On Carriage Horses in Central Park

I would walk by those horse-drawn carriages as I frequented the Wollman ice-skating rink in Central Park as a child while my father played chess. They stood on 59th Street, across the street from the Plaza Hotel, lined up in a queue. I would also see them as I walked past the Pierre on 5th, the hotel where my school held fund-raisers. Walking through the park after school, I would often see those carriages chauffeuring a couple holding hands or a laughing group that was out on the town.

A city girl, I knew nothing else of horses other than what I observed about those lingering near Central Park. To me, those horse-drawn carriages with their coachmen in top hats and tails seemed romantic. I imagined them a part of the old idyllic pre-Soviet world my expatriate mother told me stories about, clattering over the cobblestones of city streets as she went shopping or taking her over the river and through the woods to and from boarding school. An avid reader, I imagined those carriages were much like the ones heroines of the 19th century European novels traveled in, on their way to experience adventure and intrigue. And I remember watching a Fred Astaire movie, where those carriages provided a romantic presence, particularly in a scene where their doors fly open and the singer dances in the park.

So, when I was a debutante at an expatriate East European ball, there was nothing I could have imagined I would enjoy more than to take a festive ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park, with a tuxedoed escort and me in my long white silky gown.

Years later, my preteen daughter, in the city for a summer ballet program, took a carriage ride through the park with her classmates. For her, the carriages carried no memories, such as they did for me. The ride was simply a novelty, a fairy tale come true, a memorable treat among the many Central Park had to offer. She was still young enough to delight in riding the carousel at the children’s zoo, to climb the Alice in Wonderland statue, then to wander over to the boathouse and embark on a perilous adventure, losing the oars in the park’s lake. I still have a photo of her and her classmates, posing in the drivers' seat of the carriage, its dapper young driver in a tophat standing in front, and all of them mugging for the camera.

But now, after we returned to live in the city, it seems to me that Cinderella’s coach has turned into a pumpkin, the horses into mice. And those coachmen seem -- not majestic guides to an enchanted evening --- or even drivers offering up a memorable treat -- but ordinary fellows in worn coats, determined to take their carriages out for a turn in order to make a buck.

Could it be that the city has changed in my absence, or is it me? The Cinderella story, I always thought of as metaphor for growing up, for viewing life no longer with youthful flights of fancy, but as it is.

When I see the horses nowadays about the city, they seem incongruous, out of place. A ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park in the springtime is one thing, but to see those horses standing near the curb in inclement weather or being driven through the rain, sleet and snow is another. And to see them on the very city streets, sharing the asphalt with traffic and the dodging cabs is yet another.

What a shock it is hearing again and again that yet another of those carriage horses had bolted and died in the streets. For me, at least, such incidents serve to epitomize the convergence of modern technology and these olden carriages, the clash of the contemporary city and what some call the “charming” and “quaint” reminders of 'Old New York.'

Yes, what some call “charming” and “quaint” reminders of "Old New York" do hark back to bygone and more tranquil days in the city when the animals were a form of transport, as the many bricked-over stable entrances in the city’s oldest buildings, particularly on the East Side, attest to. The clickety-click of their hooves echo back to the New York of Henry James and Edith Wharton. But the city has long since changed. To residents such as this one, their so-called “charm” has become tired, even cruel.

I chanced to walk by those horses on 59th Street on a cold and rainy Saturday. The daylight was already turning into an early dusk. The carriages looked shabby, not at all like the purveyors of privilege they seemed in my youth. A huge sign mounted on the carriages advertised their rates. Their drivers, calling out to tourists, seemed much like any other vendors hawking their wares in the city.

There were not many takers. The horses simply stood there, gentle, patiently waiting, docile, easily led. The carriage drivers, wearing dingy weather-proofed clothing over their overcoats, waited and waited for business. Theirs was a somewhat futile endeavor, given the darkness and the weather.

I took the occasion to linger and observe. Indeed, some of the animals seemed tired, haggard, like workhorses. I saw one of them take one step forward in line, following the lead of the carriage directly in front, only to be met with a threatening gesture from his driver. Not unlike a dog that has learned to cower, the horse immediately stepped back, with nary a neigh nor a whimper. I looked away.

Yet other animals seemed coddled. They were covered with blankets in the cold wet weather, treated more like trusty friends. One was fed from a store of carrots in a sack, was gently spoken to by name.

As I watched one or two of the vehicles finally take off with a rare customer in tow amid the rainy chill, I marveled at those stoic animals with blinders on, patiently plodding with that rhythmic clickety-click in their step, pulling their load. To me, they seemed a sad symbol of forbearance in a modern world somehow gone awry

The Story of a Coyote Named Pierre

Imagine my shock when I first heard about Pierre, the coyote that had been spotted in Central Park, in my own urban backyard -- in a place that seemed way too near.

