Ch. 17 – Prem
P rem’s stomach had just about twisted into its thousandth knot by the time he pulled into the parking lot of the racetrack. How often had he made this drive?
Too often.
Never got any easier.
Prem drove around to the back of the track, his gaze sweeping over the ambulances waiting on standby next to several large trucks. Needles of ice shot down his spine. Those trucks were used to haul dead horses away to the rendering plants.
Not today, Prem vowed as he shoved open the door of the SUV and made his way toward the small, run-down stadium. Adrenaline pumped through him, washing away the dregs of his exhaustion. As he approached the back gate, he noted the old, craggy-faced man waiting for him on the other side.
“You look like shit,” the man said.
“Not as bad as you,” Prem answered.
A bulbous nose mapped with broken blood vessels dominated the older man’s face. He kept his thinning white hair parted straight down the middle.
Dr. Sam Gregson shrugged philosophically. “Low bar.”
The track veterinarian swung open the gate and grandly gestured for Prem to enter. The large stadium was quiet, but in a few hours, the electronic board would light up, listing the slate of races for the day. An announcer would bark through the speakers, and gamblers would trade away their savings for the dream of riches won off the backs of the horses pounding around the track.
“You shouldn’t have even bothered with this one,” Gregson noted as he led the way across the empty track. “It’s cut and dry.”
“It’s never cut and dry,” Prem spat back. How many times had Gregson and others of his ilk given up a horse for dead when there was still a chance of recovery? Hell, it’d happened on Prem’s first call as a volunteer for RSC – Racehorse Second Chances.
“Where’s the patient?” He nearly barked the question.
Gregson’s sallow face didn’t offer a hint of emotion. “In the back. She went down during a warmup run this morning. We were able to get her off the track. It’s multiple fractures for sure.”
“Did you do an X-ray?”
Gregson shook his head. “Don’t need to. I know a multi-fracture when I see it.”
Prem gritted his teeth.
“Don’t give me that look,” Gregson retorted. “I don’t have to call you guys at all and deal with your moralizing bullshit. But you say to call before we euthanize, so I do. I’ve seen you save more than a few that I thought were goners, and, believe it or not, I do care about these horses.”
Prem almost laughed. Not likely. To be a track veterinarian in the United States meant looking the other way while trainers and owners pumped their horses full of any drug that might give the animals even the slightest advantage on the track. The widespread and barely regulated doping in U.S. horse racing was a big reason the “breakdown” rate of horses on U.S. tracks was higher than almost anywhere else in the world.
Most casual racing fans only paid attention to the big races, like the Kentucky Derby and Preakness, but all around the country, smaller tracks just like this one churned through horses at a horrific rate. And vets like Gregson let it happen right under their noses. No wonder the man carried a flask in the pocket of his wrinkled khakis.
“Two-year-old mare,” Gregson said as the two men entered the paddocks.
“Name?” Prem asked.
“Why does it matter?” The old man tossed him a wearied look.
“I want to know her name.” Prem insisted.
Gregson shrugged. “Odds on Red.”
“Any previous injury? Was she favoring the leg? Stress injury?” Prem asked as he followed the older man down the row of stalls. At many smaller tracks, owners pumped injured horses full of steroids and painkillers and then raced them with virtually no oversight or accountability.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Gregson answered. “She’s in here.” He jerked a thumb into the stall in front of him.
Sucking in a breath, Prem stepped into the stall.
“Hello, girl,” he said softly.
The massive black horse stood in the padded stall, her right forelock held up and out. Fast, shallow breaths whooshed from her lungs. Red was obviously in pain.
“I gave her a big dose of painkillers on my own dime, by the way,” Gregson said behind him. “The owner wasn’t going to pay to keep a dead horse comfortable.”
“How generous,” Prem muttered as he slowly approached the horse. Red shied from him, trying to back up in her stall as her eyes stretched wide.
“It’s okay,” Prem murmured. “I’m here to help.” He reached out and put a hand on the horse’s nose to calm her. Red was a true beauty, her shining black coat pulled tight over taut muscle. Unfortunately, all that power and muscle was its own curse. A horse’s legs, especially below the knee, were almost all bone with hardly any muscle to help support them. It’s why breaks were so common and so difficult to heal.
A horse in a nearby stall whinnied. Another snorted. All the horses in the paddocks would race today. Another chance for injury. Another chance for death.
Prem pushed those negative thoughts away. He needed to focus on his patient. He visually assessed Red’s injured leg. No punctures. That was a good sign, but he could see that Gregson was right. Red had suffered multiple fractures. The bone didn’t look shattered, though. There might be hope.
