One particular horse always seemed to be at the center of farm manager's bad judgment

Dr. Endor Rzegn, which he pronounced "Ring," owned a big farm. There were a few hundred acres and a horse population that hovered right around 80.

Rzegn was a computer nerd back before nearly everyone was, and he did things for the government. I never knew what, but he apparently derived substantial income from whatever it was, because his farm was beautiful, his house was huge and fancy, and his horses were pretty good--not great, just pretty good.

Rzegn exhibited excellent judgment in his business because he was very successful. His judgment when it came to his horse operation was not as good.

The operation included the entire range of the Thoroughbred sport. He bred his own mares to his own stallions; he raised and raced all his foals; and, with rare exception, he brought them all back to the farm at the conclusion of their careers. The fillies would become broodmares, and the colts, which he never gelded, would be used as sires if they had been decent runners. If they had not, he would maintain them as pensioners, each in his own paddock.

Rzegn had a farm manager, Donald, and a crew of five to eight people to help the manager. This was not enough help, so the manager had to clean stalls, feed horses, and share other chores with the crew.

Donald was a horse trainer of moderate talent, but he was a farm manager of little talent. He was lazy, and his heart was on the racetrack. Rather than hire people who knew how to work on a farm, he hired people from the track. And he did not hire anyone who knew more about the job than he did. Being a farm manager is an insecure position, at best.

Everything at Rzegn's farm, therefore, was done not quite right and not quite completely.

Cedar Street

Rzegn refused to hire a night watchman, so during foaling season, Donald and two of the crew would share mare-watching duties, with each taking a four-hour shift. This worked well but no one liked it, especially on cold nights. The guy working the 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. shift really disliked it because, after sitting up half the night, he still had a full day of work ahead of him, so the three would alternate shifts every week or two.

One day after Donald had been on the 2 a.m. to 6 a.m. shift for several days, he was complaining mightily while I was there checking some mares.

"Gee, Donald," I said, "why don't you ask Rzegn to install a closed-circuit camera with a microphone? Then you can stay inside in front of a television screen and, if you doze off, the sound from the microphone will wake you."

He loved the idea. Within three days, the system was installed and operating. The first mare to foal following installation did so around 11 p.m. Donald saw her lie down and begin foaling on the television screen, and he got to the barn in two minutes.

He was happy and his crew was happy. No more drawing straws to see who had to share night duty. "Doc," Donald said to me one day, "this is the greatest thing we ever did here."

A week or so later, though, he began his dislike of Cedar Street.

The mare in the foaling stall that night was Blissful. She was due--maybe past due--and she had been under the camera for nearly two weeks. In the stall next to the foaling stall was Maple Street, who most likely was not due for at least a week, maybe two.

About midnight, Donald turned up the volume on the microphone and went to sleep. About 4:30 a.m., he was awakened by thrashing, grunting, and a few weak knickers. He looked at the television screen. There was Blissful, standing quietly munching hay.

The noise continued and Donald watched, but Blissful did nothing. So rather than check to see what was going on, he turned down the volume and went back to sleep.

About an hour later, he was awakened by someone pounding on his door. Max, one of the farmhands, had arrived early for work and found Maple Street down and straining. The stall was badly torn up, indicating she had been in labor for quite some time.

I was called and arrived about 20 minutes later. Maple Street had a malpresentation--both of the foal's front legs were bent back at the knees. Because she had been trying to give birth for so long, there was no chance to straighten the foal's legs, so we sent her to a clinic where a Caesarean section was performed.

Both Maple Street and the foal--a colt later named Cedar Street--survived, albeit at great expense. Surgery, hospitalization, medication, and everything else cost Rzegn about $5,000. So Donald caught hell once Rzegn learned the whole story. And Donald blamed the foal. He sure was not going to blame himself.

Cedar Street was one of those rare babies who loved people, perhaps because he had received so much human attention during his hospitalization.

Cedar Street would rather be with people than with horses. When he and his dam were turned out with other mares and foals, he would leave her side and come across the field if he saw a person. When it was time to be brought in to be fed, he was the first one at the gate. And later, he would not run around and act silly like the other weanlings when it was time to bring them in. He would come directly to whomever entered the weanling paddock. (All young horses should be this way.) Frequently, he would linger around the gate in case someone should come by and want to pet a horse.

Missing weanlings

The autumn nights were mild, so the horses were turned out each evening after being fed in their stalls. About 6 a.m. each day, they were fed in the fields. Most fields had ground feeders (large, untippable nylon tubs), but the two weanling fields had feeders hung on fence planks.