After all, during my childhood summers in the more remote pine forests of the Catskills, the coyote was the beast I feared most. Back then, I was occasionally awakened by a distant eerie howl that echoed in the dark night. "Listen to that," my father, the wildlife lover, would observe with fascination. "A coyote." For me, a city girl, then about 7 or 8 -- who was already convinced that the Loch Ness Monster lived in the nearby lake -- that response was not reassuring. And his talk of bobcats in the area didn't help allay my trepidation.

Then came the day I was roused from my reading by an unspeakable noise -- a frantic yelping and a high-pitched, ear-piercing screeching, accompanied by howls of pain. I saw a mixed-breed mutt and a coyote engaged in a fierce fight in the broad daylight right on the newly mowed lawn. The animals reared up on their hind legs. Then the coyote dashed off into the forest, leaving the dog mauled. Its owner fired a fatal shot to get the dog out of his pain. I will always remember the starkness of the blast that reverberated in the silence of our country retreat.

However, as I looked at that recent newspaper photo of the coyote captured in Central Park -- tranquilized, strapped to a stretcher, with its paws hanging over, its pointy ears, its expression docile rather than fierce -- I felt pity rather than fear. The story of the plight of the lone animal as a terrified fugitive -- pursued by animal workers, police (not to mention a helicopter) -- dodging back and forth among my familiar childhood haunts: the Wollman Rink, the Great Lawn and the Mall, where he finally collapsed -- seemed incredible. And to many in the city, including myself, it was even heart-rending.

After all, the photo is cute; the creature seems harmless, looks much like a scruffy dog. "It's kind of neat," a friend said about the incident. "They should have left him alone," was another city-dweller's sentiment.

About the latter point of view, I wasn't too sure. So I asked Parks Commissioner Henry Stern what he thought.  "It's an extraordinary incident in the city's biological history," he said, echoing the general amazement and fascination of  New Yorkers at finding a wild animal in their midst. But he also talked about the incident tongue-in cheek, citing it as another one of the advantages of the city's leash law: "to save your dog from being eaten." He really wasn't kidding:

Indeed, there was a danger posed by Pierre, and we could not have left him there. According to the National Wildlife Foundation, coyotes have been known to attack small dogs and other small animals and even small children in urban centers all over the country; in recent years, the number of attacks have been  on the rise. The presence of Pierre, which seemed odd to New Yorkers, was but a reflection of what was happening all over the country.

While some species of wildlife have declined with development, coyotes -- much like Wily E. Coyote in the Roadrunner cartoon -- are extremely adaptable creatures.  Originally from the West, they have spread all over the country and even to the cities. In the state of New York, they have been migrating southward, showing up in recent years in the suburbs, such as Westchester, then The Bronx, and now, somehow, even in Central Park.

"We are afraid to let our pets out," one suburban homeowner said. Another, in Westport, Conn., said she fears for her child.

"There is a danger when an animal one admires from afar comes too close," said Richard Lattis, the President of the Wildlife Conservation Society. (Coyotes, after all, are natural predators; in their upstate New York woodland habitat, they kill fawns; traveling in packs, they attack deer.) "Fear causes people to look at predators in a certain way. The coyote," Mr. Lattis said, "had no chance in the city."

So it seemed. Coyotes, to say the least, are considered a nuisance, not an endangered species. From this standpoint alone, the fate of the Central Park coyote was becoming unfortunately all too clear.
Oh dear. Indeed, like many New Yorkers, I found myself beginning to fear for the coyote named Pierre.

But in what can only be described as a quintessential New York City story, the coyote has been given a permanent home. Mr. Lattis arranged to have the beast serve as the very point of the coyote exhibit, which tells how the animals have thrived, despite efforts to exterminate them. "Now he's a New Yorker," Mr. Lattis commented, not without a hint of civic pride.

"Lucky Pierre," he was named by Mr. Stern. "Lucky," I suppose, because he had been spared; "Pierre" because he was living in a cave in a fenced-in nature preserve right across from the elegant Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue. 

Soon, the coyote that won the hearts of city-dwellers will be making his debut. Having already undergone his physical at the Bronx Zoo, he is now under quarantine in Queens, getting acclimated, getting to know his coyote counterparts, preparing for this grand event. He will be stepping out at the Queens Zoo for his formal presentation to New York society. Well-rehearsed, I imagine, his silver and black fur glistening, Pierre will make his bow. Then New Yorkers will get the opportunity to see him happily ensconced in his new home, to wish him well, and to cheer.  Zoo officials now estimate that this will occur toward the end of May or in early June. 

I am a lover of happy endings, and am particularly delighted with the outcome of the story of Pierre. Nonetheless, as I now walk about the pathways of Central Park and admire the daffodils and even spot some violets, I find myself wondering about what other wild creature will next make its appearance there.

For some reason, I keep thinking of bobcats.

