The bay stallion stood in the unfamiliar
settings quietly, looking around. His ankle swollen to pain numbing
portions, he had been taken from his stall at the racetrack and dropped off here
where all he could smell was fear and despair. The groom would not look at
him with he handed him over to the cold-eyed men who had stripped his halter
off, slapped a sticker on his rump and prodded him into the pen. He had
called out to his groom, but he had just dropped his head and walked away
without looking back. He flared his nostrils and breathed in the scent to
the horses around him, wondering what would happen next. A gelding moved
closer to him and he nervously shifted over. He wasn't quite sure how to
communicate with another horse safely. Other than when actually on the
track running, he had not been in such close proximity to other horses since he
had been taken from his mother's side seven years ago.
Shifting his weight to try to ease the pain of his leg, he turned and looked at
the gelding that appeared to be offering him friendship. Younger than him,
the gelding was also a dark bay and had a small filly behind him. She
rested her head against the gelding in mute
supplication and breathed in rapid short distillations of fear. The
stallion noticed she had racing plates on and must have come from the track like
he had. The gelding's hooves were long; they curled over horseshoes that
should have been replaced months ago. The three
huddled closer and became a small, compact unit in one corner of the pen.
"Do you know what happens here?" the stallion asked the gelding.
"This is called a kill pen," the gelding responded. "We are
waiting for the killer buyer to come and load us up to take us to Texas to a
slaughterhouse. This is the end of the line for us that is why everyone is
so afraid. They all know." The stallion turned his head
franticly, looking for an opening to run through. No matter the pain of
his leg, he would not go down easily, he was not ready to die. Hadn't he
run when asked, run with bolts of pain traveling his
body, run with heart and spirit? There was no opening to the sides of the
pen, and a man near the gate snarled at him. He dropped his head back down
and chewed his lip in mute testimony to his fear driven thirst. He had
done all he was asked, but to stand and wait
to die, how could they demand that as his final reward?
His mind slipped back to the early days with his Dam (Dawn of Life). Foaled in
April of 1996, he had drunk in stories of his famous ancestors along with her
milk. His father, Academy Award, was the son of Secretariat and grandson
of Mr. Prospector. His parents had met at Claiborne Farm in Kentucky, home
to Nasrullah, Bold Ruler, Princequillo, and other famous names that formed his
lineage. His pedigree read like a "Who's Who" of champions,
through his veins flowed the blood of Kentucky's finest. They had all run
for the roses, and he had done his best to emulate them. Born in New York
State, he had run on the Aqueduct, at the Belmont and other tracks in allowance
races. Before he was five he had earned over 130,000 a
nice return for the stables he raced for. Then the races started getting
smaller crowds, the horses were older and the purses less. Allowance races
changed into claims races, with the pot size slipping and his stable changing.
His fortune and treatment spiraled downward, to end here, dumped by the last
consortium of racehorse owners wanting to wring the last dollar out of him.
They would make a final two hundred dollars by selling him for meat, to be
shipped to Texas and slaughtered. He would end his days as a steak on the
plate of a French diner. The Belgian run company in Texas would profit by
more than fifteen dollars a pound for each slice of him.
A small commotion was stirring the assembled horses in the pen. The
killer buyers truck had arrived and they were sorting the herd. The
stallion was separated from his two companions; they were put over on the side
to have their back shoes pulled before they got on the truck. No sense in
bruising the valuable meat by having it subject to kicks from other terrified
horses. Lashing out was always a danger when horses that didn't know each
other were forced willy- nilly together without regard to age, gender, or
pregnancy state. Watching the ungentle hands yank shoes, the stallion was
glad his had already been removed. His owners had not even left him the
racing plates; they were worth a few dollars and so had been stripped from
him the night before.
As the loading started, a man came into the pen, talking on a cell phone as he
sauntered over. He had seen this man when he first arrived, but had
discounted him, as the man wasn't "his" human. The man walked up
to the killer buyer and started talking, pointing toward the stallion.
Money changed hands, and the man walked toward the stallion speaking low and
offering his hand. The stallion dipped his head as he had been taught and
a halter and lead line were snapped on. The man turned and led him out of
the pen, away from the busy killer buyers. It appeared he wasn't getting
on the death truck; he lifted his head and his eyes brightened. He was
tied to the back of a stock trailer and stood patiently to see what would
happen next. He watched the herd of horses as they disappeared into the
bowels of hell, mourned each one as they were prodded on board. His
two new friends were still in the line getting their shoes pulled, but they were
nearing the front of it. He nickered softly
toward them, wishing them well and a tear dropped from his eye.
The man had called someone again, was talking animatedly to them as he walked
back into the pen. More money changed hands, and miraculously his new
friends were being haltered and led out to join him. The killer buyers
never looked up as the stallion and the other two were loaded and taken away.
They had a full load, and these three had made them a few quick dollars easy
money. Let them go, there would be more to pick up next week. There
were always more.
The stallion, his friends, and three more thoroughbreds are on the way down to
Texas as I write this. Not to the false Texas of the slaughterhouses, but
to the real Texas, to a place that understands the commitment between horses and
humans, that accepts responsibility
for those that have given their all for us. When my agent purchased him
out of the kill pen we did not know his name, nor did we care. He was a
horse in need, and that was enough. I still don't know the name of the
last two, but the other four include a British bred stakes winner, a descendant
of Man o War, and a grandson of Northern Dancer (Triple Crown Winner). The
stallion's name is Monetary Justice and he made the front page racing news in
2001 http://www.nybreds.com/racing/bb_0104.html
winning over the favorite at the Aqueduct. Two years later he was a
disposable commodity to his owners. I wonder what kind of steak they will
buy with his blood price. They got the monetary reward, but he will have
his justice.
The other horses on the trailer coming down are:
Mr. Tricky (British stakes winner out of
the kill pen)
Moe's LittlePlot (mare taken in a seizure
rescue from a starvation case). She is physically fit, mentally a
scared baby and needs an adopter that can work with her. There are too
many sound ones off the track needing adoption up North for her to find a
home there so she comes here.
Quick Moment (Owner turnover at four from
off the track) Grandson of Northern Dancer. His bloodlines are as
impressive as Monetary Justice and his owner overruled the trainer and sent
he to us instead of to the killer buyers.
Unidentified filly approximately two years
old, racing plates on feet (off the track and in the kill pen) Thoroughbred
lip tattoo
Unidentified gelding approximately two
years old (in kill pen) Thoroughbred lip tattoo.