After Bob Barker died last year, I read a story about how in 2013 the old icon of the game show business had paid a substantial sum—$880,000—to rescue three elephants from the Toronto Zoo and spirit them off to a sanctuary in California. That got me to wondering.  Given how long elephants can live, I might well have encountered one of those elephants years ago—and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. 

I was a policeman on the Metro Toronto Police Mounted Unit, a new man at the stable, when one day a more senior officer suggested that I take out one of the horses that needed some exercise.  He looked at the other two officers present and after some knowing glances back and forth a consensus seemed to be reached. “Take old Glenspey,” he said. “She hasn’t been out for a few days—and take her down to Riverdale Park so you can give her a bit of a run.” 

“Sounds good to me,” I replied as I gathered up my grooming kit and headed for the mare’s stall.

A walk to the park

I got old Glenspey saddled up and led her out to the yard. Only as I swung up onto her back did I notice that all three men had come to the doorway to see me off, a gesture that seemed especially civil of them.  “See you around 3 o’clock!” one of them shouted as I guided the mare out to the street.

“He must be mistaken,” I thought to myself. It was only 1:30 and my shift wasn’t over until 4:30.

I could see why Glenspey spent so much time standing in the stable. The old mare seemed devoid of energy and ambition. I had to constantly bang away at her sides to get her to trudge along at a walk. It took about an hour to cover the short distance to the park. Every time she spied a traffic light about to change, she’d stop on her own. And it would take a heroic effort on my part to get her moving again. “So that’s what those buggers were up to,” I thought to myself, “They were having a little joke on me.”

When Glenspey and I finally reached Riverdale Park, we sidled downhill toward the center of the zoo, near the compounds that held the larger animals. A sizable crowd had gathered there. I reined in the old horse, digging out my memo book to start making some entries. I had only sat there for a few minutes when I began to feel some quivering through my saddle… the old horse had begun to shiver and was moving her weight from one foot to another.

Glenspey’s old nemesis

Suddenly, she threw her head up in the air and began listening expectantly, her ears rotating around like hairy radar antennas. She snorted loudly once or twice and was answered by a thunderous trumpeting call behind us.

Glenspey and I swung our heads back at the same time and were startled by the sight of a huge elephant hurtling itself toward us. Bugling loudly, the creature had a murderous look in his eyes as he charged, stiff legged, toward us. His enormous trunk was coiled above his head, ready to slap down anything or anybody that got in his way.

There was a fence between us, of course, but who knew if it could contain the giant pachyderm? The old mare was not going to wait to find out. She decided it was time to head home, and did not wait for me to agree. She sprinted away as I hung on for dear life.

I had my hands full, but not with the reins—they were still drooped over Glenspey’s withers. I held the pommel of the saddle in a death grip with one hand and clutched my memo book in the other. The old girl was on automatic pilot, steadily picking up speed as the crowd parted, and the peanut vendors and balloon salesmen dove for cover.

As we had exited the zoo grounds, I somehow managed to tuck my memo book into my belt and lean forward to catch hold of the reins. When we made it to the soft grass of the park, I hauled back as hard as I could and shouted “whoa!” several times. But Glenspey motored on undeterred—snorting, farting and launching divots of turf from her oversized hooves.

A fast ride home

She was still going full tilt as we left the park and hit Broadview Avenue. By now I had the reins in both hands, but our path and pace still weren’t up for discussion. She thundered on, sparks flying as her shoes hit the pavement. “Whoa horse! Whoa horse! C’mon horse, whoa!” I shouted to no avail.

There was one brief respite when the old girl saw a red light at an intersection and screeched to a halt. Even then she fidgeted on the spot impatiently. When the light turned to green, she again took the bit in her mouth and off we went. We flew on in the same fashion through several more intersections—the lights were green—with pedestrians having the good sense to get out of the way.

Finally, we approached the stable, with Glenspey maintaining a full canter until she slid to a stop directly in front of the aisleway.

The constables I had left behind earlier were now nonchalantly leaning over the lower half of the Dutch doors. Smirking, one consulted his watch: “2:45. I believe that’s a record.”

With that they all started laughing hysterically. They hadn’t bothered to tell me that Glenspey and the elephant hated each other and that whenever the elephant started trumpeting, the old mare would become so agitated that she would make a beeline for the stable and nothing in God’s world would stop her.

An open question

Of course, I wasn’t the first to be humbled by Glenspey, and I made sure I wasn’t the last. Whenever we all had had enough of a new recruit’s bravado, we decided that a trip to the zoo was in order.

So was old Glenspey’s nemesis one of the elephants that Bob Barker liberated all those years ago? I’m still researching that question, and I may never find out. But I’d like to think so.

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