Carriage Horses

I would walk by them as I frequented the Wollman ice-skating rink as a child while my father played chess. They stood on 59th Street, across the street from the Plaza Hotel, lined up in a queue. I would also see them as I walked past the Pierre on 5th, the hotel where my school held fund-raisers. Walking though the park after school, I would often see those horse-drawn carriages chauffeuring a couple holding hands or a laughing group that was out on the town.
A city girl, I knew nothing else of horses other than what I observed about those lingering near Central Park. To me, those horse-drawn carriages with their coachmen in top hats and tails seemed romantic. I imagined them a part of the old idyllic pre-Soviet world my expatriate mother told me stories about, clattering over the cobblestones of city streets as she went shopping or taking her over the river and through the woods to and from boarding school. An avid reader, I imagined those carriages were much like the ones heroines of the 19th century European novels traveled in, on their way to experience adventure and intrigue. And I remember watching a Fred Astaire movie, where those carriages provided a romantic presence, particularly in a scene where their doors fly open and the singer dances in the park.
So, when I was a debutante at an expatriate East European ball, there was nothing I could have imagined I would enjoy more than to take a festive ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park, with a tuxedoed escort and me in my long white silky gown.
Years later, my preteen daughter, in the city for a summer ballet program, took a carriage ride through the park with her classmates. For her, the carriages carried no baggage or memories such as they did for me. The ride was simply a novelty, a fairy tale come true, a memorable treat among the many Central Park had to offer. She was still young enough to delight in riding the carousel at the children’s zoo, to climb the Alice in Wonderland statue, then to wander over to the boathouse and embark on a perilous adventure, losing the oars in the park’s lake. I still have a photo of her, standing in front of the carriage, its driver grinning, and she, mugging for the camera.
But now, after we recently returned to live in the city, it seems to me that Cinderella’s coach has turned into a pumpkin, the horses into mice. And those coachmen seem -- not majestic guides to an enchanted evening --- or even drivers offering up a memorable treat -- but ordinary fellows in worn coats, determined to take their carriages out for a turn in order to make a buck.
Could it be that the city has changed in my absence, or is it me? The Cinderella story, I always thought of as metaphor for growing up, for viewing life no longer with youthful flights of fancy, but as it is.
When I see the horses nowadays about the city, they seem incongruous, out of place. A ride in a horse-drawn carriage though the park in the springtime is one thing, but to see those horses standing near the curb in January’s inclement weather or being driven through the rain, sleet and snow is another. And to see them on the very city streets, sharing the asphalt with traffic and the dodging cabs is yet another.
But what a shock it was hearing about one of those carriage horses falling dead in the cold wet street. On a rainy day, the story said, the horse was electrocuted after stepping on a Con Edison manhole cover. The frayed electrical wires beneath had been corroded by salt that had been spread on the streets.. The animal’s metal horseshoes had made all the difference between life and death. For me, at least, this incident itself seemed to epitomize the convergence of modern technology and these olden carriages, the clash of the contemporary city and what some call the “charming” and “quaint” reminders of Old New York.”
Yes, what some call “charming” and “quaint” reminders of Old New York” do hark back to bygone and more tranquil days in the city when the animals were a form of transport, as the many bricked-over stable entrances in the city’s oldest buildings, particularly on the East Side, attest to. The clickety-click of their hooves echo back to the New York of Henry James and Edith Wharton. But the city has long since changed. To residents such as this one, their so-called “charm” has become tired, even cruel.
“She liked this job,” the horse’s owner reportedly said.
She liked this job?
I chanced to walk by those horses on 59th Street on a cold and rainy Saturday about a week or so after that freak accident. The daylight was already turning into an early dusk. The carriages looked shabby, not at all like the purveyors of privilege they seemed in my youth. “Thirty-five dollars for the first half-hour,” a sign mounted on the carriages said. Their drivers, calling out to tourists, seemed much like any other vendors hawking their wares in the city.
There were not many takers. The horses simply stood there, gentle, patiently waiting, docile, easily led. The carriage drivers, wearing dingy weather-proofed clothing over their overcoats, waited and waited for business. Theirs was a somewhat futile endeavor, given the darkness and the weather.
I took the occasion to linger and observe. Indeed, some of the animals seemed tired, haggard, like workhorses. I saw one of them take one step forward in line, following the lead of the carriage directly in front, only to be met with a threatening gesture from his driver. Not unlike a dog that has learned to cower, the horse immediately stepped back, with nary a neigh nor a whimper. I looked away.
. Yet other animals seemed coddled. They were covered with blankets in the cold wet weather, treated more like trusty friends. One was fed from a store of carrots in a sack, was gently spoken to by name.
As I watched one or two of the vehicles finally take off with a rare customer in tow amid the rainy chill, I marveled at those stoic animals with blinders on, patiently plodding with that rhythmic clickety-click in their step, pulling their load. To me, they seemed a sad symbol of forbearance in a modern world somehow gone awry.