*MOMENT, A MILLION DOLLARS AND A MILLION MILES AWAY FROM HOME.
(as told by Peter Claussen, Howard Kale, and Others, and written with some poetic license by Bob Davis in 1984)
It was May, Spring had come early in the troubled land of Bulgaria. It was 1977, and getting through security at Sofia had been almost impossible with interminable questions and continued looks of distrust. The taxi nosed Southward over terribly bumpy, wet roads. A lonely American, Howard Kale sat in the back seat periodically trying to communicate with the driver of the worn out automobile probably made in Eastern Europe 10 or 12 years before. The Automobile often slowed to a stop at the entrance to each little town, and then continued carefully weaving in and out of a profusion of trucks, carts, and wagons that created a constantly moving maze of vehicles and humanity. Howard Kale was intent. Several years ago during a trip to Europe, he had first begun to investigate the beauty and versatility of the Russian Arabian. The Russian Arabian, a special strain of purebred, had been developed at the Tersk stud in Russia over a period of the last 50 years, but could not be currently registered in the United States. Lately, he had been trying to clear the way with the American Arabian Horse Registry to accept Russian bred horses in the American Stud Book, and it looked as if they would be accepted. Now he was looking for a special Stallion. He was not here by chance. Located somewhere up ahead, maybe several hundred miles away was a gray stallion born in 1969 named *Moment, a son of the immortal Russian Stallion *Salon and the beautiful mare Malpia. Kale stretched his 6 foot 4 inch frame and shifted noticeably to gain a little comfort.
Earlier that year Howard Kale had been visiting at the Tersk Stud in Stravopol, Russia, and it was not hard to notice a special group of fine young horses located there sired by the former Chief Herd Sire at Tersk, *Salon. Athletic, typey, and beautiful, they were consistently setting records at the Race Track, and excelling in a wide range of equestrian activities. So much so, that the renowned Director Ponomarov had already chosen several sons, *Moment and *Muscat, to follow in the grand stallion's footsteps. An inquiry about the whereabouts of *Moment had received a terse reply typical of the Iron Curtain countries of the late 1970's. "He has been sold to Bulgaria, and we are not sure where he is now located, maybe near Shumen. The Bulgarians will not welcome your visit, you know. He is not for sale." Howard Kale went to Bulgaria anyway. He remembers, "Soon after we left Sofia it grew dark, and we ended up driving all night. There was an old radio bolted to the bottom of the dash board, and the driver spent a great deal of time trying to make his prized possession work. After what seemed forever, he tuned in Radio Free Europe. As we bumped along, I remember feeling very good that I once again could get the news, a little familiar music, and understand every word." They arrived at Shumen at first light. The sleepy driver began to ask passers by about the whereabouts of the farm. He nodded knowingly, and in 20 minutes they were poised by the main entrance. A surprised farm manager greeted them. "Rodopaimpex did not advise you of my visit?" Kale asked in poor, neglected high school Spanish. "No, I am surprised." The Manager tried to say. Kale looked at *Moment and the other Arabians there. He was very impressed with the stallion. The day was warmed by the inevitable Vodka produced right after breakfast. "All night in a taxi with no sleep, and now Vodka." Kale thought. "I'd better be careful or I won't remember seeing the horses." Later in 1977, Howard Kale would import *Muscat a younger, full brother of *Moment into the United States, and *Muscat would become the United States National Champion Stallion. But, for now, *Moment would have to wait. At least he had definitely been located. Yes, he was a 200 mile cab ride from Sofia each way.
