A bunch of us went to the races up in the city the other day. Windy won a little, but the rest of us just kinda broke even, and we got to yell and cheer, so I guess that can cost two bucks without hamstringing the entire regiment. It was fun.

And we ran into Brock Bullingham there, too, who had a horse entered in a maiden race. Brock’s place is about 20 miles north of the city, and he runs horses and cattle on a huge acreage. He told us proudly what the horse was called so we could cheer for him, and off they went. Brock’s horse went to the lead and stayed there. He gathered up even more of a lead on the backstretch and finished about 15 lengths ahead of the second-place horse.

He went down to the winner’s circle and we went along for the fun. The track stewards, however, showed up none too pleased.

“Brock, you say that horse is eight years old?”

“Shore is.”

“Well, if you have a horse that can run like that, why is he just now in a maiden race?”

Brock grinned, “Couldn’t catch him ‘til he was seven.”

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