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farm.”
    Scampy speaks the language of blood-lines as easily as he breathes and chews gum. Stunning Mate is the name of a stallion in Ontario who sired a few decent horses before he had to be put down. He broke a back leg in a freak accident out in his paddock. I’ve never heard of the new horse’s dam, Pussy Winnow. But I’ve certainly heard of Black Kat. He’s one of a whole bunch of top-notch Thoroughbreds that can be traced back to a couple of Kentucky horses.Both of those superstars have “Kat” in their names.
    â€œThree-year-old,” Scampy says before I have a chance to ask. “No experience. He had some damned infection last year, so he never raced. We’ll get him going tomorrow.”
    Another boom sounds from the colt’s stall as Devil May Care pounds the wall with a back hoof.
    â€œStop that!” Scampy scowls at the horse and picks up a broom. “I’ll smack you a good one if you keep that up!”
    The horse lets fly with another kick. Scampy whacks the outside of the stall door with the broom. The broom makes a loud noise, but doesn’t hit the horse. Devil May Care pokes his head back over the half door and snorts.
    â€œDon’t think I like this horse,” Scampy says as he puts the broom down. When he reaches over to touch Devil May Care’s neck, the horse pulls his head back and retreats into his stall. “How were the rides today?”
    I follow Scampy into the tack room and we go through the list, starting with Lord of the Fires. I hesitate and then say, “We had a little trouble. That gray mare of Geoff’s bolted. Lordy sort of took off.” I know there’s no point in hiding what happened. Scampy’s probably heard all the gory details seventeen times already.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have let him get away from you like that,” Scampy says.
    â€œI know. But he—”
    â€œBe ready next time. Em’s got him wrapped?”
    I nod.
    â€œAnything else?”
    For the first time, I don’t tell Scampy everything. I don’t mention Lordy was uneven. I want to keep my job.
    â€œNo—that’s it.”
    Scampy narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t push, though. “What about Chiquita?”
    One by one I bring Scampy up to speed on what the rides were like. Chiquita was strong and relaxed. Twitter wanted to racethe big red four-year-old out of Doc Masters’ barn. Bing Bang Bong just wanted to nap. “He’s really lazy,” I say. “It’s like he has no interest in what’s going on.”
    â€œDumb as a bag of hammers,” Scampy says. “I’ll call Dr. Conrad and we’ll see how much longer she wants to keep him here.”
    Bing definitely lacks enthusiasm, but I don’t think the horse is dumb. He just needs another job. I don’t mind giving him a bad report card, though. For one thing, he hasn’t placed in a race yet, so it’s no big secret he’s a little short on talent. But I also know that the owner, a lady vet from Vernon, always takes her retired racehorses to another trainer. The horses learn other jobs that don’t involve racing. I’ve heard they usually wind up with pretty good homes as show jumpers or eventers or pleasure horses. That’s more than I can say for some of the horses after their track careers are done.
    â€œNeed a hand?” I ask Em, who is pushing a wheelbarrow piled high with sacks of feed.
    â€œI’d never say no to an offer like that,” she says.
    We unload and stack the feed. We fetch three more barrows loaded with heavy feed sacks from Scampy’s truck before we take a break.
    After that, I help Em fill the hay nets and top up the water buckets. Then I join Grandma in the stands to watch the races.
    It’s a fluky Saturday. Scampy doesn’t have a horse running. It’s great to be a spectator. Next weekend it will be all hands on deck. I