Sunday, March 02, 2008
The Story of Passion
A 14-year-old child wrote this story as a classroom assignment. She asked that we share it with you. Her only regret is that she cannot read it to you herself.
You knew that white tag only meant one thing. Once the toxic glue was ruthlessly pressed onto your fur, once the slime started dripping down your spine, skin instantly melting from the excruciating heat; you knew it all was over. The fat lady had sung your last ballad, your bucket had been kicked, and your number was up. Deaths welcoming embrace takes away every happy memory you’ve managed to take with you through this horrible journey. That was the worst part, being so afraid that you forgot the one human that ever treated you with kindness, and taught you how to love. Even if they did betray you and take you here, these memories are the most prized possession you have. Straight ahead, the two-legger cantered towards me whistling, white tag in hand.
I lived a humble life; never bucked little Suzy off my back, never shied from the heavy harness and wagon, or even tried to get away from the lead rope. The reality is it didn’t matter how good I was; I knew I would still have ended up here. This place is a garbage dump where people dropped off horses they no longer wanted. Around me suffering was everywhere. Death was taking those that shouldn’t be taken. Babies, mothers, pregnant mares, and stunning stallions surrounded me. Yet the people didn’t care. The tag was melted onto my hide and I was lead to the truck. The tag was a barcode, 3749 read across with “DO NOT REMOVE” on the edges. I was now nothing more than numbers for the USDA. I’m not sure what exactly they do to us, but I know I never see any horses that get on this truck get off. And I could smell the fear.
The two-legger started yelling and waving a long stick. He hit us with it until we ran up the filthy ramp into the truck. I could see from the corner of my eye, as I tried to keep my place in line, an older paint gelding slip and scream. I could see the stick rise and fall; and then I no longer heard him. .
I stumbled into my spot in line. My neck was hunched over parallel with my knees. The ceilings were low, and the horses kept on coming. Tighter, and tighter it got; breath was starting to become a distant memory. We weren’t sorted by any means. Stallions were in with the crippled mares. I couldn’t bear to watch, the outcome was obvious. Every second another horse would get frustrated, and frustration mixed with fear would cause the fights. The fights were horrible. When one horse moved on the gigantic truck, we would all feel it.
The burning in my neck was getting unbearable. How much longer could we endure this torture? I am an old horse, and old horses have bad joints. My feet hadn’t been taken care of in months; overgrown, broken and sore. They were throbbing horribly, and I couldn’t take it any longer. I had to, I just had to, I didn’t know what else I could do. So I laid down. Instantly the gelding next to me stomped on my back. I let out a cry of pain as the consequences of my actions washed over me. Another harsh blow was dealt to my hindquarters. I had to get back up; I knew if I didn’t want to be trampled I had to find strength. I held my breath as I tried to break through the ripping I felt in my back and plant my hoofs securely on the ground. Finally, I managed to slip back into the familiar uncomfortable stance with my head hunched over now showing the blood rimmed battle scars of 4 hoof marks and 3 bite marks that went deep into my flesh.
We traveled on and on in these agonizing conditions. I tried to block the images of the two trampled horses out of my mind, but as much as I tried to drown the images they kept on resurfacing. No water, no food, it was hot and hard to breath. Like me they had to lie down, but they could not stand back up.
Little by little, the two-leggers turned us against each other, turning the truck ride to hell into a battle of the fittest. I am old, and my knees are swollen from having to stand for so long, but I was big, and certainly not a quitter. An abrupt stop jerked everyone on the truck a foot forward. We had finally arrived at whatever hell they were taking us to. The question still lingered in my mind of “why me,” but guilt soon flashed through me at the thought of myself being saved over a baby like the one I had previously seen on this truck. I deserve to be here more than half of these horses that are still in their prime years.
The doors opened with a click. The fresh breeze filled my lungs with the first full breath I had taken for hours. Crisp air hugged my sweat-drenched body in the most endearing embrace I’ve had in a very long time. Two-legers threw open the door and we made our way off of the truck. As I moved into the light my face came close to one of the two-legs, I saw the deadest eyes I’ve ever seen. No love or compassion lay behind them, nothing, just a blank stare. This was how my life would be now I guess. I was unwillingly forced to walk forward across the threshold that separated my past and my present, and my present was dim.
The entryway to hell was all that awaited me. To its credit, there were no flames covering the walls and pitchforks. Yet everything else was much worse. Vivid red pens viciously closed in sick and weary horses and barbed wire was ruthlessly woven around the top of the pen. Many of the eyes of the horses in them now matched those of the man that was now leading me into this horrid place. There was a glaze over them, keeping people from seeing the horses they used to be and only seeing the ghosts that this place has made them into. Behind these broken sprits a lofty scarlet house like structure stood, illuminated by the setting sun. Even they sky was ruby with anger, matching the scenery here. Then my eyes fell upon the devil to my hell.
