes;
• I never understood why a horse had to be trained in the middle of the night (what was wrong with 9 a.m.?);
• I disliked trainers who had me deworm five horses during the day and then would ship out overnight, payment having slipped their minds;
• Holding horses together for "one more race" was preferred to actually trying to heal or cure them; and
• Many trainers preferred to let the veterinary needle try to take the place of proper training and/or race selection.

The racetrack was a frustrating place for me, but it was also a place to meet potential farm clients, and in that respect it was very helpful.

A veterinarian working the track does not wait to be called. He makes the rounds of the barns on the backstretch every morning and checks with his regular clients to see if anyone needs anything or has any problems. Most trainers begin their training days between 5 a.m. and 6 a.m., so the veterinarians usually show up by 6:30 a.m. Personally, I think this is ridiculous, but granddaddy sent 'em out early, and horse racing is a tradition-oriented business.

When I was working the track, I was young and eager. I usually showed up before 6 a.m. so I would be there in case some trainer needed a veterinarian early, before his regular veterinarian showed up.

I really did not dislike track work, but as I said, it was frustrating. An example of the fifth point above stands out.

Owner-trainer

Marcus Jefferson is retired now, but when I was doing track work, he trained a few horses that he also owned. The horses were cheap, and both they and Jefferson had limited ability. Victories were few and far between. Mrs. Jefferson ran a small neighborhood diner, and the word was that her income was the only thing that kept the racing stable afloat.

Jefferson never had a regular veterinarian. Whoever was around when he needed one was the person he used, so I would always stop by his stable a couple of times each morning, and usually two or three times a week he would have some work for me. And he always paid--an excellent but far from universal trait among trainers (see the third point I mentioned at the beginning).

I mentioned that Jefferson had limited ability as a trainer. This was no secret. The word around the backstretch was that if Jefferson had trained Man o' War, that great horse never would have won a race. That was probably a slight exaggeration.

After a few weeks around the track, I realized why Jefferson's ability was so limited: He was lazy, and he did not know his horses. He frequently failed to exercise his animals properly, so they were not fit for their races. Occasionally, one of his horses would be claimed, and in every case the horse would run better for the new trainer. Jefferson bemoaned his bad luck that the horse would finally develop just as he lost it, but everyone knew it was simply a matter of more conscientious training.

In saying that Jefferson did not know his horses, I do not mean he could not tell them apart. He knew that Our Falcon was the bay gelding, Queenie the Rose was the chestnut mare with the white face, Prissey Princess was the chestnut mare without the white face, etc.

But he did not know, for instance, that Our Falcon wanted to go longer than the six-furlong races in which Jefferson continued to place him. When Our Falcon was claimed, his new trainer began running him at 11/16 miles and 11/8 miles, and the old boy responded with two wins and two thirds in his first four starts.

And Jefferson did not know Queenie the Rose was hurting. The problem turned out to be an osselet in her left front ankle, and I was the veterinarian who found it. And if I found it, it had to be pretty apparent.

Eventually, Jefferson realized he was missing things and decided to do something about it. But what he chose to do did not involve more careful observation. He chose to cover his mistakes with drugs.

Some medications are permitted in racing, although they vary from state to state. Any legal drug administered must be reported by the veterinarian to the state racing commission, a ruling designed to prevent the owner and/or trainer from overdosing a horse and, theoretically, assuring that the medication given is actually needed by the horse.

One morning as I passed through Jefferson's shedrow, he called over. "Doctor," he said (he never called me or anyone "Doc"). "I got Prissey Princess in tomorrow night. I want you to come by in the morning and medicate her." "Medicate her?" I questioned.

Medication

"Yeah. Bute, Lasix, some kinda steroid," he said.

Bute (phenylbutazone) is a pain-reliever permitted by many states. Lasix, a diuretic now named Salix, also is allowed in many states; it is used to treat exercise-induced pulmonary hemorrhage--bleeding from the lungs--a fairly common problem in racehorses. Steroids are pretty much not allowed, although at that time some would not show in post-race tests.

"Golly, Marcus," I said, "why do you want Bute and Lasix? She's not a bleeder, and she doesn't seem to be hurting. And you know I can't give her steroids."

"Dr. Ferguson and Dr. Walinski can. Why can't you?"

Remember, I was young. And naive. I knew certain drugs would not show up on a post-race test, but I never dreamed a licensed veterinarian would possibly ever even consider giving them to a horse entered in a race. I was shocked and did not know what to say, so I went back to the other drugs he had asked for.

"What about the Bute? She's not sore, is she?"

"No, I don't think so," Jefferson admitted. I am sure that was true because he really would not have known.

Wayne, the kid who helped him, was with us. "Wayne, is Princess sore?" I asked.

"Don't think so, Doc," he said.

I turned back to Jefferson. "Then why do you want to give her Bute?"

"Well, Doctor, if she does have a problem we don't know about, Bute will help it."

I shook my head. "And the Lasix? She's not a bleeder, is she?"

"I don't think so."

"Wayne, have you ever seen any evidence of bleeding?"

"Never seen a drop," Wayne replied.

"Then why, Marcus?"

"Maybe she's bleedin' inside," Marcus reasoned.

"Marcus, I can't give Bute and Lasix to your horse if there are no indications for them. There's no justification. I mean, she just doesn't need medicating, so it won't help. You don't take an aspirin if you don't have a headache."

He stared at me blankly. "Yeah, sure, Doctor. I understand. What about steroids?"

"I can't give her steroids. It's against the rules. You know that."

The next morning--the day he wanted the medications--Jefferson did not need me to do anything. The morning after that, I looked in the paper to see how Prissey Princess had done the night before. She was seventh in an 11-horse field.

I went by Jefferson's barn. He was on the track with a horse, so I spoke with Wayne.

"How's Princess?" I asked. "She ran up the track."

"She's okay, Doc. Just slow."

"Does Marcus understand that all those drugs wouldn't have done any good?"

"Don't think so. Yesterday morning he had Doc Ferguson look at her. He gave her five shots."

Bute and Lasix were two of them, I was certain. The other three? I don't know. One was certainly a steroid.

Jefferson never asked me to work on any of his horses again.