One morning there was a dense fog, easily the worst I have ever seen in the area. You could not see five feet in front of you. Feeding the horses with ground feeders was tricky; they could not see the person bringing the feed and he could not see them. The guy with the bucket of feed easily could be run over as the horses jockeyed for position at the feeders.

The two fields with fence-line feeders were easier and safer because there was no chance the man dispensing the feed could be injured.

Donald, being lazy and realizing that a chance existed that he could be run over if he entered a field full of horses that could not see him--and being the boss--chose to feed the horses in the fields with fence-line feeders. These were the weanlings.

In a field of six weanling fillies, he saw a couple of shapes in the fog and heard hoofbeats as he dumped the feed. Then he went to the field that held Cedar Street and eight other weanling colts. He went down the fence, scooping feed into the feeders. As he passed the gate, a weanling was silhouetted in the fog. Horses, especially young ones, are herd animals. Where there is one, the others will be there. Usually. Donald knew this.

By 7:30 a.m., the fog still had not lifted. Mrs. Rzegn received a phone call from a neighboring farm owner. Eight weanlings had run into one of his barns. He had put all the loose weanlings in stalls, so except for a few nicks and scratches, all were okay, he said. He asked if they belonged to the Rzegns.

Mrs. Rzegn told him she did not know. She called Donald to ask if they were missing any weanlings.

"No, ma'am," he assured her. "I fed the weanlings myself."

When the fog lifted around 9 a.m., Max left the barn to spread manure in the field that held the nine weanling colts--Cedar Street's field. Within ten minutes, he was back.

"Donald, some of the weanlings are gone!" Max shouted. "Some planks are down in the back of the field, and the only one still there is Cedar Street!" Donald, of course, again caught hell from Rzegn, and he blamed his lambasting on Cedar Street for not escaping with the rest of the weanlings.

No claimers

A serious shortcoming in some horse owners is the belief: "If I own the horse, it must be good." Rzegn fervently believed this. He would not allow any of his horses to be put in a claiming race.

Unfortunately, not all horses are allowance or stakes class. They have no (or limited) ability and need to run in claiming races if they are going to win anything. (Some can't even win there.) There are class divisions in claiming races, too; a $40,000 claiming race is not far from allowance class; a $2,500 claiming race is not far from a new career.

As Rzegn's trainer, Donald had a low percentage of winners, but that was Rzegn's fault because Donald was not allowed to run the horses at the level they belonged. Rzegn steadfastly refused to put them in claiming races.

Seven of the two-year-olds from Cedar Street's crop raced at two. Four won--one was a stakes winner--and two placed and looked promising for their three-year-old years. The season was excellent for Rzegn's stable.

Cedar Street, however, did horribly. He was last in four out of five starts. Donald told Rzegn that Cedar Street would never win in decent company, that he needed to be run in claiming races.

"He'll mature as a three-year-old," Rzegn assured him.

The colt did not. After two more starts, in which he was beaten a total of 42 lengths, Donald insisted again that Cedar Street be entered in a claiming race or taken out of training.

"Is he sound?" Rzegn asked.

"Yes, he's sound!" snapped Donald. "He can't run fast enough to hurt himself!"

I was there for that exchange. Rzegn did not like what he heard and the way it was said, but you could see he was wavering on the subject of Cedar Street.

A few days later, Donald told Rzegn there was a $7,500 maiden claiming race coming up, and he would like to enter Cedar Street in it.

Surprisingly, but grudgingly, Rzegn consented.

On the morning of the race, Rzegn was pacing back and forth and wringing his hands.

"What's the matter?" Donald naively asked.

"Oh, Donald! We're going to lose Cedar Street," Rzegn fretted. "Everybody in the world will put in a claim for him."

"Don't worry, Rzegn," Donald reassured him. "Nobody in his right mind would

claim that nickel son of a gun."

Rzegn fired him on the spot.

The next--and last--time I saw Donald was about two months later at a hamburger stand. He was out of work and running out of money.

"That damned Cedar Street," he muttered. "Everything's his fault."

Epilogue

Donald was right about Cedar Street. No one claimed him that day. He ran fifth of 12, the best race of his career. Maybe dropping him into a $2,500 claiming race would have made him a winner, but we will never know. Rzegn's new trainer was ordered to return him to allowance company. He ran six more times at three, never beating a horse.

Now he is a middle-age pensioner on Rzegn's farm. Mostly, he stands at his gate, waiting for someone to come by and pet him.