Laura Yuen: A horse retires from the last mounted police unit in Minnesota

Laura Yuen, The Minnesota Star Tribune on May 16, 2025

By clicking submit, I authorize Arcamax and its affiliates to: (1) use, sell, and share my information for marketing purposes, including cross-context behavioral advertising, as described in our Privacy Policy , (2) add to information that I provide with other information like interests inferred from web page views, or data lawfully obtained from data brokers, such as past purchase or location data, or publicly available data, (3) contact me or enable others to contact me by email or other means with offers for different types of goods and services, and (4) retain my information while I am engaging with marketing messages that I receive and for a reasonable amount of time thereafter. I understand I can opt out at any time through an email that I receive, or by clicking here

It’s been years since Carrie Brummer has seen Teak, her dark-haired steed. Will he remember her?

Sgt. Adrian Infante encourages Brummer to go ahead and say hi. Teak is waiting for her inside the stable.

“He’ll recognize you,” he assures her.

Brummer, who is 66, is on the brink of ugly-crying at the horse barn in Maple Plain, Minnesota. He is a very rare breed and kind of a big deal, she tells anyone who will listen. Teak is a Spanish-Norman, to be precise. His kind was bred to genetically re-create the characteristics of warhorses that were ridden by medieval knights in battle. Brummer thinks she could have fetched tens of thousands of dollars if she sold him.

Teak was never supposed to be a police horse in Minneapolis.

But in 2008, Sgt. Christopher Lokke was heading up the mounted police unit and searching for a new horse to fill out his ranks. He stopped by the horse expo at the state fairgrounds and spotted the large gelding, bathed in dark chocolate brown except for the white splotch on his forehead and splatter on his right foot. Lokke studied Teak’s mannerisms, the way he stayed calm. Built like an offensive lineman, he was beyond mature for a 4-year-old.

Brummer’s mother, who was also at the expo, couldn’t stop hyping up Teak to the officers: He would be perfect for the mounted police!

Lokke heard it all the time. The public usually didn’t know what would make a good police horse. They need to be large and cool under pressure, gentle but intimidating. He’d scout 50 animals before he found the right one.

“He’d make a great mounted police horse,” Lokke agreed.

“Do you have any idea what this horse is worth?” Brummer shot back.

“I don’t care,” Lokke said. “He would make a great mounted police horse.”

So, Brummer decided to donate Teak to the police department.

She followed his career from afar with pride. Teak’s first major assignments took him across the river: managing crowds at a rally for Barack Obama and at the Republican National Convention in St. Paul.

Teak reported to shootings and bar closings, community events and the unrest following the police murder of George Floyd. His riders say he was born to be a police horse, often the first to lead the mounted patrol into a crowd.

He could be stubborn, too, especially when training at the barn. Infante, who directs the unit, said Teak was a little lazy in life, but a perfectionist in the field. “So much courage,” he said fondly.

City leaders have tried to dismantle the unit several times over the decades. To city people, the concept is antiquated. Frivolous. Similar units across the state have folded, and Minneapolis is the only city to still have its division intact, even though the City Council recently cut its funding by $150,000 this year. The chief says the mounted patrol provides visible police presence and effectively fights crime.

Which brings me back to the day I find Teak in the horse barn. He is here to perform his last official act: retiring after 17 years of service.

Before the ceremony, Brummer finds him in his stall. The tears now can’t stop flowing. “Let me in, please,” she says.

A man opens the door, and Brummer rushes in to embrace her horse. Teak searches her hand, looking for the homemade treats she used to feed him, those mounds of bran and molasses and flax seed. He hasn’t forgotten her.

But he’s no longer a colt. Teak is 21, well into middle age. Brummer strokes his coat and runs her hand down his front leg. He’s arthritic. Brummer notices he also hasn’t shed his winter coat yet, a sign of an endocrine disorder.

The emotion is too much for her. She walks out to get some fresh air and wipes her tears. “He got old,” Brummer says.

It’s not why she’s crying, though. “I just missed him.”

During the ceremony, Teak is honored as a leader who would never falter or fail his rider. Lokke, who retired last year, is in the crowd. Officers take off Teak’s reins and saddle for one last time and give him a final salute. He’ll be reunited soon with Brummer and live the rest of his days on her farm in Elk River. He’s earned his keep.

“You’re coming home,” she tells her boy.