Kelso's old companion, Charlie Potatoes, a lopsided stable dog, died a number of years ago. "Kelso was so fond of him," recalls du Pont. "He grieved for Charlie when he died. He sulked about and hung his head and wouldn't eat as heartily."
One of Kelso's favorite grooms was Debby Ferguson, a slim, blonde woman two years younger than he. Kelso, she says, was "partial to girls." Ferguson fed Kelso crimped oats in a big yellow bucket tied to the fence. Kelso was particular about what he ate. He'd only eat apples as an hors d'oeuvre, not as a dessert. A blacksmith came every month to trim his hooves, but Kelso would really only get ornery when the veterinarian came to give him his annual worming. "Kelso had to show everyone who was boss," says Gene Moore, his longtime caretaker.
The mailbox bearing Kelso's name was still there when he died, but the paint was peeling. In his old age, Kelso wasn't forgotten, but his correspondence had dwindled, and his newsletter had been discontinued. "I think Kelso's fans just grew up and had their own things to do," says du Pont. "He'd get a few cards for Christmas and Easter, but nothing like there used to be." But that was O.K., because Kelso never read them anyway.