THE SECOND QUEST
*Moment had been sent to Bulgaria for the first time when he was three years old. But late in 1977, soon after Kale's long cab ride, *Moment was returned to Tersk because the diligent Kale had persuaded the Russians to sell *Muscat for importation to the United States, and he was to take the place of *Muscat as Chief Herd Sire at Tersk. Now it was the summer of 1982 and time for the annual Prodintorg Arabian Auction at Tersk. As the stallion parade began, another American, Peter Claussen suddenly realized that *Moment was missing from the impressive group of stallions paraded before the eager visitors. A quick inquiry revealed that *Moment was once again in Bulgaria, probably at a place called Ruse, in the Northern part of the country near the Romania Border. Peter Claussen had often thought of owning *Moment, but he also remembered Howard Kale's fruitless mission. Should he attempt the impossible?
Peter Claussen arrived in Varna, Bulgaria without a valid Visa and with no real plan in mind for finding *Moment. He had weighed the risks carefully and had decided that he would just somehow solve the inevitable problems as they arose and find *Moment at any cost. He recalls that one of the uniformed men at the airport had hand written him a Visa for a 20 Dollar Bill. Then, Visa in hand, he immediately began to cast about for a Bulgarian interpreter who might help him find his way. Bulgaria had long been a backwater of the Soviet satellites and very distrustful of Americans; So, it was not surprising that it took four days, miles of Red Tape, an impossible train ride, and about an hour in a taxi before Claussen arrived at the small country town of Ruse in Bulgaria. Accompanying him was an interpreter whom he had managed to find through the government tourist agency. The slight man wore a funny suit and snap brim hat and barely spoke English. Periodically, he would scribble notes on a little pad that he kept secure in an inside coat pocket. "This guy may be KGB," Claussen thought "Oh well, he might be able to open a few doors." He felt good in spite of his ordeal of the last few days. Anyway, he was safely in the hotel, and tomorrow he would see *Moment.
Claussen was up with the sun the next morning. As he looked out over the Danube River from his hotel room a light rain began to fall. "No hot water again, and the taxi is late. "He thought as he made his way down the stairs. " But nothing can ruin this day." After a short taxi ride, he was greeted by the farm manager. An amiable man, he was quick to reply that there were no Arabian Horses there. "Maybe," He said, "There are some in Shumen. Would you like me to make a few calls?" The day passed slowly as the now pouring rain made it more difficult to do anything other than damply wait for the phone system to work. In the interest of better relations between Bulgaria and the United States, they had started drinking Cognac at 9:00 in the morning, and had switched to vodka sometime during the day. Clausen's companion refrained as if on duty. By late afternoon, the phones were still not working. The slightly inebriated farm manager made one last attempt at calling a taxi, but soon gave that up as well. Peter Claussen walked dejectedly if not a little wobbly with his interpreter down to the Ruse Highway. There they hailed a bus back to town. Once at the hotel, Claussen took another quick cold shower, dressed, and kicked back a little to reflect on the day. "One good thing" He thought. "The farm manager has just read in a Bulgarian Newspaper about the one million dollar sale of the Russian Stallion *Pesniar to a group of Americans. He was impressed." Claussen reflected for a moment. " Maybe its just a matter of money. Maybe that will help me buy *Moment." He said out loud to nobody.
After several loud knocks, the interpreter suddenly burst into the room. He looked visibly excited and worried. "We have received word. We cannot go on. We must return immediately!" Peter Claussen gathered himself, fixed the little man's eyes with a level gaze, and quietly shouted "I am going to see *Moment with or without you. Call your boss and tell him we are going!" The shaken man disappeared, and as suddenly seemed to reappear. "We can continue for a price, paid in U.S. dollars in advance," He said.
The next morning before daylight they began their hour long walk to the train station. Every few minutes they could hear distant roosters crowing. Each one seemed a little more urgent as daylight came closer. "There is an old story here that claims that Roosters call to hurry the dawn." His companion said. They walked on without another word. There were no taxi's at this hour. Peter Claussen couldn't help thinking that the 5 hour train ride to Shumen was going to feel very good after this hike. At least it wasn't still raining.