“I need to X-ray,” Prem said, turning to the older vet.
Gregson shook his head. “Owner won’t pay for it.”
Of course not. No matter what happened, Red wouldn’t race again. A horse that couldn’t race was a horse that couldn’t earn, and one without a winning record was useless for breeding.
“RSC will cover it,” Prem assured Gregson.
“Waste of time,” Gregson grumbled, but he dutifully led Prem into the veterinary suite attached to the paddocks and helped him carry the portable X-ray machine back to Red’s stall. The two vets strapped on lead aprons. While Prem carefully positioned the X-ray machine in front of Red’s right forelock, Gregson held the back plate.
Just after Prem snapped the final X-ray, his phone rang. Slipping his hand behind the lead apron, he pulled out the phone and took the call.
“We’ve got a stable that will take her,” Amelda Harrison said immediately, not bothering with a greeting. The head of the RSC was a tiny, fearsome woman who spent her weekends picketing racehorse stadiums and her weekdays rescuing as many injured horses as she could.
“How’s it looking?” she asked now.
“Just finished with the X-rays,” Prem answered. “We’re paying for them, by the way.”
“Of course,” Amelda said as if any other alternative had never crossed her mind. Prem had no clue how she managed to always scrape together just enough money to keep their small organization going. Probably had something to do with the fact that she was utterly shameless in shaking down anyone foolish enough to end up on their donor list.
As Prem stepped out of the paddock, Gregson handed him a tablet filled with the X-rays. The older man’s face was grave.
Prem studied the X-rays, swiping back and forth between the images. His stomach dropped to his knees. “Damn,” he whispered.
“Told you.” There was no pleasure in Gregson’s voice.
“What? How bad is it?” Amelda demanded on the other end of the line.
Prem chewed on the side of his cheek. Maybe he could bind the leg. They’d have to make sure Red didn’t put any weight on it for weeks. Could the bone mend straight? The odds were long. So long.
No. Prem’s intuition, all his experience, cut through his hope like a scythe. Not with so many floaters. Even if they did manage to keep Red off her leg long enough for the bones to knit together, it would almost certainly not heal clean. Red would be in pain for the rest of her life.
“I can’t do it,” Prem croaked.
“Are you sure?” Amelda asked. “You’ve performed miracles before. Remember Dancing Under April Showers?”
“This is worse,” Prem told her. “I’m sorry, Amelda. We’d only put the horse through an agonizing recovery and a lifetime of pain.”
“Fuck,” Amelda said.
“Fuck,” Prem agreed.
Next to him, Gregson pulled the small, tarnished flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. “This fucking job,” he muttered.
“Next time,” Amelda said from the other end of the phone, her voice hollow.
“Yep,” Prem replied, but they both knew that next time would probably be the same. It was nearly impossible to save horses once they broke down. A stress fracture, yes. A clean break, probably. Even a blown tendon could be knitted back together. But horse bones were so damn delicate, and they tended to shatter, especially when owners kept racing injured horses.
Amelda hung up.
Prem unstrapped his apron and stepped back into the paddock.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, placing a hand on the forehead of Odds on Red. The world was filled with so much suffering, but this was the worst kind. The kind forced on innocent animals for the amusement and profit of humans.
“I’ll make it painless,” Gregson said.
“Thanks for calling.” Prem’s voice creaked. All the exhaustion from the past day, the utter futility of this trip, landed on him all at once. Made him feel like his veins were filled with concrete. Prem wanted to punch a wall. Or curl up in a corner, throw a blanket over his head, and never come out again.
And he wanted to burn this fucking racetrack to the ground.
“I’ll give you guys a call next time,” Gregson said, stashing the flask back in his pocket.
Because there would always be a next time. Another horse breaking down. Another call to the RSC. Fortunately, they had a rotating staff of volunteer exotic animal vets in the area, so it would be a while until Prem’s turn came up again.
“Take care, Gregson,” Prem managed as he took heavy steps out of the stall. The old man smelled like stale cigarettes and regret.
“You, too.”
The walk back to his car felt endless. Prem’s body ached. His eyelids felt covered in sandpaper. All his anger congealed into a heavy molasses of resignation. Prem hated the world sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.
Then, her face appeared in his mind.
Layla.
In his mind’s eye, Prem saw her gentle smile, heard the clear bell of her laugh. He remembered the milky coffee in the ridiculous llama mug waiting for him on his desk when he’d awoken this morning. He’d known it was from her.
Layla cared for everyone. Even him.
Prem reached his SUV.
Layla existed.
Which meant the world couldn’t be as terrible as it so often seemed.
The thought warmed through his heavy heart as he made the long drive back to his practice.