Donny

I had a look at some old service records recently and was pleased to see

that Warren Pollard, a guy who I worked with at 33 Division in

Scarborough, had been promoted to the rank of Sgt. before he retired. I liked

Warren. He was a real straight shooter, and while some of us on the

Mounted Unit were naughty rascals at times, he was always above board and

shied away from our highjinks.

He was an athlete and represented our Department, competing against

other police forces across Canada and the U.S. He had the metabolism of a

runner, right off the mark when he needed to be but laid back and low key

the rest of the time. It was pretty hard to get him excited or nervous.

I mention all this to emphasize how unusual and unlike him it was the

one time, in the early winter of 1969, that I saw him really lose it, and to tell

the truth it was entirely my fault.

It all started one afternoon as I was riding up Birchmount Ave.

returning to the stable for lunch. As we approached the intersection at

Lawrence Ave. my horse stopped suddenly. I hadn’t noticed the traffic light

changing to red but he did. While we waited for the light to change to green

a strange looking young man stepped down off the curb and started patting

my horse’s neck and muzzle. What he was doing wasn’t unusual; it

happened all the time, but it was the weird appearance of the man himself

that caught my attention.

It was the end of a long hot summer and whereas everybody in the

crowd that he had stepped out of was sporting a dark tan his complexion had

a pasty pallor and that, together with his mop of messy white blonde hair,

gave him the appearance of an albino. His moist, very red bulbous lips

seemed to reinforce this impression and only his very dark brown eyes

discounted it. His mouth was perpetually wide open with the widely spaced

teeth of both the upper and lower jaw constantly exposed, a sort of

Quasimodo sans the hump.

“Nice horse” he said, looking up at me with eyes that seemed to

suggest that, ‘the lights were on but nobody was home,’ as the saying goes.

I nodded agreement and he continued, “I know all about horses, I

worked at a stable looking after them.”

“That’s nice,” I said as the light changed to green and my horse

fidgeted forward telling me it was time to move on.

That’s when he said something that sparked my attention, “I’ve been

working for Christilot Hanson, taking care of her horses.”

“Really,” I said, immediately reining my horse up and over the

sidewalk, stopping him on a grassy patch beside the bus shelter. The strange

guy shuffled along with me and resumed caressing the horse as soon as we

stopped.

I had to know more. Hanson was currently the Canadian Dressage

Champion and enjoyed quite a bit of international fame; more to the point,

she was a really attractive woman. I had watched her riding at the Royal

Winter Fair and I was impressed with more than just her riding skills.

“So what’s your name?” I asked the strange man who by now had my

horse’s mouth open and was checking his teeth. “My name is Donald

Jones,” he replied very formally but then shyly looking down at his feet, said

“But you can call me Donny.”

After introducing myself, I started to pump him for information.

Firstly, I wanted to be sure that he wasn’t putting me on so I hit him with,

“Tell me, Donny, where did you work when you were taking care of

Christilot’s horses?” He described the location and he was right on the

mark. I had previously driven by her stable and knew where it was.

“So what did you do there?” I continued and Donny described all the

jobs he had done, mucking out stalls, grooming horses, cleaning tack, etc.

“What was Christilot like to work for?” I asked. “Oh, okay, I guess.”

I hit him with a few more inquires then finished up by asking him why

he wasn’t working there anymore. At that he bristled, tensed up, and

sputtered out a very firm “ I don’t want to talk about that!”

I assumed from his reaction that he was probably the victim of some

snobbery; after all, he wasn’t the coolest looking item to have hanging

around a fancy stable, so I let the matter drop.

“Catch you later,” I said, and made an attempt to leave but Donny

stepped in front of my horse and looking up at me with sad imploring eyes,

said, “Wait! I could look after your horses, really I could.”

“Thanks Donny,” I replied, “but we look after our own horses.”

“Yeah, but I could help, I’d work hard, I really would.” The man was

pathetic and his pleas were beginning to draw the attention of the crowd

gathered around the bus shelter so I said the only thing I could think

of: “Look Donny, we don’t hire civilians but I’m sure it would be all right

for you to come and visit the stables sometime.” We often did tours for the

public so it wouldn’t be a big deal.

“Oh good, that’s good,” he said, “Can I come now?” When I told him

that I didn’t think that we could do it right away he became very upset and

agitated and as I scanned the crowd around us, I could tell by their

expressions that they thought I was being cruel, so I relented and, leaning

down and talking softly said, “Okay Donny the stable is just around the

corner. I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”

I barely had time to put my horse away when I heard him knocking; I

slung my saddle onto the cleaning rack and headed to the main stable

entrance. The top half of the door was all window and as I approached it, I

had a really good look at Donny for the first time; his head and upper torso

were framed in the safety glass and the imbedded wire was casting a strange

pattern on his pasty face. His sprint over from the bus stop had caused his

already disheveled hair to explode into a Medusa-like coif and he stood there

with his eyes darting right and left trying to get a glimpse inside. The trip

over to the station had done nothing to improve my first impression of him.