As Peter Claussen remembers that train ride, one primary thing stands out in his memory to this day, the bathroom on the train. It was a very small cubicle with nothing more than a basic fixture emptying on to the track below. The battered door was opened and closed incessantly as a steady stream of users filed constantly in and out. Once inside, he remembers, there was no door lock, no toilet seat, paper, or running water, and the fixture although originally probably white was never to return to that state again. Obviously, the locals riding the train seemed to have no problem with it's lack of basic amenities. "Reminds me of the phone system. I guess you can get used to anything" He sniffed.
After an extended taxi ride, Peter Claussen (and now his suspected secret agent companion) could see the main buildings of the giant farm at Shumen through the muddy side windows. As the automobile pulled to a stop, a very small sign displayed the very important sounding name of PJK Vassil Kolarov. The large collective farm consisted of about 15,000 acres, and was home to a wide collection of different farm animals including horses, cattle, sheep, and pigs. After some thought, the farm manager grudgingly admitted that the Arabian Horses were there. He acted very hostile in contrast to Clausen's new found manager friend at Ruse. Peter Claussen remembers." I really wasn't prepared for the cold reception at the farm in Shumen. The manager confirmed that *Moment was there, but I was afraid to show interest or ask to see him for fear that he would end our discussion. So, I carefully asked him if there were any *Moment offspring that I could see. His answer rocked me back on my heels. He told me that there was only one there, a Half Arabian Gelding that was used to pull a milk wagon in the dairy barn. He then advised me that he could not show me any horses without permission from the capital at Sofia."
"I don't really want to see *Moment," Claussen intoned with feigned conviction. The unfriendly farm manager had just advised him that after many hours of trying to reach Sofia by phone he had finally been successful. "You are not to see horses!" He said. "I would just like a few contacts, Names, telephone, and Telex numbers. You know, things like that." "Very well," He said. "I suppose I can give you a name or two, But nothing else!"
Peter Claussen eased into his airline seat. "No reason to get impatient," He told himself. The plane leaving Bulgaria was almost 3 hours late, but there were going to be over 24 hours more of flight before he would touch down in his native Spokane, Washington. "Probably fortuitous, the delay. I needed every minute." He had been grilled by the Bulgarian security police for nearly 2 hours at the airport, and as luck would have it, nearly all of the names and addresses that he had been given in Shumen had been confiscated. He had managed to save one, and only one, name and Telex number written on a scrap of paper stuffed in his pocket. The interpreter in the funny hat and suit had managed to disappear right in the middle of the interrogation without saying good by. Claussen felt almost like a blood brother after their many adventures over the past few weeks. Obviously, the feeling was not reciprocated. Apparently, the hardy Bulgarians had become accustomed to the raw condition of things and did not think that a few hardships called for bonding with a strange American searching for a horse.
As the airplane lifted off and the ground began to fade in the distance, everything began to seem unreal. "All this and only one name to show for it," He thought. "But it only takes one, if it's the right one!" Suddenly, he smiled as he remembered the story that had just been related to him at Shumen about that big tall American who had come there a few years ago in a taxi to buy *Moment. "We convinced him that the Stallion was not for sale," the farm manager had said with obvious satisfaction.
There on the little scrap of paper were the words: Valkah Valkanof, Rodopaimpex, Sofia (and a Telex number). Peter Claussen sat with his family around the kitchen table in Spokane recounting his last three weeks away from home. The lonely name didn't seem like a lot to show for his trip, but as they sat and talked late into the evening, a plan slowly began to take place. "We will have to blitz this man Valkanof," He said. "Valkah Valkanof of Rodopaimpex in Sofia, Bulgaria will never be the same." The next morning the first Telex message was sent to Sofia. It read "Would like to discuss sale of Arabian Horses. Please advise when I can arrive in Sofia." After a few days a Telex came in reply "Can offer several colts by Polish bred Stallion Zlotnik. We do not dispose of any foals from the breed *Moment." Sensing an opening a second Telex was quickly sent requesting a meeting date. Then no reply from Bulgaria. As the days went on Claussen sent more and more Telexes. One after another, one hundred in all were directed to Valkah Valkanof until the long awaited reply was received. "Happy to receive you at Rodopaimpex November 29," It said simply. He began to prepare for trip number 2.
