Mistaken Assumptions

It took many years before there was an ability to tell this individual’s story. Even now, there’s a tightness around my heart just thinking about him. There was nothing ordinary about him; but really, is anyone that breathes ordinary if we look with spirit eyes and see the depths of them? We’re all a mystery as is the One who sent us here…

His name was Decorated Streaker, a thoroughbred horse bred in Ireland from a high powered pedigree. He was sired by Well Decorated, a speed ball son of Raja Baba. His mother was a mare named A Streaker sired by Dr. Fager, world champion miler. With that kind of pedigree, there was much expected of Streaker.

As a yearling, he was imported to this country and sold for $150,000 at the 1985 Keeneland summer sales. Only the true blue-bloods go through that sale. Bidders come from every part of the globe for a chance to find a superstar who might win the top races—the classics—and retire as breeding studs with books of one hundred mares or more at astronomical stud fees that keep those big buyers coming back to the sales for more of the same. It’s the equine version of Wall Street.

Streaker was put into training as a late yearling and he showed a ton of burning speed. Unfortunately, his trainers pushed too hard, too fast and he began to show that his legs couldn’t take the pressure. Bone and muscle must be addressed carefully. It takes time for the body to build enough bone to handle speed.

Streaker won his first race but chipped his right knee in the process. He was taken to a farm to rest and heal. He was also gelded, as his handlers saw a violent streak in him and began to call him “Striker”. He was known for his aggressive outbursts, like standing on his hind legs and striking with a foreleg, trying to plant a foot between his handlers ears.

In 1989, a trainer friend was looking for an additional hand. He had a large string of horses, almost all claimers (horses that run for a purse and a sales tag, meaning that anyone that has an owners license and the money can buy a horse right out of a race). In his barn was the chance to learn about hard running horses and what kind of leg treatments it takes to keep them sound enough to perform. Working for this man would be an opportunity.

He gave me three horses to work on—Streaker was one of them. He came with a warning: “Be REAL careful with that Streaker. His last groom had to have a few drinks before going near him. He just wants to GET somebody.”

(flickr/morning-theft)

The first day he was brought to me, all that I saw was a trembling horse with his head to the wall who turned warily in my direction and reached down to play with my shoe laces while he shook like Jello. I scratched his wither and shoulders, something that horses that are friends do for each other. He relaxed. It seemed that nothing told about him was true. He was very different the following morning.

At 5 AM, when he saw me carrying his tack (saddle, pad and bridle) his whole demeanor changed. He laid his ears back, his eyes showed the whites in a burning glare and his lips wrinkled ready to bare his teeth.

As I snagged his halter he snapped his teeth lightning quick in a savage attempt to bite. I quickly attached him with a chain tie to the wall and proceeded to clean him up before tacking. It was a struggle. With each swipe of the brushes, he reached to bite with his mouth wide open and he swung cow kicks with a hind leg that cut the air with each swing. I remember thinking how right the trainer was, and how stupid I was just the night before.

“Be REAL careful with that Streaker. His last groom had to have a few drinks before going near him. He just wants to GET somebody.”

His exercise rider arrived and he went to the track to jog for three miles, all the while throwing his head, trying to knock her off of his back. On his return, he got his bath and he sighed over and over again. After the morning routine was over, I saw him asleep in his straw bed. I went off for the afternoon. When evening meal was being scooped into the feed tubs, there again was that much quieter version of Streaker.

(flickr/fivefurlongs)

He ate his meal peacefully, then returned to the back of his stall placing his head by the wall, ears at half mast, licking his lips and looking very depressed.

He was saying something. This was clear. Opening the stall guard on his door I walked softly toward him trying to gauge his response. He turned an ear in my direction, but nothing more. Getting close I reached up to scratch his shoulder as the day before and he accepted the scratching and softly reached out with his lips to return the favor as only friends would do.

The following morning was a repeat performance of the day before, and only now it was dawning one me about why he acted as he did. Streaker HATED being at the track. He was hurting even in slow work like jogging. He hated being forced into work by people who were “all business” and he hated feeling “unseen” in the truest way.

I resolved to take him out grazing after the routine was over. Grazing is almost meditational for a horse and often puts them in a trance-like state. That did help him tremendously. As this became part of the routine for him and my other charges, the extreme violence ebbed and finally disappeared. Streaker needed to know that how he felt mattered to someone. That was the first open door to his heart. Time with him was often spent grooming with soft brushes, massaging sore, hardened muscles and just sitting on an upturned bucket, reaching up to pet him as he occasionally wandered over in my direction.

It would be great to say that he eventually turned into the champion racehorse he was bred to be. He didn’t. He had too many injuries to make that possible. The final one that ended his career was a blown suspensory ligament. We had told the trainer that we’d adopt him when his racing days were over, so he came home with us.

What he showed us in our eleven years together was his true kindness mixed with a brilliant fire and an overriding yen to trust people again. He was great with small children and a great mentor to a fiery colt that we were raising at the time. But the one real gift that he gave me was an understanding of what it truly is to plumb the heart vortex and bring in the peace and calm that quiets whatever seems like a threat. The chance to be a mirror and so much more than I was before I met him.

All animals can read us like a cheap novel. The real issue is do we know what we are, where we are and what we’re putting out there? A horse, as big and quick as so many of them are, can show us where our deficiencies lie if we want to learn. Streaker opened that door through the heart for me every day that was spent with him. I learned to approach him with that open vortex. He made me steady and life smart, and I grieved his loss for six months after he died. But what I learned is still expanding, and for that I’m grateful. Blessings on his life and even on the things that brought him to us.

Everything that is happening in this world now is very much like Streaker’s life: mistaken assumptions of how things should be that lead to better ways to understand and come to peace in our questioning. The great why is so much and applying love to all violence makes the higher frequency override the lower.

About the Author

From showing English and Western, working at the racetrack and even carriage driving in New York City, C.A. Ginart has done it all. She is the author of the book, In the Absence of Fear: All Things Are Possible