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.