Soldat Nehro was getting excited about his upcoming trip to America. The Egyptian native and professional dog trainer had been out of Egypt only once before, living in Britain for a year while attending school. But the idea of going to the United States held twice the appeal.

He wasn’t really sure when his fascination with America began, but it probably had a lot to do with his uncle, Mohammad Nehro. Uncle Mo (that’s what everybody called him) did a lot of business in the U.S. and he loved to tell stories about his trips and the experiences he had there. He was quite the mucho, macho man and as a young boy Soldat and his friends couldn’t wait for one of Uncle Mo’s stories. He’d talk about New York and Chicago and other big cities. And, yes, he’d even been to Disney World (Animal Kingdom was his favorite).

While in Britain, Soldat became friends with a Londoner, Arch Shackleford. Arch had spent a summer in America a couple of years earlier and through a friend had gotten to spend a few days at sea with the well-known Santiva Salt Water Fishing team, based in southern Florida. He couldn’t stop talking about it. He’d get so excited telling the story about his fishing expedition; it was like someone had lit his pants on fire. He’d start gesturing wildly and jumping around as he relived the experience.

“Man, we’d been fighting this 8-foot blue fin for like six hours!” he said. “Finally, we got to this decisive moment when we knew we were either going to reel him in or we were going to have to cut him loose. That’s when those guys went to work with brilliant speed. I mean they were really dialed in, and the next thing you knew that sucker was on the deck of our boat. What a rush!”

“Arch, Arch, Arch,” Soldat said, rolling his eyes. “I get it. It was really fun and exciting, but come on. You need to bring it down a bit.”

Nonetheless, Arch’s enthusiasm only stoked Soldat’s desire to see America for himself. And now, three years later, that chance had finally come.

Over the years, Soldat’s work with dogs had started to gain some attention. In fact, in some circles he was affectionately called the “Master of Hounds” for his way with the animals. And thanks to his growing reputation he landed a client who wanted Soldat to show one of his dogs at a major show in New York.

“Can you do it?” asked the client.

Soldat thought to himself, “Are you kidding? Just watch me go!”  But he simply said, “Yes I can.”

So, off they went – Soldat, the client and a dog named Comma, who always seemed to stay thirsty. Soldat thought Comma was sort of an odd name for a dog, but he’d seen worse – like Derby Kitten – so he didn’t make a big deal out of it. But a few days before the show, he asked the owner about the name, just out of curiosity.

“Well,” said the client, “his daddy, named Twinspired – something to do with that famous horse track in Kentucky, I think – and his mother, Midnight Interlude, didn’t exactly hit it off at first; there was a bit of a pause in the courtship. So when he was finally born, that’s how we came up with Comma. Get it? Pause. Dog paws?”

Soldat was sorry he asked. But none of that mattered now. He was finally going to America. And he was going to enjoy every minute of it. And he was going to take Comma to the top.

New West Senior Account Manager and All-Around Creative Guy Gary Elder has been writing these Derby stories, using the names of every horse in the race (in this case including Uncle Mo, who was a late scratch), for more than a decade.

Happy Derby!

A Derby Story by Gary Elder

“Anybody seen Paddy? I need to talk to him,” said Dean “Homeboy” Kris.

“Not me,” said Victor Noble, the older, refined gentleman who had worked at the American Lion for years, watching performers come and go and becoming friends with the regulars. He carried himself with a certain dignity, earning the nickname “Stately Victor.” He was class all the way. If Victor gave you his word, you could take it to the bank. There was nothing more certain than Noble’s promise.

“Same here,” said Lucky. “Got no idea where that boy is. What’s goin’ on?”

“Oh, it’s just a little recording deal that may be in the works,” said Dean. He didn’t really want to get into details, especially since he didn’t know Lucky that well. In fact, Lucky was pretty much a mystery to everybody. Nobody seemed to know his last name or where he was from. If you asked, he’d just say, “Lucky, from Jackson Bend. That’s enough.” He’d shown up 12 years ago, asking if he could rent the apartment upstairs in exchange for maintenance and other odd jobs at the club. He’d been there ever since. The irony of his name wasn’t lost on anybody.