As I pulled the door open and greeted him I would not have been

surprised if he had said, “Trick or treat?”

I ushered him in and over to where the horses were tied in their

standing stalls and watched as he walked slowly up and down the aisle

looking at the horses; he was obviously enjoying the experience and I

thought I saw a hint of a smile as the horses swung their heads around to see

their strange admirer.

I let him linger awhile while I got out my shovel and broom and

opened the trap door to the manure pit that was located in the floor at the

rear of the stable. Quite a large offering of glistening horse droppings had

accumulated while I was out on patrol and I wanted to clean them up before

the horses and I had our supper.

I reached for the shovel that I had left leaning on the wall but Donny

beat me to it, clutching the handle with a weird possessive look on his face.

He startled me and I instinctively felt for my gun. For a moment I thought he

was about to hit me with it; instead. While I watched dumbfounded, he set

about scooping up the manure and shovelling it down the dung hole, then

grabbing the broom and sweeping the floor and tidying up, all this without

ever uttering a word. When he finished he followed me around the corner

and into the tack room and stood watching me while I filled a bucket with

warm water and got out my amber bar of saddle soap, wipe rags and can of

Brasso.

I only had time to run a wet rag up the length of one stirrup leather

before Donny crept up close behind me and stood looking over my shoulder.

I continued cleaning my saddle for a while but I wasn’t that comfortable

with his drooling and heavy breathing so I handed him the rag and stepped

back to watch. He seemed to know what he was up to and he was going at it

with more energy or enthusiasm than I ever could so I left him to it and

retired to the lunchroom. From where I sat looking through the door with my

feet up, nibbling away at my baloney sandwiches, I could see him working

away at my complete set of tack. There was no doubt about it, he was good.

The only time he stopped scrubbing and polishing was when one of the

horses would lift its tail and plop another offering onto the floor. Each time

he would immediately rush into the stable, scoop it up and shovel it down

the hole He actually looked disappointed once when he rushed into the

stable only to find out that one of the horses had farted a false alarm. I had

to admit that I was impressed and sat for some time pondering the

possibilities.

The sound of Warren Pollard horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles

outside the stable interrupted my thoughts. This was going to take some

explaining.

Warren didn’t notice Donny as he hustled his horse into the stable and

removed the saddle and bridle. He wasn’t aware of his presence until he

almost bumped into him going into the tack room and was so startled by his

appearance that he dropped his saddle. Fortunately I was there to stay his

hand as he went for his gun.

“Who the hell is that?” he stammered as I took his arm and guided

him into the lunchroom, leaving Donny to pick up his saddle. It took quite a

while for me to get Warren caught up with what had been happening and by

the time I was done, Donny was nearly finished cleaning his kit as well.

We both agreed that there was no point in stopping him now; so we

put on the kettle and settled down to enjoy a leisurely lunch.

When he had finished in the tack room Donny found our currycombs

and brushes and set about grooming the horses. I decided that a nap was in

order and Warren, who was always up for a snooze, decided to join me.

When quitting time rolled around and it was time to go home the stable, tack

and horses were looking the best we had ever seen them.

We both escorted Donny to the stable door, thanking him profusely

for his good work, with Warren looking thankful that the day and Donny’s

presence in the stable was finally over. That’s why he was so upset when

Donny asked if he could come back the following day and I said, “Sure!”

Warren slammed the door shut almost hitting Donny in the rear end and

started shouting, “Are you out of your mind? We can’t have that crazy

bastard hanging around here; what if the Sgt. finds out?”

“Look Warren,” I replied in a comforting tone, “I don’t know about

you but I really like police work and patrolling on the horses but what I

don’t like is coming back to this stable and working like a galley slave and

why should we when this young fellow wants nothing more than spend his

time here doing the things that I, and I’m sure you, dislike so much? I think

we should give it a try. What have we got to lose?”

“What have we got to lose?” he sputtered, “Just our jobs, you nitwit.

What if Sgt. Lewis finds out?”

“Take it easy, take it easy!” I shot back at him, “I’ve thought this out

and I have a plan. Here’s what we do: you know when you suggest some

unreasonable chore for your wife to do and she gets miffed and sarcastically

says, “Okay, I’ll get the maid to do that. Well, from now on whenever Sgt.

Lewis comes along and orders us to do any maintenance, we just laugh and

say, ‘Okay, I’ll get Donny to do that right away’, as if he was an imaginary

maid; that way if we get caught in the future, we can implicate the Sgt. by

saying, ‘Gosh we’ve been telling you about Donny for ages now.’”

