Upon meeting Sophie Watts, the challenge is on, to not like her or be impressed by her lengthy personal and professional resume.  Tall, svelte, blonde and crisp, she epitomizes the image of the consummate equestrian.   In black pencil jeans, black riding boots, black blazer and white Oxford-collared shirt, Watts is breathtakingly attractive.  A fan of Thoroughbreds and the sport of racing them, she is as comfortable on the backstretch as in the Clubhouse.  She's the kind of beautiful that makes insecure women want to hate her because they feel inferior, just by virtue of the fact that she exists. 

But once she flashes her open smile and her eyes twinkle with glee at something that tickled her fancy--all such thoughts melt like the Spring snows.  And because she's brilliant, genuine, caring and sincere--it quickly becomes impossible to harbor any feelings for Watts other than the strong desire to become her friend and colleague.

For those who judge a book by its cover, Watts may offer a challenge:  perfect people are especially difficult to love for those with ego problems.  And Watts does come across as being perfect, in spite of the fact that she's very real, and extraordinarily kind. 

Once you get past her outward classic demeanor--it takes about one minute--you want to know more about this astonishingly accomplished woman.

What is the Story of Your Life?  Who are you?  Where were you born?  Did you go to college?  Which school can claim you as an Alumna/us?  What was your family like--and were you happy?  Have you found vocational fulfillment?  Will anyone remember you when you die, or are you content to go unnoticed, and pass into Eternity, in obscurity?  Will you leave a legacy behind, or is it OK if you don't?

These are questions that pass through each human heart at one time or another.  Some of us are plagued by unsatisfactory answers, and so we set a course to assure that the direction from here-on-out is different, perhaps more exciting.   Some of us embellish, because the story so far isn't up to some standard we secretly hold in our hearts.   Others need not alter the tale, as it's already pretty darned fascinating. 

Joe Hernandez was a Wordsmith, a man whose speech and writing talents were elegant, precise and beautiful. If he never accomplished anything else, he contributed to the lexicon and had the gift to string together words in such a masterful fashion that mind pictures were painted, leaving indelible portraits for all those who were blessed to experience the work of his heart...

"A horse is a horse, of course, of course.
But who would you be if you were a horse?
A horse who ran Life's Race on course?
What would be your name?

Caballo's the Press, pub-lish-ing source
That asks your race name if you were a horse.
A prize awaits, a book, of course!
Please tell us your name!"

(I offer my sincere apologies to Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, the composers who wrote the "Mr. Ed" theme song in 1961, for hacking up their beloved ditty.)

Most of us who adore horses, especially Thoroughbreds (or Arabians or Quarter Horses, for that matter--any horse who races, right?)--have at one time or another fancied ourselves as a sleek, gorgeous, well-muscled, shiny-coated steed.  Running Life's Race, feeling the solid Earth (real dirt, thank you) under our perfectly-formed hooves.  With the wind blowing through our manes, we cross the finish line first--at least in these fantasies, we are free and we always win...

I am constantly amazed by the ways in which horses choose to communicate with we mere humans:  recognizing that we homo sapiens are the ones who forgot how to talk Horse--not the other way 'round--members of the equine species will go out of their way to get their point across to mortals, to get what they need or want from us. 

And, being that horses are ultimately intuitive--intuition has kept the species around for over four million years--even the smallest, quietest flicker of a candle in a window can signal salvation for a horse.  We humans are so busy striving to stay alive in this dog-eat-dog world--that of the predator--that we forget that the best way to survive and thrive actually is quite the opposite.  Rather than looking to predators for advice, we should observe instead the quiet ways of the prey, whose powers of observation must, by necessity, be more finely-tuned than those of the aggressor.

I'm thinking about a mare I met at a party, 20+ years ago:  the Wisdom, calm and trust that she exhibited that dark Winter night and my first experience with the real mystical properties of The Horse left an impression with me that has informed many of my thoughts and relationships in the two decades since the encounter...

The Summer of 2009 was spectacular--at least in Saratoga Springs, New York.  Thoroughbred racing at its very best took place beneath the northern skies, as some of the world's most talented horses thrilled hundreds of thousands of hearts.  The World's Greatest Thoroughbred, one Empress, Rachel Alexandra, made her Spa debut and made history, all on the same day.  Summer Bird proved that he has The Stuff, and that he's not just a gorgeous redhead.

Many hearts and minds connected for the first time, as the sweltering weather gave way to the first cool breezes of Autumn.  We laughed, we wined, we dined.  We cheered 'til we were hoarse, and wept when the beautiful and talented Todo K broke down on the last race, on Labor Day.  As we ran that last race of the Saratoga meet together--we all felt the pain of Todo K's connections, for in many ways, truly we are Family.

I attempted to document in this blog the horses, people and events that touched my soul the most during the summer of 2009.  But I confess here that it was only an introduction, a passing thought that went through my mind and demanded to be written down--I would need the entire winter to go over each day in my Palm, and write everything and every being that affected my life this past August.  And that may be my Winter Project...

