Woodrow

When I was a young boy my grandfather had a chicken ranch in Petaluma, California. And on that farm he, my grandfather, had a draft horse named Woodrow. The name should tell you how long ago that was and how old Woodrow was at that time. Woodrow was a large, white gelding. Of course he was a fine draft horse because my grandfather knew a lot about draft horses. He had owned and operated a drayage business in San Francisco before the 1906 earthquake. Woodrow was used to pull a wagon from chicken house to chicken house while the hired hands fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, and cleaned the watering troughs, and so on.

When I was ten years old my father purchased the farm from my grandfather and we moved in. By that time Woodrow had been retired to pasture. He had been replaced by a 1925 Buick touring car, converted to a pickup.

Woodrow was a gentle giant. He readily allowed my brother and me to ride on him. Bareback, of course, because there was no saddle that would fit him.

One episode stands out in my memory. Woodrow and I were plowing the “south forty”. I don’t remember why we were plowing; it was probably just for fun. Anyway, there we were, Woodrow hitched to the plow and I walking behind. Suddenly the point of the plow caught in the root of a cottonwood tree. Woodrow pulled with all of his might, his belly only inches from the ground. SNAP!!! Both chain traces broke and Woodrow went tumbling head over heels. Neither of us was injured, but we didn’t plow any more.

It was a sad day when one icy morning as my father and I were on our way to milk the cows we found Woodrow lying dead by the cow barn. While it might have been sentimental to bury the old horse, on the farm pragmatism reigns and his remains were hauled off to the tallow works.

And so you have read another story about animals in my life.