Just then, the rev of an engine and screeching tires snapped their heads around. Paddy O’Prado had arrived. “For crying out loud,” said Victor, “look at that car! Can’t he do anything discreetly? Mine would fit in the trunk of that thing.” It was something to see. Kind of a cross between a Mustang and an Aston-Martin and almost the size of one of those Hummer limos – and bright green.

For certain, there was nothing discreet about Paddy O’Prado, or “POP” for short; the brash Irishman fromDublin who was full of backtalk and a “devil may care” attitude. Victor said he acted like he was “from the line of David, God’s gift to the world.”

Paddy was going to be a rock star. He was sure of it. He spent a few years with a couple of small Dublin bands – Mission Impazible, Sidney’s Candy – before flying over on the super saver to find fame and fortune in America. “Heck,” he’d say, smiling from ear-to-ear, “if that two-bit Bono can do it, I can, too.”  He certainly had the personality – if not the talent – to be a rock star.

“What are you lookin’ at, Lucky?” Paddy said as he practically launched himself into the room.

Lucky ignored him.

“Hey, Victor, grab me something cold out of the ice box, will ya?” He knew Victor was the only one there old enough to still call a refrigerator an ice box. He loved asking Victor to get him something to drink, then he’d laugh and say, “How old are you, anyway, Victor?  I forget.”

“Not so old I can’t whip your….” Victor would then just turn away, shaking his head. He never finished the sentence. He had too much class.

Crash!  Dean’s kitten jumped up from behind the bar and knocked over a glass. That startled everybody and gave Dean a chance to change the subject to something more serious.

“Paddy, we got an offer from a guy in LA who’s with a pretty big label. As your manager, I’m telling you, this could be the opportunity you’ve been waiting for.”

“Allright!” said Paddy.  “What do I have to do?”

“Just make music for me,” said Dean. “Maybe then I can get enough money to pay off the conveyance tax on this place.”

“Don’t worry, Homeboy,” said Paddy. “How can we fail?  I’m an awesome act.”

Want to read more Derby stories? Check out the full archive.

Each year at this time, New West account manager Gary Elder sits down at his keyboard and writes a short story that incorporates the name of each horse in the upcoming Kentucky Derby.  We always look forward to see what he comes up with and thought you might enjoy reading this year’s effort.  (Is there a pattern that predicts the winner?  You decide!)

Happy Derby!

A Derby Story by Gary Elder

Bernie Clement Freisan, Papa Clem to family and friends, loved to tell war stories.  A World War II veteran, he loved to brag about how he helped rescue thousands of Allied troops in France during the famous Battle of Dunkirk in 1940.  As a “flying private” he was part of a squadron that called itself “Atomic Rain.”  The rest of the crew nicknamed him “West Side Bernie ” because of his California roots.

“We came down on the enemy hard.  They’d never see us coming.  When my commander gave the order, “Okay Friesan, fire!”, I was ready.  There wasn’t any way you could hold me back.  They knew when we hit’em, there was nowhere to hide.”

“There were some great guys in that unit.  I remember one, Danny Bird.  He had a thing for chocolate candy and a short fuse.  He was always hot under the collar.  That’s why we called him Mr. Hot Stuff.  He was always ready to fight at the drop of a hat.  Well, we’d been training with some British troops in London and one summer Bird got into it with one of their guys over something and the guy threatened Bird, yelling at him,’I'm gonna take you out with my musket.’  Man, that just set Danny off.  He went at the guy and got decked.  After we got back to our general quarters, all he kept saying was ‘I want revenge , I want revenge.’   I tried to talk some sense into him.  I said, ‘You don’t want to mine that, Bird.  You’ll pay a regal ransom.’  Of course, he completely ignored my advice.”

“So anyway a couple days later we’re enjoying a little R & R at some club called the Pioneerof the Nile - I always remembered the name because it was so odd – and who do we run into but this same guy.  Bird goes over to him, they start exchanging words and the next thing you know they’re throwing punches.  Then a few other guys decide they want to join in the dance and just like that we got a full-scale brawl.”

“That was just Danny.  Heck, I saw him a few years back, during the first Gulf War, and he said, ‘Come on, West Side, let’s go have us some fun at that desert party they’re throwin’ over there.’  I just laughed, told him he was as nuts as ever and then we had a couple of beers. Ol’ Bird sure was one of a kind.”

Want to read more Derby stories? Check out the full archive.