Peter Claussen arrived in Sofia on schedule. As he entered the terminal, he began to look for a friendly face, but could find no one looking for him. He periodically raised a picture of a horse as if to say " I'm here!" But, no one seemed to noticed. After several anxious moments, he noticed a man in a snapped brim hat leaning against the wall watching passengers entering and leaving the terminal. The man looked over and nodded. "Are you with Rodopaimpex?" "No, but I will get you a taxi," He said in perfect English. Finally arriving at Rodopaimpex, he sat around a table with several Bulgarian officials including Valkah Valkanof and an interpreter. They talked about Arabian horses, and the conversation kept drifting to the Polish Stallion Zlotnik. Feeling that the time was not right, Claussen was careful to steer the conversation away from *Moment. Finally one of the officials commented with finality, "We will go to Shumen by train to see horses." Claussen winced thinking of the last ride on a Bulgarian train. He leaned forward and asked, "Could we take a plane to Shumen?" "Sorry," the official said. "No plane. Technical difficulties."
They boarded what the official called the express train to Shumen. The accommodations on this train were much better than before with the more typical old style European compartments, where the seats on each side faced each other. As the train pulled away from the station, an old lady wrinkled and tanned from hard work and old age began to drag one parcel after another into the compartment. She wore homespun clothing and a scarf tied tightly around her head. Vainly, she attempted to shove and squeeze her many bags, boxes, and sacks into the overhead. A uniformed officer in the compartment ceased talking to a companion, stubbed out a cigarette, and began to help her heft her parcels into the available spaces. As he pushed a sack over his head, a thick red syrup began to spill out of a jug in the bag. Growing steadily, the trickle suddenly became a torrent until the helpful soldiers uniform was completely soaked. As he began to realize what had happened, he became more and more angry until finally he began to yell at the poor old woman. Throwing up his hands, he rushed out of the door with his friends, and disappeared down the corridor. The old lady looked over at Claussen who by now was riveted on the incident. Her eyes were twinkling, and there was barely an imperceptible smile on her lips. The old lady dozed constantly for several hours. Then, she awoke with a start and reached for one of her many bags. She rummaged around and extracted a large crusted loaf of bread, carefully cut a generous piece, dipped her finger into a jar of fruit preserves, wiped the preserves on the bread, and with a toothless smile passed it to Peter Claussen.
This time the farm manager at Shumen was friendly, as evidenced by the fact that Claussen was offered Cognac when he arrived early the next morning. Vowing to himself that he would not repeat the ritual at Ruse, he politely took a few sips, and began to size up the manager. "What organization do you represent?" the manager asked. "No organization." He replied. The farm manager eyed him quizzically. He began to explain that in the United States individuals could own property and horses, and could buy and sell at will. The manager shrugged as if in disbelief, "Strange, no organization!" He turned and gave the order to his assistant to start parading horses for this American, Claussen.
Suddenly *Moment was there. Claussen recalls. "I still get chills when I remember seeing him in that courtyard. They removed his halter to let him run free. Before that time, I had only seen him restrained on a lead. It seemed as if he were floating over the ground as he trotted and strutted on that grand morning in Shumen. I thought to myself that I must get that horse at any price, but I still did not know how I would do it."
"Which fillies would you like?" Claussen put on an amiable poker face. "There are two of your Polish bred Zlotnik fillies that I might take, but I really am interested in the Stallion *Moment!" The room suddenly went quiet. The farm manager began to speak measurably through the interpreter, "*Moment is not for sale. There is no price. We did not buy him to resell him. Besides, the Tersk Stud in Russia is negotiating for him at this time." Clausen's mind began to race. "All I have to do is outbid the Russians," He thought. "I will buy you 20 or 30 excellent mares from European Studs. It will put your breeding program ahead many years." Interest flickered across the Manager's face as he began to speak rapidly to the representative from Rodopaimpex. They were now all talking at once. Who was this strange American with no company who could make this kind of offer? "We will have to run this through channels." He said.
