​Occasionally I read about a racing story that has escaped my attention since it burst onto the front pages of the racing newspapers – the Sporting Life and Sporting Chronicle were the trade papers back in 1961 – and then struggle to find any reference to it in any of the books I own or when I go on-line. No doubt in the coming days Google in its infinitely puzzling way will enlighten me with an asked-for video on the subject.
The curious case of Zonda was brought to my attention by Tim Fitzgeorge-Parker in his fascinating book ‘The Spoilsports. What’s Wrong With British Racing.’ The final chapter, of which, is dedicated to this curious doping scandal.
Zonda was a decent staying chaser in Ireland in the late fifties and early sixties, as proved by finishing second, carrying top-weight, in a Hennessey Gold Cup at Newbury. The race that proved so controversial was a minor conditions chase at Leopardstown, the Rathfarnham Chase. There were only 4-runners, one of which was the 1959 Cheltenham Gold Cup winner Roddy Owen. The bookmakers had little doubt it was a 2-horse affair, with Roddy Owen sent-off the 5/4 favourite, with Zonda at 7/4. Bookmakers noted no unusual betting patterns. Zonda won by 8-lengths, with Roddy Owen finishing a tired third after making a bad mistake at the eleventh-fence. From the perspective of today any suspicion would be on Roddy Owen finishing a sixteenth-length third after being backed from 6/4 to 5/4 at the off. Apart from the Gold Cup winner performing below par, there was nothing surprising in the result.
Dope testing the winners of all races in Ireland was a relatively new thing and the racecourse veterinary surgeon took samples of Zonda’s saliva and urine. To cut a long and distasteful story short, the nominated Irish analyst, Dr. Pennington returned a positive verdict for caffeine. Strangely, and this what is needed to be explained and never was explained, is that the check analysts, Herd and Munday found the sample positive for strychnine, with only a trace element of caffeine. It is a tale worthy of a Dick Francis novel or even Agatha Christie.
At the subsequent inquiry the Stewards were convinced of wrong-doing and banned Zonda’s trainer, Matt Geraghty, for 12-months, yet, though Zonda was disqualified from the Leopardstown race, he was allowed to continue racing in Ireland under the care of another trainer.
Zonda’s owner, Mrs. Peggy St John Nolan, was concerned the decision of the Irish Stewards would prevent her horse from running in England as she hoped to run Zonda in that year’s Cheltenham Gold Cup. She sought advice from Weatherby’s and was advised not to press for an English enquiry which, they considered, might go against her. Confusingly, she was advised by another authority that Zonda could not run without an English enquiry. She decided on asking for an enquiry.
The English stewards thought a fraudulent practice had taken place, whereas the Irish stewards had only considered the dope implication. Her dilemma having doubled, Mrs. Nolan sought the expert assistance of Brendon Thomas Farrelly, a Master of Science, a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine and a university lecturer in clinical pathology in the faculty of Veterinary Medicine. He studied all the analytical reports on the Zonda case, drew-up submissions and set-off for London to argue his case. The English stewards were not particularly interested in anything he had to say, preferring to stick with the findings of the original analysts. The judgment was in alignment with the findings of the Irish Stewards except the English stewards went a step further in their punishment by banning Zonda from all British racecourses.
This was clearly a miscarriage of justice as there was no proof anyone connected with Zonda was guilty of introducing either strychnine or caffeine into his body. And that is without making any sense of how one expert had found caffeine to be drug the involved and the other strychnine. Or that Zonda had shown no improvement in form in the disputed Leopardstown race and went on to finish second in the Hennessey Gold Cup before either of the two enquiries were held.
I have little doubt enquiries both in Britain and Ireland are not as amateurish as demonstrated back in 1961. But in order to prove ‘how straight’ racing is in both jurisdictions, it is too easy to destroy reputations, as was the case with Ryan Price, a genius of a trainer, with the Hill House affair, where science finally proved that the horse made his own dope and that Price was innocent of all charges. What is forgotten when the story is told is that by having his licence to train taken from him, Ryan Price was denied the Grand National winner he so richly deserved as Anglo was in his care at the time and that he recommended he be sent to Fred Winter upon noy being allowed to train him himself.
