My First Registered Quarter Horse: King Joe Doc
When I was 17, a fellow I knew had a coming two-year-old, double-bred King P234 colt, that he called Doc. His sire was a pretty obscure son of King, and his dam was much the same (pretty obscure). He was one of the reddest sorrel colts I had ever seen. Doc had been ridden a little bit, but his owner was such a big guy, he didn’t really want to get on him much. I had just gone to work for Dr. W. H. “Dub” Worrell, who was the first president of the National Cutting Horse Association. Doc’s owner saw a real opportunity to get his colt in with some real cuttin’ horse people, so he gave him to me. Dr. Worrell let me move the horse to his house in Houston and stable him with his horses, and he promised to help me break him. Later, Dub said that he could have given me a raise if he hadn’t had to feed both me and my horse. My mom and dad knew nothing about my horse deal, or they would have realized that was the main reason I dropped out of college: to earn enough money to take care of him. Here, I should mention that the owner contributed not one penny to Doc’s upkeep. I was so gullible and horse crazy I didn’t even realize I was being used, but that’s okay, because it all worked out in the end. Since the horse needed to belong to me for Dub to let me keep him there, the owner gave me the Breeder’s Certificate and I registered him in my name.
Preceeding pages: “Western Preview” by Ruth Schneider. Western Horseman Magazine, August, 1964. Article features Pat Parish as a trendsetter in western style.
I spent every spare minute at Dub’s riding Doc. After leaving his busy dental practice every day, Dub would saddle his mare, Banjo Eyes, and ride. And I would be right beside him soaking up horse talk. I had never owned a really good horse, and even though I’d had horses since I was six, no one had ever really taught me the right way to do anything. My grandfather and my father had owned horses during their lives, but certainly could not be called horsemen. A horse was just a means to an end that ate grass better suited to cattle grazing. They had sort of tossed me a pair of reins, and I climbed on and rode any horse I was allowed to get on—and some I wasn’t. At that time, Edgar Brown, a wealthy oil man, owned a large place just west of Dub’s house. PatsHorseTales.com
13