Claussen looked around his hotel room. "Nicer place than before, and hot water for the first time", He thought. He looked out the window over the city of Sofia, and was surprised to see Christmas decorations in the streets. "I didn't know that the Bulgarians were allowed to celebrate Christmas." He mused to himself about his chances on the morrow with Rodopaimpex. During the train ride back he had been questioned discretely about his ability to offer a satisfactory amount for the horses. In the morning he was to meet again with his hosts, and he felt that it would be his last chance to bargain for *Moment.
They talked and argued incessantly among themselves while Peter Claussen sat placidly waiting for the interpreter to address him in English. Finally the talking ceased, and the interpreter said simply, "How many do you want to buy?" "I don't want to buy any unless I can buy *Moment!" Claussen continued, "Yesterday on the train we discussed American Dollars as payment. He scribbled an amount on a scrap of paper and passed it to the attentive interpreter. I am prepared to pay this amount for *Moment and the two fillies even though I may not be able to get the fillies registered in the United States!" The interpreter repeated the offer to the men seated around the table. They looked at each other as if in disbelief, and began talking again with excited gestures. Finally, they began to fold their belongings. As each of the men arose to shake hands and bid farewell there was a faint smile on every face. "We will advise you in several days by Telex of our decision. We are happy that you like our Zlotnik fillies." They filed out one by one and left Peter Claussen standing alone in the room.
Events began to unfold with break neck speed considering the usually plodding Bulgarians. The first Telex came on December 8. It said simply, "Please confirm by return Telex your offer to buy the Stallion *Moment and the two Zlotnik Fillies, Zambesi and Zapolia. Upon receipt, Rodopaimpex will advise within one month of interest." The return message was sent immediately, and the waiting began. True to their word, a reply was received from Sofia on January 7. "Will accept offer for the three horses subject to obtaining export license, veterinarian certificate, and letter of credit." Peter Claussen replied, "Received Telex of January 7. Money wired to Amsterdam Bank that will forward letter of credit to you in next 10 days. Prefer March 1 delivery." Claussen remembers that the next few weeks seemed like forever. First, the Bulgarians insisted that the money be transferred to the Chase Manhattan bank in New York, and then they began to haggle over when the horses would be delivered. A final telex was received. "You may pick up horses in Dragoman on April 7. Contract must be signed in Sofia on March 30."
The now familiar people sat around the table in Sofia. Apparently a communist party official was now needed for the signing, because one new face had been added. Claussen perused the contract that had been furnished in Bulgarian as well as English. Everyone seemed a little too serious. "Perhaps it is the Government Official." Claussen reasoned. He leaned forward and said with feigned seriousness, "I notice that contract disputes must be settled in Sofia, Bulgaria. I would like to change that clause to read Spokane, Washington." There were no smiles. "Impossible!", one man said. Clausen's attempt at levity had gone unnoticed.
Peter Claussen and his driver were being processed by Yugoslavian security at the Austrian border. They had traveled from Amsterdam through Holland, Germany, and Austria in the 6 horse van, and would soon be on the last 1500 mile leg of the journey through the length of Yugoslavia. Then of course there was the return trip. The border guards waived them on, and the truck lurched into Yugoslavia. As they reached the first little town a few miles down the road, traffic slowed to a snails pace. "We will never get there." He thought. "If we are late, they may return *Moment to Shumen!" The possibility continued to nag him as they slowly made their way.