And I will, indeed, take a bit of time to completely record this past meet, in a way that's respectful and that I can share with all of you.  But as Summer gives way to Autumn--today is The Ultimate Autumn Day, and days like this make me wonder why every Season can't be crisp, the light filtered through red and golden/orange leaves.  Why hot apple cider doughnuts aren't the National Food of the United States, and ice-cold river water not considered to be sacred.

The last light of the last day of the Saratoga meet brought with it a brisk breeze that reminded me that Autumn was, indeed, upon us--regardless of the date on the calendar.  September 7th came in quietly enough, but caught the last train out of town with a tailwind that served as warning that the Ontario Clipper winds would soon frost the tip of my nose and make me wish I had winter work in Ocala. 

But, ah, the six weeks before Labor Day were among the sweetest of my Life.  What a summer!  Meeting new track buddies.  Renewing warm friendships over a hot, thick cup of coffee at the "lemonade stand" on a misty morning.  Impromptu sambas with strangers while walking between barns.  Ronnie and her vivacious smile, and little scissors and their special mission.  Susan and Sunny, setting up basecamp in the back.  Cathy lugging her camera, reeling off 500 shots at a whirl.  Carol, regaling me with horse stories that make me howl in delight, and wishing that I had one-tenth of her beautiful soul.

As I stood in the paddock at Saratoga Race Course on Wednesday following the post position draw for the Woodward Stakes, I could not but pick up a few words uttered to a couple of trainers by the one, the only, Tom Durkin.

Durkin, as you no doubt know, is the race announcer for New York's three racetracks, Saratoga, Belmont and Aqueduct.  Mr. D. is a brilliant guy; has a fabulous voice--and he makes the most of it.  His calls are legendary, as is his insight into this sport to which he's been privy for many decades.

Mr. Durkin acted as announcer for the post position draw, and made even the act of announcing that so-and-so had drawn position thus-and-such--sound fascinating.  Following the draw of all eight positions, He interviewed several connections for we in the media who scribbled furiously or whose cameras whirred frantically to catch The Shot.

Worry not, I shall write a great deal more about Rachel Alexandra as the week goes on and we get closer to Woodward Stakes Day.  Me, and every other racing writer in North America.  The time I spent in the Queen's royal presence last Monday morning gave me ample material to write a book, or a screenplay.  I wish Jess Jackson would love my writing, and ask me to document his big horse's life for the silver screen.  Rachel is not only a feast for the eyes and food for the soul--she's worth her weight in printer's ink.

I'll whet your appetite for the whole story from last week by telling you tell you that, in the midst of the storm that surrounds her--the mighty, invincible, unequaled Rachel Alexandra is a model of serenity.  On Monday morning I dubbed her, Her Serene Highness, for I believe that this is her archetypal name, the moniker that was written in the stars before she was born.

I've written about visionary artist, Brian T. Fox, in a previous column here on Saratoga.com.  I know Brian as both a friend and as an artist.  I first met him four years ago, at an event for the Jackie Robinson Foundation.  He'd painted the late legend, and was present to show his work to a throng of admirers of the great athlete--including Mrs. Robinson, herself.

In the four years since then, I've been privy to the inner workings of the artist's brain and soul.  I get to see his paintings before they're finished, and consider it an honour and privilege to see the process, first-hand.

On Wednesday, August 26th, we'll have the opportunity to thank the good hearts of the Columbia-Greene Humane Society (henceforth, CGHS) for all the work they do, day-in and day-out, year after year.

But the work for which we who love horses are most grateful is their tremendous work on behalf of the nearly 200+ horses who were neglected, sick and starving on Ernie Paragallo's farm in Climax, New York. 

Unless you've lived under a rock for the last half-year, you know the story.  Paraneck Stables, the racing arm of Paragallo's dysfunctional empire, has a farm in Upstate New York.  On this farm lived Thoroughbreds who somehow fell through the cracks.  How an 1,nearly 200-pound animal can fall through the cracks is beyond me.  How over nearly 200 of them can go unnoticed is absolutely unfathomable.  Somewhere along the line, "benign neglect" was replaced with "intentional, passive-aggressive murder attempt."

And so the CGHS stepped in in April, and confiscated the horses whose lives were endangered.  All were treated, pro bono, by a man I am dubbing, Saint Jerry--Dr. Jerry Bilinski, the equine veterinarian who could not let these horses suffer when he had the tools, knowledge and compassion to help.   Ronald L. Perez, Jr. (Ron Perez),  the dedicated and compassionate Director and Investigator of the CGHS, would not tolerate these actions:  his team of Board members, volunteers, staff and enforcement officers snatched the horses and got them to Dr. Bilinski for Phase I of their rescue.

The next step, that of adopting them out once they were healthy enough to be weaned from medical attention, is in process even as I write this.

This piece is not intended to be a downer, in any way.  Inasmuch as I have very strong feelings about the events, I am neither the judge nor the jury.  I needed to provide background so that you can know what good has been done so far, and that you may realize that more help is needed in order to assure that each of these horses are loved and safe.