"Actually, the best time for me is the early mornings. Pet 'em, feed 'em carrots, play with 'em. Watch 'em work out."

Mrs. Ryan keeps meticulous books and the racing operation has held its own, despite some harsh luck.

"Came down last year and had three healthy yearlings," Ryan recalled. "Man across the road cut down a tree and when it crashed, it frightened two of the yearlings. They tried to jump the fence, tore up their front legs.

"Put the third yearling in with a broodmare and her foal. He came too close to the foal, and she kicked him. Got him in the jugular. Went from three healthy yearlings to none, inside of a week."

Besides the thoroughbreds, Ryan keeps 27 head of cattle on the farm, some of them the Simenthal variety, black-and-white and beefy.

He has three goats, Rebecca, Heidi, Gretchen. "Got $50 worth of goats and $500 worth of trouble," he grumbled.

He keeps them around because he grew up believing an Oklahoma myth that a goat in a horse's stall absorbs potential illness.

The farm manager has an angry dog named Buster and a shaggy poodle named Susie. The Ryans have Taffy, a hyper golden retriever puppy. And a sad-eyed beagle named Lady, who shadows Mrs. Ryan everywhere she goes.

"Wouldn't bite a biscuit," Ryan said, hiding his true feelings under that veneer of cheap sarcasm.

Let the record show that the Ryans took the dog when its owners abandoned it, paid to have it spayed, and when it came time to make the career move, the Ryans drove from Chicago to Cherry Hill because Lady has epilepsy and cannot fly.

The next time a player grumbles about Ryan treating him like a dog, remember Lady, the sad-eyed beagle who has prospered with tender, loving care.

"We'll do it my way," Ryan said, when the only other sounds were the warbling of birds and the whinnying of a 2-year-old filly. "And if it ain't good enough, I'll come back here, mow hay, raise horses."