The Zonda case reminded me of the Tramore case – Charles Byrnes (?) memory failure – where it could not be proved the trainer was in any way responsible for doping his horse.
It is so easy for stewards to apportion blame for the convenience of ‘proving’ how they are on top of the problem of doping.
Also, stewards’ decisions become an equine welfare issue when a horse is banned for life from racing. The horse is the most innocent party in these affairs and yet in banning the horse its existence could become precarious if it is unsuitable for any other equine discipline.

​The most hurtful accusation made by members of Animal Rising and others like them is that horses are used by greedy humans to make money and when they are no longer able to contribute to their keep, they are discarded as one might take a car with a knackered engine to the scrapyard. The accusation hurts not because it is true but because it is so far from the truth.
In a perfect world, all horses when retired would live-out their lives under the sun, their bellies rich with good green grass. But there is no such place as a perfect world and thoroughbreds unfit for other equine disciplines or with injuries that cannot be healed must, in an act that is more a kindness than an unsympathetic decision, be euthanised. In the wild, where Animal Rising suggest is the best place for thoroughbred horses, where only the strongest survive, the old and the maimed would taken from this world by predators and perhaps suffer a lingering death.
The truth is simple, we give life to racehorses and, as one would might be forced to do with elderly relatives, we must take desperately difficult decisions at the tail-end of their lives. The important bit is how we treat racehorses in between the birth and the end-of-life.
Owners, trainers, jockeys and those who are fortunate to live beside and look after racehorses, care deeply about the welfare of the horses in their care. There are no crocodile tears in horse racing. The death of a horse is not the ‘tragedy’ of a missed putt on the last hole of a golf tournament; the missed penalty that gives the other side the trophy. A horse that suffers a fatal injury on a racecourse is, especially for the groom who must return home without his or her horse, a tragedy that is a dagger to the heart, leaving a scar that may never heal.
Horses live on in our memories and in our hearts long after their passing. There are as many statues and memorials to racehorses as there are for people involved in the sport. If you omit Queen Elisabeth the 2nd, her mother and Sir Winston Churchill, I would suggest there are more equine memorials than for humans.
For many horses the memorials are less public. Those mighty warriors that Peter Easterby had the honour to train, Sea Pigeon and Night Nurse, are buried in a metal-railed grave-site at the back of his house. Indeed, Peter Easterby’s wife made her husband promise to have her buried when she died alongside ‘the old boys’, a promise which was kept. I suspect Peter Easterby may have demanded that he too be laid to rest in the same plot of land.
Jack Morgan, Edward Courage’s head man for all the time he held a permit, is buried next to Spanish Steps, a honour I suspect Michael Tanner wishes could be prescribed to him. Read his book ‘My Friend Spanish Steps’ and you will understand my comment. I, too, would be honoured to lay beside the great horse. Or any of the many horses whose memory is as much in my heart as in my head.
Monty’s Pass is buried in the garden of Jimmy Mangan and Norton’s Coin in the garden of Sirrell Griffiths, no doubt laid to rest close at hand as their devoted carers could not face having them anywhere else. I dare say there are hundreds of other racehorses buried similarly, hopefully with a grave-marker and an inscription documenting their triumphs. Not that a horse need have won golden trophies to be worth deserving of a home burial. Bush Guide who took part in the 1984 Grand National, is buried in the front paddock of Val Jackson’s, who rode him at Aintree, home. He died on Christmas Day at the age of 24. In Chris Pitt’s wonderful book, perhaps my favourite racing book, ‘Down To The Beaten’, Val Jackson is quoted as saying. “I’ll be buried next to him. That’s what I want, to be buried next to the horse.” 
When Animal Rising make their accusations, they lay heavy insults not only on the sport but on animal-loving people who would drain oceans or walk on fire in the cause of the welfare of their horses. Could we, as a sport, do more. Of course. There is always more that could be done. But what must be remembered, it is because of horse racing that veterinary procedures are as advanced as they are, with advances in treating currently untreatable diseases happening year-on-year. Yes, throwing buckets of water over the winner of the Grand National on a cold day is nothing more than virtue-signalling, but the welfare of the horse is paramount in every stable in the land.