After days of poor roads and interminable delays, they finally stopped for the night about 100 miles from the Bulgarian border in the little town of Nis. The next morning they arose with the dawn. Getting use to no hot water by now, Claussen hurriedly bathed and dressed. Today was the day, and it was important to be at the border on schedule. As they walked to the truck, he noticed several decrepit Police cars parked haphazardly in front of the local Police Station. Unthinking, he raised his camera, and snapped a picture of the amusing scene. Before he could take two more steps he was grabbed from behind by two men who literally dragged him to the Police Station for interrogation. Claussen remembers," No one spoke English. They took my Passport, and were very hostile acting as if they were going to lock me up. I couldn't believe that I had done such a stupid thing. No amount of explanation seemed to help. I even offered them my camera if they would let me go. Suddenly, I had an image of myself in jail trying vainly to contact someone on those terrible telephones." Finally in exasperation he found several horse pictures, and began to explain again about his reason for being in Nis. All the while, he kept trying to convince the stubborn policemen to let them continue their trip. The Chief of Police, finally began nodding and gesturing impatiently. He escorted them to the truck without another word, and watched suspiciously as the horse van rumbled out of town toward Bulgaria and *Moment. "Dumb, dumb!", Claussen muttered as he sank back into his seat.
"As we crossed the border, we noticed a large group of people gathered around an old beaten up van. Soon, we could see that they were expectantly waiting for us. The only thing missing was a band. There were 24 officials in all. One wore a brightly colored sash across his chest laced profusely with medals and ribbons. Everyone was in a festive mood, and it did not take long for us to start feeling the same way." Claussen approached a small folding table that they had set up for the occasion. There he found the inevitable Cognac and a stack of official looking papers all written in Bulgarian. "I'll sign these and get out of here quickly," he thought. But it was not to be. Enjoying the moment, the officials continued to talk and toast each other as if they had forgotten the reason for the celebration. "*Moment!" Claussen shouted over the din, "*Moment! I came to get *Moment!"
Suddenly, under that bright blue sky of spring, *Moment appeared coming out of the battered van. He was being led by his trainer from Shumen. The trainer was wearing a military uniform with a watch cap cocked off to the side. Claussen stood and stared at the beautiful gray stallion. Tears began to slowly trickle down his cheeks. He walked over and put his arms around *Moment's neck. Turning to the trainer he asked, "Is he broke to ride?" The trainer displayed a toothless grin. "Yes, I love to ride that horse." It did not matter that when *Moment arrived in Spokane, he was found to be barely green broke.
The American Adventure
The 1980's had dealt kindly with the grand old Stallion, *Moment. Safely and lovingly he had been housed at Spokane, and carefully bred to mares of note throughout the United States. The economy had not been so good to the horse industry, and an oppressive new federal tax code had dealt the industry a near fatal blow. Unlike Europe where the governments maintain federally funded studs, the United States had always used tax incentives to secure the continuing excellence of livestock in America. But, the horse industry like so many other traditional industries was not immune to the need to raise more taxes for other programs considered to be more socially appropriate.
As the 1990's began, Peter Claussen decided to sell a portion of his property, and later *Moment and several horses to Art and Rose Taylor who usually spent the greater part of each year on the island of Maui, Hawaii. Lovers of Arabian Horses and the lush Hawaiian Islands, they would appropriately name their new facility RA Aloha Arabians. The breeding facility was now at Aloha, and it became impossible for Claussen to keep *Moment without the appropriate facilities. They met in his front yard to finalize the arrangements for *Moment. As Peter Claussen thought about giving up possession of the grand old stallion, once again tears trickled slowly down his cheeks. He felt that the grand old stallion would be living right next door.