I don’t think Warren really bought into the plan but the thought of all

those extra hours of relaxation were too much for him to resist so he

reluctantly agreed and Donny began his regular visits. As time went on the

other mounted guys in the station joined in the arrangement and everybody

seemed happy, particularly Donny.

There were some narrow escapes when Sgt. Lewis made unscheduled

visits and we had to shove Donny down the manure hole to hide him; he

didn’t seem to mind though and when we retrieved him he was always

smelly but happy.

One afternoon we got a surprise visit from a teacher and her

elementary school class. It was on the calendar but we hadn’t noticed.

Donny had just recently been stuffed in the manure bin and we didn’t have

the heart to make him do it again so soon, so instead we dressed him up in a

spare uniform, complete with hat, badge and Sam Browne.

He was quite a sight as he stood rigidly at attention, beaming and

drooling with his long frizzy blonde hair sticking out from under his too

small hat. Of course we introduced him to the teacher as Constable Jones

and enjoyed her reaction so that we made him a regular feature on all the

school tours; nobody enjoyed it more than Donny.

By the time winter set in, our secret stable man had turned into a

fixture and was happily taking on more and more of the work around the

place; recently he had even been asking to stay in the stable while we went

out on patrol so that he could finish off whatever he was working on.

As these requests became more frequent and as ungrateful as it might

seem, our police instincts kicked in and we began to be suspicious about

what he might be up to when he was alone in the stable.

One afternoon when Warren and I were working together we decided

it was time to check up on Donny; the weather was bad so instead of taking

the horses out we decide to patrol in our van. We made a big show of saying

goodbye to Donny, explaining that we would be patrolling the far side of the

Division and telling him to make sure that he watered the horses one last

time before he left.

We drove off but only went a short distance, parked the van out of

sight and skulked back to the rear of the stable. A metal fire escape led up to

a fire door with a large window that opened into the stable area; we climbed

silently up to the door and peered through the window. The bright stable

lights reflected off the inside of the window glass making us invisible as we

stood outside watching. We waited, shivering in the cold for what seemed

like a long time, and then Donny finally appeared; he was dressed in what he

had now come to think of as his police uniform. As we watched he looked

around nervously a couple of times and then entered one of the stalls.

Warren and I were by now seasoned policemen and had seen a lot

over the years but what we witnessed happening in the stall that night nearly

floored us. What made it worse was that Donny’s unnatural attentions were

directed at Warren’s horse and he was a gelding, for Christ’s sake!

Warren was leaning back on the fire escape railing breathing like he

had just finished the hundred-yard dash and mumbling to himself, “The

dirty, dirty bastard!” Then he turned on me, “This was all your idea, you

smart ass, so what do we do now? We could lose our jobs, if we arrest him

he’ll blab the whole thing, Christ, how will it look in the papers!”

I thought a little humour would calm him down so I tried. “C’mon

Warren, he was doing a great job until this small infraction.” He wasn’t

amused and I thought he was going to kill me. “Okay, okay!” I said, “I’ll

take care of it.” “Ya, what are you going to do?” he snarled. “Don’ t worry,

I’m not going to arrest him.

How would that look ‘Sexual assault on a police horse’?” We made a

lot of noise outside the stable to announce our arrival and when we entered

Donny emerged from the stalls looking nervous and uncomfortable, but not

as nervous and uncomfortable as Warren--he had to book off for the rest of

the shift, sick to his stomach.

I took Donny into the lunchroom and sat him down on a chair at the

opposite side of the table and confronted him with what he had done. I had

talked with Donny a bit over the months and I knew he was under the care of

a psychiatrist. I didn’t know he was seeing him because of an unnatural

attraction to horses and other barnyard animals. Anyway, I got the doctor’s

name and number before I sent Donny on his way asking him never to

return. The next day I contacted his doctor and he assured me that he would

see Donny right away and deal with the matter and thanked me for my

understanding.

I thought the matter was over and after a couple of months Warren

even started talking to me again and we put the whole thing behind us.

About a year later Donny was taken into custody on an unrelated

matter and he blabbed the whole story; the investigating detectives thought

he was nuts--nothing that unbelievable could ever have happened.

Peggy

It was unusual to see old police horses on the streets of Toronto; the

policy was to foster them out to good homes while they still had some useful

years ahead of them. There was always a long list of people anxious to adopt

them; they were so quiet, safe and dependable it was almost like acquiring

an insurance policy.

The people making the decision when to farm them out were faced

with a dilemma: the animals didn’t have “Best Before” labels but they were

a valuable commodity and the trick was to get the maximum number of

years out of them and still leave them with enough health and vitality to

make them attractive to the people who might provide them with quiet

country homes in their dotage.