The sport must, though, accept that it has a duty to support all equine charities and strive to raise as much funds as those charities require to rescue any ex-racehorse failed by the people charged with caring for them and to retrain ex-racehorses for a long-lived life away from the racecourse. There should be dedicated race-days throughout the year to raising funds, and for the Grand National, and perhaps the Epsom Derby and Royal Ascot, used for this purpose.
Racing people care deeply about the horses in their care and we need to shout about it more loudly than Animal Rising shout its insults and misinformation.

​The death of Shishkin last weekend has left a mark. Watching a recording of the Punchestown Gold Cup yesterday evening, the first thought that came into my head was that Shishkin should have been there. It was not that his absence left Fastorslow a lucky recipient of his Nicky Henderson’s tragic loss, just that fate can choose to be so damn mercurial and unkind at times.
In terms of British steeplechasers, Shishkin was important, even if he was rising to the veteran stage as he was one of the very few top-class horses we had in this country. Nicky Henderson does not have a ready replacement and I doubt if Paul Nicholls has a horse in his stable that will be challenging the Irish for honours in the Gold Cup next season. He may have become a little eccentric as he grew older but Shishkin was, perhaps, the best chaser in Britain and his loss will be keenly felt, not only at Seven Barrows but throughout the no doubt coming barren years for British trainers in Grade 1 chases.
For a horse to lose his life in its own stable is infrequent, yet in recent weeks two top-class horses have suffered that fate, with John Quinn’s Highfield Princess also dying after being cast in her stable. Usually, a horse that rolls completely over in its stable so that its hooves strike the stable wall, can get enough purchase to free itself. The accident to Shishkin must have happened after the staff had gone home, otherwise his predicament would have been heard and someone would have quickly fetched a rope and two people would have heaved the horse gently away from the wall. Some horses will just accept their plight and if not found in time will die of suffocation as the lungs of a horse are compromised when it lies down for too length of time. It is why you will often see a horse dozing standing-up. They will sleep lying down but not for long periods.
The horses who do themselves damage while cast are those that panic and I can only assume this was the case with Shishkin, his plight only recognised too late to save him from the self-inflicted injury that caused his demise.
No one should downplay this tragedy or accuse the people who worked with and around Shishkin of not caring, of carrying on with their lives as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. Henderson’s staff will be heartbroken. Jaden Lee, the employee fortunate to care for both Shishkin and Constitution Hill, will be bereft. He loved Shishkin and like hundreds like him, he lived for the horses in his care. He will never get fully over the loss of a horse who will forever reside in that special place in the heart for those who are no longer there to love.
I can guarantee that if a journalist asks Nicky Henderson to remember Shishkin next season tears will form in his eyes and his voice will tremble. Nicky Henderson is a softie; he cares deeply for the horses in his care. If anyone watched the video of Barry Geraghty riding Sprinter Sacre on the Seven Barrows gallops before this year’s Cheltenham Festival and on returning to the stables Nicky Henderson greeting his greatest-ever horse with the words, “Welcome, old friend,” will know that his passion for his horses exceeds his passion for the sport.
Life always goes on as it must, yet that does not infer that the heart beats the same as before. Tragedy leaves scars and the stable in which Shishkin met his fate will forever be associated with his name.
One aspect of a horse dying in its stable that is never talked about, and I assume Shishkin was attended-to in his stable as if he was too injured to be saved, he would have been too immobilised to be sedated to get him to an equine hospital, is the ugliness of removing a half-ton horse through the confines of a stable doorway. To have to imagine, let alone watch, a horse you loved and cared-for, pulled by chains or rope onto a knacker-wagon is the stuff of nightmares, far worse, I believe, than the actual euthanizing of the horse.
There is nothing as numbingly sad as a horse that you would empty your bank account to save but for whom the vets offer no hope. Life is not a box of chocolates; at times, life is a bastard!