The monster was squat, a little under being able to have the title of “up to my shoulder.” His position was hostile, back hunched, grey dots for eyes scanning the crowd, and two smug arms crossed in front of him. A snow flecked handlebar mustache peaked out from his up-turned nose. His cheeks were plum with a bulky layer of sweat covering them. His pudgy hand constantly was at his forehead, wiping off the attacks of the heat. An off-white tee shirt hardly hid his robust gut that was peaking through the bottom of his tee shirt. Still, a smile was pasted on his flushed face. His appearance was not nearly as disturbing as his job. You could tell the way he ordered his minions around that he was the boss of this hellhole. Then it hit me.
Everything at once became clear. Why I was here, why we were here, and why I was in so much pain and no one would do anything about it! The idea rushed through my fur, into my skin, and covered every inch of my bruised and beaten body. The words didn’t seem to make sense in my head. I’m going to die? No, no! I screamed to myself. Suzy loved me, she really did, and she told me I swear! Why would she let these people kill me? Joe said he never had a horse work so hard! Then I realized, that they hadn’t cared, those were just words. As much as they meant to me they meant nothing to them. The last link in my chain of hope was shattered and my eyes glossed over. I turned autopilot on my body. I’m not sure why they didn’t understand; I was already dead, they didn’t need to go through the trouble of killing me.
There were horses crowded into pens everywhere, an elderly sorrel gelding that had been a ranchers horse next to a beautiful young warmblood used for dressage whose owner “outgrew” her. Screaming engulfed the crammed space of the pen we were in as a stallion mounted a mare with a crippled leg. A sharp snap followed, with the horrific sight coming into focus in front of me. A beautiful chestnut mare was sprawled out on the blood soaked ground, her leg awkwardly stuck out in front of her with the bone sticking out of the crimson fur. To the side of the corpse, wobbling stood a young, maybe 2-month-old colt staring wide-eyed at his mother’s deathbed.
I can’t honestly say I can tell you what happened next. My life dragged on in a surprisingly numbing pain; if I gave the effort to think about what was happening the harsh burning would rip through my sore legs. If I allowed myself to be alive for only a moment the pounding would return to my head and the excruciating feeling of emptiness and depression would wash over me. Good thing I wasn’t alive. Good thing I was the lucky horse that was chosen to have this life. Good thing a human has the right to decide if you live or die, a decision merely based on their mood. All hope was lost, but hope sometimes finds a way to manifest itself in the strangest ways, sometimes in funny hats and red hair.
When I heard the devil man laugh I knew pain was about to come. He was talking to a woman with bright red hair that was obviously disgusted by the situation, another woman stood by her side. They were different, they were an actual life, and their eyes were the first eyes that I’ve seen in a long time that had something behind them. I was darting around the pen with the other abused horses but the sight of the two women stopped me dead in my tracks. The other woman had on a funny looking hat with dark blonde hair underneath. I started to remember why life was worth living at this moment. Then the gate opened and I heard the man that I have so much revulsion for speak,
“I’ll say it again woman, I don’t know why you want that horse, she’s crazy, she’ll drag you all around the pen!” The man that possessed so much evil seemed extremely amused.
“If my man couldn’t control the beast I don’t know why you think you could.” He smirked. He stood outside the pen as the two woman walked in, with an expression on their faces that I didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t what I was used to around here, hate, fear, anger, and then the complete void. These people were different, the way their eyes scrunched, and the way they held their bodies in neither an aggressive nor a defensive manner. The two women felt bad for me. I let them sling a halter around my head and clip a lead rope onto the halter. The woman with the funny hat lead me out while the red haired woman stood in front of me; shielding me from any further pain the devil man could put me through. At the same time, she was slowly healing all the pain he had already caused.
I walked past the devil man, past the blood colored pens, past the empty humans as I made my way to the trailer. In front of me lay a new beginning, and an end to a past I was eager to forget. The blindfold had been lifted from my eyes and I realized I don’t deserve to be here. No living creature ever deserves to be treated in such a cruel manner. Yet I couldn’t help wonder. What will happen to all of the other horses? Will their humans ever come and save them from a prolonged torturous end? Sure, I was saved, but I will always have to live with the fact that horses die every day just because no one will take a stand for those who can’t speak.
Horses symbolize freedom, and a very large part of America. American history was built from horseback. The brave cowboy always had his trusty steed and in colonial times you counted on us to plow your fields or take your family to the hospital when they were sick. The great American mustang is always beside the eagle when people think of America. So why then, would you ever want to slaughter horses? Horses are an export of America; we don’t personally eat them but if a dollar value is met our morals can be disregarded. We are no longer the land of the free, but the home of the dollar. It says a lot about the American people. We’ll sell out our friends, our co-workers, and those we’ve gone into battle with to a hell on earth, just for a shiny coin. Or will we?
A.B. is a high school student. All of the components in this story take inspiration from real events. A.B.’s horse “Passion” is an almost 18 hand white Percheron mare rescued from a packing plant. Legislation to end this betrayal sits in the House and Senate. Over 100,000 American horses will be sent on a terrifying journey over the boarder to die, to satisfy a foreign appetite for America’s horses.