It wasn’t always just a practical issue; often officers and horses had

been paired up for years and had formed strong emotional attachments. It

wasn’t unusual for those in charge to put off placing a horse for a couple of

years so that it would coincide with the retirement of the cop who rode him.

I guess it was because of this that you occasionally saw an officer

with grey around his temples riding a horse with grey over the eyes.

It’s been a long time but whenever I’m able to conjure up a vision of

somebody I served with I always see his horse standing beside him. Pat

Wolfe with Duchess, Ron Bond with Joe, Merle Jones with Sandy and on

and on.

Sometimes a horse would face early retirement because they received

a permanent injury or become sore footed from the constant pounding on the

pavement. Roy Cardy had to part with his mount Peggy prematurely because

she injured her fetlock and was no longer up to the heavy work required of

her. She was a real old treasure, a very dark bay, comical to look at with her

oversized head and one slightly lopped off ear. It was a sad day for Roy

when he had to part with her but he consoled himself with the knowledge

that she was going to a good home.

The horses, while they were with the Mounted Unit, lived a good life,

well fed and looked after, almost pampered. Even after I left the job I kept

an eye out for suitable remounts for the Dept. I had already found a couple

and I knew they were going to a good home. Inspector Johnson seemed to

value my judgment and purchased them without question.

I was buying and selling a lot of horses at the time and attended all the

auctions and regularly made my rounds of the horse dealers: Alex Picou in

Oshawa, Alec Stewart at the Toronto Stock Yards, Les Erhlick in the heart

of the city, Vern Mason in Richmond Hill and Albert Greco in Kleinberg,

plus all the special auctions and the regular weekly one at Kitchener

Livestock Sales.

Alec Stewart had given me a call to say he had a couple of ‘second

hand horses’, as he called them, to show me; these were usually older horses

that his clients had traded in on the fancy purebred stock that he imported.

He knew that I was more interested in quiet temperaments than I was in

breeding and good looks. Some of the most useful school horses that I used

at my stable had come out of his pens.

Alec kept his horses at the old stockyards in the northwest corner of

the city, using a few of the pens you first encountered as you entered through

the main gates. The entire facility was comprised of about twenty acres of

neat orderly whitewashed pens separated by narrow cobbled alleyways. All

of it was covered in one low roof that kept the place in a constant state of

semi-darkness. The horse stalls that Alec kept benefited from the light from

a bank of windows along an outside wall but if you ventured further in, you

were enveloped in the gloom of the place and bombarded by the cries of

thousands of doomed cattle, sheep and pigs waiting their turn to enter the big

centre aisle where they would follow the Judas steer to the slaughterhouses

on the north side of Keele St. Neither was a certain class of horses, termed

meat horses, exempt from a similar fate. I knew where the pens were that

held those poor creatures but I tried not to think about them and seldom went

there.

When I arrived at the yards early one morning I first checked the

restaurant in the basement of the main building for Alec. He had already

finished his habitual bacon and eggs that morning and had headed out to see

to his horses. When I found him he was standing on a bale of hay peering

over the fence into one of his pens. I liked the old guy; he was the last of his

breed-- an agile seventy-two years of age at the time, still tall and erect and

bright as a penny. He was always dressed to the nines no matter where he

was or what he was doing, with jacket and tie and highly polished shoes

topped, when he was in the stable, with a long raincoat with a bamboo cane

hanging from an inside pocket. When he saw me he tilted back his grey

fedora and beckoned me over.

“See that sorrel mare in the corner?” he asked “How tall would you

say she was?”

I climbed up the rails to have a better look, “Oh, I dunno, maybe

about 15.2.” “That’s what I was thinking.” he said. “But I’ve got to be sure

because I’ve got some people coming to buy her. Listen, you’re younger

than me--climb in there and measure her for me.”

“Okee Dokee,” I said as I swung over the top rail and dropped into the

pen. He unhooked the cane from inside his slicker and handed it to me

through the rails of the fence. I loved that cane, hidden inside the shaft was a

long, narrow telescopic ruler with a flip-out arm with a level on the top. I

backed the mare into a corner and she stood quietly while I held the cane

ruler against her shoulder, extracted the ruler and settled the level arm down

on her withers.

“I guess we were both wrong,’ I said, “She’s about 15.3. She’ll be

sixteen hands with shoes on.”

“All the better” he beamed, and then I surrendered his wonderful

antique cane to him, jokingly restating my desire that he leave it to me in his

will.

By now, his customers had found their way to his area of the yards

and as they approached where we were standing, he pointed down the

alleyway in the opposite direction saying, “Go down to pen number 23--

that’s where those horses I told you about are.” I can take a hint so I made

myself scarce and headed in the direction he indicated, He didn’t like me

around when he priced his horses to the general public because he knew that

I knew that they were generally worth about half as much as he was asking.

