I've been taking riding lessons, but I'm still green. And I can think of a million places I'd rather be than on top of a spooked racehorse. But I climb on, and we ease into a trot while Beverly observes. We're a good team moving counterclockwise, as if on a track. But clockwise proves more difficult. We haphazardly end up in the middle of the ring, both of us exhausted.
"He trots crooked," I say. Or maybe I do — it's hard to say. He doesn't know how to back up. He won't move sideways, either, or cross one leg over the other. "He is able to do all of those things," Beverly says. "He just hasn't learned yet."
I lead him back to the barn while he continues to munch, follow and nudge me amid a backdrop of equine commotion. Beverly's husband, Tom, is putting new shoes on a 5-year-old horse named Holiday Layup that arrived the night before. The horse neighs in protest, tossing his head and pawing at the ground. Another new arrival, 3-year-old Streaking Sunseeker, is in a stall nearby and would like everyone to know he'd rather be in the bluegrass. He shifts restlessly like a child in timeout, and neighs loudly in response to Holiday Layup.
A high school student is dropping off a box of donated tack, as part of an honor society project. And Kayla Poole, of Rocky Ridge, Md., is here to see a horse named Lou. Her thoroughbred died in January, and she's just now found the heart to look for another. "Rescues are overflowing in the industry now," she tells me.
Beverly has found homes for more than 700 slaughter-bound thoroughbreds through her MidAtlantic Horse Rescue Organization, which is funded entirely through fundraising, donations and adoption fees — money she just rolls back into saving more horses. She barely breaks even, and that's fine with her. "These horses have so much heart," she says. "We bred them for our sport and for our pleasure, and they're just discarded. They have so much to offer, and they just disappear."
With retraining, many ex-racehorses move on to successful second careers including sport riding, jumping and dressage. Some have slight injuries but still excel on the trail. They are the lucky ones. The others end up in the food chain.
I glance up at the meddlesome dark bay, who towers over me expectantly like a big, goofy dog waiting for the ball to be thrown. My rational brain keeps screaming, "Do not adopt this horse!" But two women come into the barn and ask about him. "He's mine," I say, and turn his head away from them.
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