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Hamilton had run a couple times at Turfway Park, if you want to call what he did “running.” Actually, he just galloped along behind the rest of the field, prompting some pretty terse comments from the jockey.
Now a 3-year-old who had been in training with the other trainer since he was started as a yearling, Ham was what we call “sour.” He didn’t want to be a racehorse, and to him, it seemed like no one was hearing him when he expressed that sentiment.
We were listening, and we did everything we could to help him out. We gave him some time off on the farm to freshen him up, in hopes that that might change his attitude. It didn’t, but our pleas on Ham’s behalf to the owner seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Since finances seemed to be at the crux of nearly every conversation we had with Joe, we explained that getting a horse off the books that had no interest in racing would be good for the bottom line.
Whether Joe wanted this particular horse to be successful on the track because he was named after Joe’s young son, or whether Joe thought Jerry and I were complete idiots I never figured out, but Ham’s final statement prompted decisive action on our part.
Hamilton, alternately known as Ham, J. Ham and The Hamster, had yet another name. It was bestowed upon him by Jeanne, a friend of ours who came to work for us on the farm. She called him The Princess because of his many dislikes—cold temperatures, hot temperatures, rain, snow, sleet, mud, flies, the dark—you name it. Ham was into comfort, and didn’t care who knew it!
For several mornings, Ham had balked at the doorway of the barn when it was time to train. He would rear up, spin in circles and dance a jig before firmly planting his feet and refusing to move. Eventually, when he was coerced to the track it was obvious to all that he wasn’t happy about it.
Ham would stop and start numerous times on the track, which is a safety issue for all the other horses and riders out there training. On this particular morning, Ham had had enough. He propped and dropped Sam, who hit the ground hard. Most loose horses will take a couple laps around the track at top speed, but Ham headed straight down the exit ramp (he conveniently placed Sam on the ground right in front of it) and trotted back to our barn, where he found the door shut. He stood right there in the cold rain, glaring, until someone opened the door and led him back to his stall.
Sam, relatively unscathed (remember, he’s only 20!) was pissed off. I could see him from my vantage point, kicking dirt clods and no doubt cussing up a storm while he looked for his stick and began the long walk back to the barn.
Daily Notes: I picked up my copy of The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren this morning while having my coffee, and randomly opened it up. On the page where I landed, Mr. Warren is introducing a concept that is near and dear to my heart. I struggled for years with this concept, because I am the type of person that will drive myself nuts until I figure something out.
Mr. Warren states, “You were made by God and for God, and until you understand that, life will never make sense.” (Emphasis mine.)
He is so right, and I have had many debates with my hot-tempered son as he was growing up about why life doesn’t make sense. Or, more specifically, why life “isn’t fair.”
Mr. Warren continues, “It is only in God that we discover our origin, our identity, our meaning, our purpose, our significance and our destiny. Every other path leads to a dead end.”
“Oh, yeah? Why?” I can hear skeptics out there saying. Well, I don’t know why, but I know that this is correct. I know this because if you follow God’s promptings for your life, it works. Just like I know electricity works, even though I certainly can’t tell you how or why.
I’m living this out right now with something far stronger than my willpower pushing me on.
For the past two days, I’ve really had the desire to chuck it in on my experiment here. And for the past two days, I’ve not been allowed to quit.
Now a 3-year-old who had been in training with the other trainer since he was started as a yearling, Ham was what we call “sour.” He didn’t want to be a racehorse, and to him, it seemed like no one was hearing him when he expressed that sentiment.
We were listening, and we did everything we could to help him out. We gave him some time off on the farm to freshen him up, in hopes that that might change his attitude. It didn’t, but our pleas on Ham’s behalf to the owner seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Since finances seemed to be at the crux of nearly every conversation we had with Joe, we explained that getting a horse off the books that had no interest in racing would be good for the bottom line.
Whether Joe wanted this particular horse to be successful on the track because he was named after Joe’s young son, or whether Joe thought Jerry and I were complete idiots I never figured out, but Ham’s final statement prompted decisive action on our part.
Hamilton, alternately known as Ham, J. Ham and The Hamster, had yet another name. It was bestowed upon him by Jeanne, a friend of ours who came to work for us on the farm. She called him The Princess because of his many dislikes—cold temperatures, hot temperatures, rain, snow, sleet, mud, flies, the dark—you name it. Ham was into comfort, and didn’t care who knew it!
For several mornings, Ham had balked at the doorway of the barn when it was time to train. He would rear up, spin in circles and dance a jig before firmly planting his feet and refusing to move. Eventually, when he was coerced to the track it was obvious to all that he wasn’t happy about it.
Ham would stop and start numerous times on the track, which is a safety issue for all the other horses and riders out there training. On this particular morning, Ham had had enough. He propped and dropped Sam, who hit the ground hard. Most loose horses will take a couple laps around the track at top speed, but Ham headed straight down the exit ramp (he conveniently placed Sam on the ground right in front of it) and trotted back to our barn, where he found the door shut. He stood right there in the cold rain, glaring, until someone opened the door and led him back to his stall.
Sam, relatively unscathed (remember, he’s only 20!) was pissed off. I could see him from my vantage point, kicking dirt clods and no doubt cussing up a storm while he looked for his stick and began the long walk back to the barn.
Daily Notes: I picked up my copy of The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren this morning while having my coffee, and randomly opened it up. On the page where I landed, Mr. Warren is introducing a concept that is near and dear to my heart. I struggled for years with this concept, because I am the type of person that will drive myself nuts until I figure something out.
Mr. Warren states, “You were made by God and for God, and until you understand that, life will never make sense.” (Emphasis mine.)
He is so right, and I have had many debates with my hot-tempered son as he was growing up about why life doesn’t make sense. Or, more specifically, why life “isn’t fair.”
Mr. Warren continues, “It is only in God that we discover our origin, our identity, our meaning, our purpose, our significance and our destiny. Every other path leads to a dead end.”
“Oh, yeah? Why?” I can hear skeptics out there saying. Well, I don’t know why, but I know that this is correct. I know this because if you follow God’s promptings for your life, it works. Just like I know electricity works, even though I certainly can’t tell you how or why.
I’m living this out right now with something far stronger than my willpower pushing me on.
For the past two days, I’ve really had the desire to chuck it in on my experiment here. And for the past two days, I’ve not been allowed to quit.
Oh, today's pic is from waaaaaaay back. Jerry's such a cute 'lil cowpoke!
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