Anyway I busied myself in the wholesale division of his establishment,

picking out a couple of geldings, an old Palomino and a little bay Standard

Bred with a star on his forehead. I tried each of them out, riding them around

the pen bareback steering them with the top strap of their halter; they seemed

to know what they were doing. If the price was right they would be coming

home with me.

Alec was still busy with his customers when I finished trying out the

horses I was interested in, so I wandered off into the inner part of the yards

to kill time. I was thinking about something else as I wandered through the

aisles and was surprised when I found myself next to the pens that contained

the meat horses. My first instinct was to turn and walk the other way but

some weird compulsion drew me to the pens where I climbed the rails for a

closer look.

The scene was what I expected to see: about a dozen dejected looking

horses, mostly heavy draft animals in poor condition with heavy winter

coats; they had obviously been kept outside all winter. There was very little

colour variation in the group, all blacks or dark bays with occasional white

patches on their backs and shoulders where they had been galled by years of

work in harness. Most stood with their heads hanging, puffing wisps of

frozen vapour that rose and hung over the pen in a low, thin static cloud.

Some stood on three legs nursing old injuries while others hunkered

back on their hindquarters to relieve the pressure on their foundered front

feet. It was a sad lot but there was nothing I could do about it. I figured the

sooner they got put out of their misery the better.

One animal in particular caught my eye. She seemed more animated

than the rest of the bunch moving around the pen, weaving in and out of the

other animals and going over to the long manger periodically and grabbing

mouthfuls of hay. She didn’t show as much draft blood as the rest of the

group; her hair was incredibly long and it made her body seem thicker and

fuller than it really was. As I climbed down to leave she came forward and

hung her head over the top rail directly in front of me. That’s when I noticed

it; it hadn’t been noticeable at a distance because her hair was so long, even

the fuzz on her ears, but now I could see it: her right ear was not pointed

like the left, it was shorter with a blunt straight top. I couldn’t believe my

eyes but as I imagined her with a short and shiny coat, without the long hair

and the pellets of dung that adhered to her rear end, I knew it must be her. I

climbed back up and over the rail, grabbed hold of her halter and eased

myself onto her back. I pulled back gently and whispered, “Back, back.” She

responded immediately. When we were in the middle of the pen, I moved

her around, neck-reining her in both directions. She turned without

hesitation. Then I gave her the final test: halting her and restricting her

forward motion, I applied my right leg to her flank; she did a perfect side

passage to the left sweeping the other horses out of her way as she went.

“Well, for Christ sake, it is you, Peggy, old girl!” I said as I slid down off

her back, rubbing her eyes and making much of her. The swelling on her

fetlock confirmed the obvious so I told her to wait while I went to see if I

could spring her.

The agent in charge was reluctant to do business with me because

he said the whole group of horses had been spoken for. He changed his mind

when I offered him double the going price of fifteen cents a pound and we

weren’t long weighing her and him pocketing the three hundred and thirty

dollars cash I gave him.

As I led her over to Alec’s stalls, I was pleased to see that she

wasn’t limping or favouring her old injury. I put her in the pen with my

other purchases and before the day was out they were all trucked to the

safety of my stables.

I couldn’t wait to tell Big Ed about rescuing Peggy but I wanted to

clean her up a bit first so I waited ‘till the next morning. Overnight I decided

that I would have a little fun with him so I devised a plan. He lived in the

cottage next to mine in Sunnybrook Park and I made sure I was waiting at

the paddock fence as he made his way over to his office the next morning. I

had already turned Peggy loose in the enclosure and place some hay in a

corner furthest from where I stood waiting for the Inspector to pass. He

grunted, “Good morning,” and I started right in on him. “Look over there,

Inspector, I’ve got another new horse for you.” He squinted in her direction

for a while then said, “Well, she looks the right sort from here, a little rough

but she’d probably clean up, how old is she?”

“Ya know, I’m not quite sure. Why don’t you come over with me

and we’ll check her mouth.”

The horse stood still and watched us as we opened the gate and

headed over to her. I grabbed the fancy new halter I had put on her while the

Inspector parted her lips and looked in her mouth. He looked a little startled

when he saw the length of her teeth then something dawned on him. Without

a word he reached up and caressed her chopped off ear. Then, still remaining

silent, knelt down and felt for h

er injured fetlock. He uttered one word and I

started explaining.

As my story unfolded, his face became redder and redder until I

thought the top of his head was about to blow off. When I finished he turned

and marched purposely toward his office. I knew he was a man on a mission

and I pitied the person who had betrayed his trust and sold Peggy down the

river.

I never found out exactly how he handled the matter but I made

darn sure that the home I subsequently found for her was the very best and I

know she enjoyed her remaining years until, much later, she was finally laid

to rest in an orchard next to her pasture.

