Horses are not the only creatures able to sleep standing up. Elephants can also nap on their feet, and flamingos famously do it on only one leg.
In horses, it is due to what is called the ‘stay apparatus’, a natural locking of the limbs that keeps the animal upright while also allowing the muscles to relax. It is thought the ability evolved because early equines were prey, as zebras still are, and the time taken to get up from a lying position before running could mean the difference between life and death.
Not that horses always sleep standing up. They occasionally lie down for deep body sleep, so comfy bedding and enough space are essential.
I waited. I didn’t want to wake Debenture. He was going to have a tiring enough day as it was.
I knew that horses do not normally sleep for very long at a time. In all, they need only about three hours’ sleep in any twenty-four, mostly taken in short naps. And, sure enough, the horse soon woke on its own, snorting twice and shaking his head from side to side.
I gave him his regular breakfast of horse nuts plus feed supplements, and then refilled his bucket with fresh water.
Next I brushed Debenture’s coat, starting with a stiff dandy brush and then finishing with the softer body brush, working backwards and downwards from his head to his feet on each side until his hide was polished to perfection.
Over the past ten days, I had discovered that there was something quite therapeutic about grooming a horse. All of one’s troubles faded away with the strong rhythmic motion of the brushes over the animal’s skin. Even the horses seemed to love it.
I began to understand how a mother could spend so long brushing her daughter’s hair. It probably wasn’t so much for the shine it created but for the relaxing sensation the movement generated in herself.
For a while in the quiet I was even able to forget my ongoing troubles with Diego.
True, we hadn’t had a face-to-face confrontation since I’d spoken to him on Tuesday afternoon, but that hadn’t stopped him trying to disrupt my life at every available opportunity, sometimes in the most childish of ways. I had no proof, but I was quite certain that it had been he who had squeezed my toothpaste out of its tube and smeared it all over my bed.
Sadly, there was no lockable space in our cramped bedroom, so my phone and wallet never left my side, residing inside my boxers even when I was asleep.
The rest of the barn came to life about four-thirty as other grooms came to start work.
The Preakness Barn itself was already a hive of activity when I went over to collect some bedding. I took the chance to walk up the shedrow.
‘Morning, Tyler,’ I said. ‘How’s Crackshot today?’
‘Never better,’ he said, showing me the gold molars.
The big bay colt certainly looked fine, sticking his head out towards me with a sparkle in his eyes.
‘He’s eaten up really well,’ Tyler said. ‘I reckon he’ll win easy.’
Was I wrong about the EVA?
I thought back to Churchill Downs.
Three horses had become sick early on the morning of the Derby, with another showing signs of illness some five days later, most likely as a secondary infection.
If five days was the incubation period, and if Raworth had indeed squirted large quantities of the EVA virus up Crackshot’s nose only fifty or so hours ago, then it would be quite likely that the horse would still look healthy. Whether he would be able to run full pelt for a mile and three-sixteenths in fourteen hours’ time was quite a different matter.
I took the new bedding back to the other barn.
Debenture had also eaten up well, so I prepared him for his light exercise.
Jerry Fernando was due to ride the horse in the race that afternoon and he arrived to give Debenture a warm-up jog, once round the track with a lead pony in attendance. It was more to accustom the horse to his rider, and vice versa, than any serious training.
Ladybird, meanwhile, was having a day off after her efforts of the previous day. So I walked across and stood next to the track to watch the others at exercise.
Eight of the Preakness horses had opted to go out in what was an abbreviated training session. All of Raworth’s three were there, with Jerry Fernando having swapped his saddle from Debenture to Fire Point for a steady half-mile trot followed by a brisk but conservative gallop over three furlongs to open the pipes and expand the lungs.
Crackshot was noticeable by his absence, but there was nothing sinister in that. Some trainers chose not to give their horses track exercise on the morning of a race, wishing to keep them fresh for when it mattered later in the day, while others might be walked for an hour or so to loosen any stiffness in the legs.
Keith had told us that, for the walkover to the track before the big race, Diego and Charlie Hern would take Classic Comic, while I would be looking after Heartbeat, assisted by Maria. Keith himself would be with Fire Point, along with George Raworth.
Diego had scowled when Keith had allocated Heartbeat to me and Maria.
‘I don’t mind swapping,’ I’d said to him, but he had refused to answer. Diego clearly didn’t want me doing him any favours.
That suited me fine.
Debenture tried his best in the Maryland Sprint Handicap but, as George Raworth had predicted, he was outclassed by the opposition, finishing seventh of the eight runners, some nine lengths behind the winner — a huge gap in a six-furlong sprint.
The owner didn’t seem to mind one iota.
‘At least we weren’t last,’ he said to me with a broad grin.
I was standing on the track after the race, holding the horse’s head while the jockey’s saddle was removed.
‘OK, Paddy,’ George said, ‘take him back to the barn.’
I turned away but was stopped by a racetrack official.
‘Take him to the testing barn,’ he said to me. ‘This horse has been selected for a random drug test.’
I happened to be facing George Raworth as the man said it, and I couldn’t help but see the look of concern that swept across his face.
Perhaps it was only a natural reaction to being tested, like that insuppressible feeling of anxiety one has when being breathalysed by the police, even when you are certain you are not over the limit.
Or maybe, just maybe, those ‘vitamin’ injections Charlie had given to Debenture had not been quite as innocent as I’d been led to believe.
It would be ironic, I thought, if my investigation into what appeared to be a colossal Triple Crown scandal was derailed due to a positive dope test from a journeyman horse that had finished seventh out of eight in a relatively minor race on the supporting card.
George recovered his composure and told me to take Debenture to the testing barn as requested, and then to start preparing Heartbeat for the big race.
As Preakness race time approached, the excitement swelled towards fever pitch.
An enormous party had been going on for hours, especially in the infield where multicoloured tents of all sizes and shapes abounded, some acting as shade against the blazing sun, while others were beer outlets providing a continuous flow of the amber nectar to quench the heat-induced thirsts of the vast crowd.
And it wasn’t only among the spectators that the anticipation was growing. Back at the Preakness Barn, there was a highly charged atmosphere of hope and expectation, with nerves beginning to fray at the edges.
‘Are we all ready?’ George asked for at least the third time.
‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ Charlie replied, shifting his weight from foot to foot.