The Clausen's had felt that this arrangement was ideal since *Moment would be very close to them. However, much to their disappointment, it was not to be. The new managers at Aloha had always been partial to the Polish strain of Arabians rather than Russian, and so, began to discuss what might have earlier been considered unthinkable. Pat Mooney, the Aloha Manager, placed a call to Sharon Davis and began to speak, "Sharon, we have decided that we are going to specialize in Polish Arabians. *Moment and our other straight Russian Horses just don't fit in the program. It really is not fair to *Moment to keep him here because he is a very special horse. I really think he should be placed at a farm like yours that specializes in Russian Arabians." Sharon sat back in her chair. She could not believe that *Moment was available.
Bob and Sharon Davis, owners of Morning Glory Arabians, entered the restaurant and waited to be seated at a no smoking table. "What's the occasion?" "Oh, nothing" Sharon said. "I just thought that it would be nice to have a romantic dinner. Just the two of us." A flicker of suspicion crossed his face. He settled comfortably into his chair and looked across the table at his wife. "Pat Mooney of RA Aloha called today." "Oh?" "She says that *Moment is for sale." "That's surprising." "She thinks that we should buy him. I have always wanted him, and we do need him for our Russian breeding program." "What about our other two Russian Stallions, *Tamerlan and *Monokl?" "They are Arax horses and *Moment is from the Naseem line." " Well, It would be nice, but I don't think that we need another stallion. I remember reading a story about him several years ago. Someone told me that Peter Claussen took cash money in a suitcase to Bulgaria. I wonder how much they want for him?" "I don't know but I'll ask." " Look, you may want *Moment, but we don't need him. Let's don't get carried away." "No, of course not, let's don't get carried away." she said.
They settled into the car on their way to the West Palm Beach Airport. The farm, Morning Glory Arabians, had been located west of town in the Palm Beach Polo area about 5 years before. "Are you sure you don't want to go," He said. "You know I can't. We are expecting foals all week. Besides, you know how I feel about flying." They drove on in silence both absorbed in thought. Buying *Moment would be a big step as well as a major investment for the farm. "I kind of like their Stallion *Princip as well," he said. A flicker of suspicion crossed her face. "You're not thinking of buying him are you? Look, you may want *Princip, but we don't need him. Let's don't get carried away." "No, of course not. Let's don't get carried away." He said.
Sharon Davis ran for the phone expectantly. It was Bob. "You are now the proud owner of one of the most beautiful gray stallions in the United States!", he said. "He is magnificent. I can't wait for you to see him." " Good," she said. "I knew you would like him, but I've been sitting here all day worried about his age. He's 21 years old you know." "He's still a vigorous breeder. Besides, It's done . *Moment belongs to us." She leaned back in her chair with a smile. "You know, I have this feeling that *Moment has gone half way around the world, but he is only just now coming home." "I will be proud to have him for as long as he lives," he said.
Sharon thought for a moment about transportation. "Let's transport him immediately. I'll make arrangements for him on the next van East." There was a silence on the other end of the line. "Uh, there is one thing that I forgot to mention. We will need to transport 4 horses." "You didn't," She blurted. "I'm afraid that I did. You're also the proud owner of the Stallion *Princip, and two other straight Russian horses that I'm sure that you will really like when you see them." "You always do it. You always buy too many. I should know better than to trust you. Where are we going to put them?" "We'll find a place. Next time you need to come with me."
*Moment is still at Morning Glory Arabians, sire of many *Moment sons and daughters born at Morning Glory Arabians, and all over the world. His offspring are the past, present, and future. *Moment started his journey a million dollars and a million miles away from home, but now he is content and settled for life overseeing his band of brood mares and watching his heirs grow to maturity. "It was uncanny watching *Moment settle in with his band of mares. Do you think that the mares really knew that they were meant to be together?" "Of course not, horses don't know things like that." "But, remember they seemed as if they were always talking over the fence." "In Russian, Bulgarian or English," he asked?
*MOMENT IS NOW DECEASED. WHEN I AM ABLE, I WILL FINISH THE STORY. FOR NOW, I THANK GOODNESS THAT HE LIVES ON IN OUR YOUNGER STALLIONS AND MARES.