Roy Cardy with Peggy's replacement

Metro Meets the Mounties

During the summer of 2005 I was playing my trumpet in a community

band, Kings County Concert Band, and it fell to me to make the

arrangements for the group to accompany the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride at the

Fair grounds in Amherst, Nova Scotia.

All the Band members were really excited about the gig so I thought it

would be neat if we could be photographed with the Mounties and have a

souvenir of the event. I contacted the Ride’s advance team and they assured

me that the Mounties would be delighted to pose with us after the

performance. I hired a local photographer to take the picture and we all

looked forward to playing for the huge crowd and then getting our picture

taken with these icons of the Great White North.

I decided to have one last meeting with the sergeant in charge to go

over the details so that we wouldn’t take anymore of their time than was

necessary. That’s when he dropped the bomb. “I’m sorry!” he said. “There

isn’t going to be any picture. We reserve that privilege for amateur groups

and your band is professional!” What the hell could he be talking about? I

was astounded and a little bit flattered. “The Fair management tells me that

your group was paid to be here,” he continued with his chin jutting skyward.

That’s when I lost it. I did remember that the Fair Committee had given us a

small stipend to help with gas for the crowded vehicles we came in but it

wasn’t very much. I made some quick mental calculations and then

explained to the crusty Mountie that our pay for the two days we devoted to

the performance netted each of the band members approximately forty-nine

cents. He could see that my face was getting nearly as red as his tunic and

decided to acquiesce. We would get our picture but as I walked away from

him my mind drifted back to a time thirty-eight years previous when I had

met and dealt with an R.C.M.P. sergeant just like him.

I guess it’s all right to tell this story now since most of the participants

have by now retired, died or simply wouldn’t give a damn.

Because it was Centennial Year, the R.C.M.P. were also performing

their Musical Ride at the C.N.E. There wasn’t much interaction between our

group and theirs. We were stabled in our own partitioned off area on the first

floor of the Horse Palace and the Mounties were up on the second floor at

the opposite end of the building.

We wandered up to say hello to them but they were not very

receptive. Although we were all policemen and were involved in musical

rides we didn’t seem to have anything else in common. They were a highly

regimented outfit always in uniform even when they were mucking out the

stalls. They marched in step everywhere they went and there always seemed

to be a sergeant around watching their every move.

Our group was always turned out well when we performed but in

between rides or when we were off duty we kicked around in blue jeans and

cowboy boots and pretty well did as we pleased. The Mounties were never

off duty and they never seemed to be having any fun. We found out through

the grapevine that they had been told by their Inspector not to mix with our

group. Most of us didn’t care because from what we had seen of them, they

appeared to be a bunch of pompous, over disciplined stick-in-the-muds not

worthy of our attention.

Near the end of the week Inspector Johnson got wind of the

restrictions his counterpart on the R.C.M.P. had put on his men and decided

to confront him about the obvious insult.

I wasn’t there to see it but I can imagine the look on the Mountie’s

face with Big Ed towering over him, looking even taller than his six foot

four in his white bobby helmet, teaching him some manners.

He must have been convincing because shortly after we got word that

the members of the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride would be joining us for a little

get together at the conclusion of our shows.

It was our custom to keep a small stock of alcoholic beverages waiting

for us to wash down the tan bark dust at the end of our rides. Normally it

was a BYOB arrangement. We had been cautioned not to offer any to the

Mounties but for some reason, although I’m sure we all intended to comply

with the warning, we all showed up with extra beer and bottles of the hard

stuff. Since all of this happened without much planning or consultation, the

cache of booze, before we set upon it, was a trifle excessive. There was a

hell of a lot of it!

On the last night the boys from the Toronto unit and the Band

members got a bit of a head start on the festivities: we were all changed out

of our uniforms, reclining on our tack boxes with cold ones in our hands,

waiting for the Mounties. It was getting late and we were wondering if they

had changed their minds and weren’t coming.

Then we heard the sound of thirty pairs of boots hitting the stable

pavement in unison. On they came down the aisle in our direction, marching

two by two, arms swinging and in perfect step.

They were all wearing their full summer street uniform complete with

Stetsons. Their Sergeant broke off and ‘hup, hupped’ them through the tack

room door and then halted the troop in the centre of the room.

Their Inspector followed them in and after he gave the sergeant a nod

they were all dismissed and the group spread out among our guys and the

Band members. The Mounties started shaking hands and making some

formal attempts at conversation but you could tell that they were nervous

and uptight. When I offered the one closest to me a beer he almost had a

heart attack. “No, no, no!” he whispered, rolling his eyes and glancing over

his shoulder in the direction of his sergeant.

