THE TALKING HORSE

            One of the most fortunate aspects of horse racing is that the participants can’t talk.  Thus we are spared the monotony of contract negotiations and endless salary haggling that pervades human athletics.

            But suppose horses could talk, and refused to race until they had ‘satisfactory’ contracts?  If that were the case, what would happen?

            Scene:  Trainer Ivan Ulcer has just sat down to discuss next year’s contract with the star of his stable, Thatsa Gotcha.

            “Well, Thatsa Gotcha, this shouldn’t take too long.  I have this contract all prepared here, all you have to do is put your hoofprint right here in the lower right hand corner, and…”

            “I’m not signing it.”

            “You’re what?”

            “You heard me.  I’m not signing it, at least not until some changes are made.”

            “Such as?”

            “Well, for one thing, this clause here that guarantees 10 quarts of oats a day.  First of all, I want it raised to 14, and second, I want you to change brands.  That stuff you’ve been giving me isn’t fit for a human!”

            “Fourteen?  Do you realize what oats cost these days?  Believe me, it ain’t hay.”

            “That’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about.  I expect a change of hay three times a day.”

            “That’s highway robbery!”

            “Look, dummy, I had a good year for you.  Remember that race when that shoe salesman was after you and I won it and took you off the hook?”

            “What shoe salesman?”

            “The one with the bag ofcement.”

            “Okay, Thatsa Gotcha.  Fourteen quarts of oats and three changes of hay a day.  What brand of oats?”

            “Nibblers Choice.  Euell Gibbons recommends them.”

            “Anything else?”

            “Yeah, there’s this matter of curfew.  I want it stopped.  After all, I’m a four-year-old, not some kid that has to be watched all the time.  Just keep the stall unlocked at night and don’t worry about it.”

            “But where would you go?”

            “There’s this filly over in barn five name of Shewalks Shetalks.  You could probably reach me there.  But knock first.”

            “Is that all?”

            “No.  About these workouts at five in the morning.  I mean, nobody should have to get up in the middle of the night and run around a racetrack in the dark.  Besides, a guy could get mugged out there.”

            “So what would you prefer?” the trainer sighed.

            “Oh, maybe around ten or eleven, something civilized like that.  Depending on the weather, of course.”

            “Of course.  Alright, I’ll change it.  Now will you sign the contract?”

            “Not yet.  There’s the matter of this dumb jockey you’ve been using.  I mean, I know my way around the track, and I certainly don’t need some clown in a circus costume sitting on my back beating the heck out of me.”

            “What would you suggest?”

            “No jockey, what else?  Besides, you can buy me some carrots with the jockey fees you’d be saving.  Not only that…hey, where are you going?”

            “To get a job managing a football team someplace.  At least all they want is money.”

            “But, but…if you leave, who’s going to feed me?”

            The trainer turns around smiling, pointing a finger at his star.  “Thatsa,” he replies happily, “Gotcha!”