I could see why this sergeant had everybody intimidated. He was the

biggest man in the room-- he even had an inch or two on Big Ed. He looked

to be a fit two hundred and thirty pounder with the physique of a weight

lifter and the permanent sneer of a drill instructor. He was a handsome

bugger with Aryan features, blue eyes and short blonde hair showing below

the brim of his Stetson. Hitler would have loved him.

Inspector Johnson had greeted the Mountie Inspector as soon as he

entered the room and now he had his arm around his shoulder leading him

over to a makeshift bar we had constructed. I watched as he poured two

drinks and handed one to the Mountie who took it but then, shaking his head

from side to side, promptly placed it back down on the bar.

A bit of animated conversation ensued but the glass remained on the

bar. It was looking as if the Mountie had won the day and was not about to

take a drink but then Big Ed made a masterful maneuver.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?” he shouted over the noise of

the room. “This is Canada’s Centennial year and on behalf of the

Metropolitan Toronto Police and the R.C.M.P., I would like to propose a

toast to Queen and Country.”

The Mountie Inspector looked like he wanted to run out of the room

but he reluctantly picked up the glass and after nodding his approval, his

whole contingent followed suit grabbing the bottles and glasses eagerly

proffered by our guys and the members of the Band. It was a lingering toast,

not your customary sip, and when that one was over, certain other dignitaries

were remembered and subsequent toasts made until finally we were all left

on our own, each to toast whomever we chose and as often as we wanted.

I guess the Mountie Inspector figured, “What the hell? In for a penny,

in for a pound,” because he spent the next hour or so in conversation with

Big Ed and looking the other way.

His big lantern jawed sergeant wasn’t too impressed with what was

going on and kept looking in his Inspector’s direction hoping for the order to

shut things down. But that order never came so he just stood in corner

nursing his original drink and scanning the room with a sour look on his

face.

A relaxed atmosphere settled over the gathering and the tension the

young Mounties had displayed earlier was all but gone. Ties were removed

and collars opened and most of the brown Stetsons were off their closely

shorn heads and hooked over saddle cantles or bridle racks.

About halfway through the evening the R.C.M.P. Inspector received

an urgent message, delivered by one of our policewomen, and he had to

return to his hotel so Big Ed volunteered to drive him. On his way out he

slurred some final instructions to his sergeant: “Just stay a little longer then

wrap things up.”

As the two Inspectors made there way through the stable on their way

to Big Ed’s car they had to pass by a large pile of baled straw. When they

got to the far side of it they happened on a young Mountie who had

borrowed a guitar from one our guys and was sitting on a bale serenading an

equally young Metro. Policewoman who was perched near the top of the

pile. Most of the young man’s uniform had been discarded-- he still had his

britches and boots on but he was down to his t-shirt and had his tie around

his head like a bandana.

The Mountie Inspector instinctively started to admonish him but

before he could speak, Big Ed steered him away and hustling him over to his

car, muttered in his ear, “By God, that boy has a good voice!”

In the absence of the Inspectors and in spite of the Mountie sergeant’s

presence the party took a turn for the worst. All hell broke out! First one of

the Mounties came riding into the room on old Roy, bareback, with a Metro

policewoman sitting sidesaddle behind him. When Roy stopped suddenly

she lost her balance and fell over backwards and into the arms of a batch of

Mounties who caught her then started passing her from one to the other

across the room. She was laughing hysterically and no one was paying much

attention to the direction in which she was being shuttled. When her final

destination turned out to be the arms of the big sergeant over in the corner, it

was obvious that he was not amused.

As he put her down, brushed off the front of his uniform and

straightened his hat, I could tell that he was about to call a halt to the

proceedings. I quickly conferred with a couple of my close associates and

we devised a plan to distract him. It was something we had done many times

before so I trusted my friends to do the groundwork while I left the room to

prepare myself.

The sergeant had already started to gather his men around him as my

friends approached him. They had all heard him bragging about his prowess

in the gym so they knew he was a prime candidate for what they were about

to propose.

Before he could speak to his men one of my conspirators put the

question to him in a very loud voice. “Excuse me, Sgt.. I was wondering,

who would you say was the strongest man in your outfit?”

With a haughty look on his face that suggested that the answer

should be obvious, he sneered the answer. “I guess that would be me.”

“Well,” our man continued, “Why don’t we have a test of strength

between your strongest man, which is you, and the strongest man in our

unit?”

The big Mountie did a quick scan of the room taking in our spindly

arms and beer bellies and then uttered a confident “Why not?” You could

tell that he wanted to inflict some punishment on the group who had so

shamelessly undermined all of his discipline.

My friends explained the rules. They said it was an old traditional

cavalry contest to test the strength of a trooper’s neck muscles. “You will lie

spread-eagled on the floor, bracing yourself in any manner you choose; your

opponent will kneel beside you with his hands behind his back and using

only his head attempt to roll you over. If he is successful the contest is over.

If he fails to roll you over, you will get the opportunity to address him in the

same manner.” “Why me first?” he asked. “Tradition!” my buddies

chorused. The answer didn’t really seem to satisfy him but just then I came

prancing into the circle that had been cleared in the centre of the room. I

was, bare-chested and soaking wet, one hundred and forty pounds and as I

danced around playing to the crowd, shadow boxing, and humming the

theme from Rocky, my big opponent stammered, “What is this, a joke?”

“No joke,” one of my friends shot back. “He may look puny but he

has incredibly strong neck muscles so you better brace yourself.”

“ This is ridiculous,” said the big Mountie, “but we may as well get it over

with so we can get out of here.”

He started to crouch down but he was stopped by one of our men

who made his way to the centre of the circle with a partial bottle of Southern

Comfort in his hand. “What say we make this contest interesting?” he said,

“The loser has to finish this bottle off in no more than three snorts.” The

crowd cheered unanimous approval and I said modestly, “I really like

Southern Comfort.” “Whatever,” said the big sergeant, “let’s get on with it.”

He dropped to the floor and did a series of pushups to warm up

and then he assumed the position. I dropped to my knees near the halfway

point of his body; he looked even bigger from this perspective. He was

looking back over his shoulder at me so I crossed myself to emphasize the

seriousness of the occasion then placed my hands behind my back.

I gave him a couple of tentative test nudges with the top of my

head and each time I did he tensed up pressing down on his wide spread

arms and legs until his torso lifted clear of the ground and every muscle was

bulging and defined. Clearly I had my work cut out for me.

I touched his flank with my head a couple of more times and

that’s when he made the mistake of relaxing for a split second and I was able

to deliver the coup de grace. With the speed of a striking cobra I lunged

forward and sunk my teeth into the softest part of his ass and bit down as

hard as I could. He let out a stifled scream and immediately flipped over

onto his back. He made a grab for me with a murderous look on his face but

I managed to slip away and get to my feet before he could do any real

damage. He got to his feet and moved toward me shaking his clenched fists

but by then the whole room had broken into peels of laughter and he had

second thoughts and backed off.

I guess he didn’t want his crew to think he was a bad sport.

Without saying another word he snatched the bottle of Southern Comfort out

of my friends hand and drank it down, in two long gulps. “Who needs three

swallows,” he said as he handed the empty bottle back to my friend, as if his

prowess in this regard had to some extent restored a bit of his dignity.

He spent the next few minutes with a group of his trainees

gathered around him explaining why, because of his size, he was not

affected by alcohol in the same way that a smaller less muscular type would

be. Then he sat down on a tack box and promptly passed out.

The guys from our Unit took him out to the stable and bedded him

down in a box stall with old Major. The last I saw of him he was mumbling

something that sounded like pillow talk and smiling serenely while Major

nuzzled his neck and chest and rooted at his breast pockets looking for

treats.

In the total absence of any authority figure of consequence, the boys

really let their hair down and things took a turn for the worse. It was well

past closing time at the Exhibition so the party spread out into the corridors

of the Horse Palace. An impromptu game of Donkey Baseball was organized

in the riding ring and more than the bases were loaded. Some of the

Mounties were taking bagpipe lessons from the Band members and insisting

on borrowing their kilts while doing it; they had been told that proper

protocol dictated that nothing was to be worn under the garments and they

weren’t shy about bending over periodically and displaying their adherence

to the rules.

One man was marching up and down the pavement outside the

stable wearing a kilt, tall riding boots with spurs, a Mountie Stetson and

carrying a bamboo lance. It was difficult to tell exactly which outfit he was

with. Another kilted Band member was indulging in his own version of the

highland games; he had a stack of about a dozen Mountie hats and he was

tossing them Frisbee-like trying to get them up onto the ramp of the

Gardiner Expressway. He wasn’t very successful because I could see

several of the pointy-topped hats littering the parking lot directly in front of

him. It was at this juncture that I decided that it was time for me to leave the

party, the decision may not have been entirely mine because I remember

somebody holding onto my ear and guiding me out. Anyway I didn’t want to

be around when the big Mountie sergeant woke up.

I had it from reliable sources that the party continued for some time

after I left and even had a change of venue for its finale. The papers carried a

story the following day concerning a group of young Mounties and an

unspecified number of Metro. Toronto policewomen being caught playing

nude water polo in the pool at the Lakeshore Motel. The following day I was

at the Horse Palace to watch the Mounties ship out and they seemed oddly

cool and stand offish. An official directive had been issued, “Under no

circumstances will any member of the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride ever again

fraternize with the cops of The Metropolitan Toronto Police Mounted Unit.

It may not be on the books but I believe the order still stands.