This letter was written a month or so ago, and mailed to each of my senators. I received notes from both. One very non-committal, the other very pro-slaughter. Quite discouraging, but there is hope for passing this bill, yet. Thank goodness not all senators are as careless about these creatures as Texas' own are. Ah, careless may be the wrong word. Perhaps one or both gain from its continuation...speculation, of course, but an obvious conclusion, given the locations of two of the three slaughterhouses in operation. I read this morning that these Belgian owned companies are actually subsidized by US. I find that purely outrageous. You and I are PAYING them to do this to horses?!
Insanity.


Dear Senator,

My name is Anna and I am a resident of South Texas. I am writing to you to ask that you consider the realities of horse slaughter in the United States, and also ask that you bring this new bill, S1915 to the floor quickly and pass it into law, as is. I understand the concerns about creating a burden on horseowners- the fact is, if a horse must be disposed of, there are more humane ways to go about it. Owners always have the obviously viable
option of finding new homes for unwanted horses, and euthanization continues to be an option.
Contrary to popular belief- and argument, not all of these horses are unwanted. Many are stolen or bought under false pretense, kill buyers deceiving a caring but overburdened owner who believes the horse is going to a good home. What else do we tell ourselves to make it an easier- yet still toxic- pill to swallow?
Horses trot a fine line between pet and livestock, and indeed, are a bit of both. They are, unlike other livestock, asked to trust human hands from the day they are foaled. This is a grave misuse of that trust. If you truly believe that this is a humane practice, I urge you to investigate yourself, rather than accepting anyone's word for it.
The facts speak for themselves.
1) Most horses taken to slaughter are not old and infirm. The majority are young and healthy.
2) The captive bolt often misses. Horses are frequently conscious when their throats are slit. Some simply drown in their own blood. If you can stomach it, I invite you to watch one of the slaughter videos available online.
3) The equipment used on horses was designed for cattle. Horses are not cattle, physically or behaviorally.
4) Then there are questions of what these horses may have been medicated with prior to heading for a human's dinner plate. The psychological effects on those working in these plants is questionable, too.
Senator, horses are a living reminder of this great country's beginnings, not to mention the stuff of many a child's daydreams and fondest wishes. They have done all that we've asked of them, and far, far more. This is how we honor and repay them? Erect a bronze statue or two of them and then send them to a foreign-owned corporation with no vested interest in America, other than to abuse one of its natural resources at little cost -and much gain- to themselves, pollute its land and water with their blood and the air with their screams, then ship their flesh- not to the starving or under-privileged, but to elite restaurants overseas that brag about serving American horseflesh? Do they also boast that they serve American beef, chicken or pork?
On behalf of horses who belong to less wealthy humans than do
Barbaro and other high profile equines, I implore you, stop this cruel practice. We are supposed to be a civilized nation. This is one preventable atrocity, which belies that phrase. Excusing it with the argument that there are no other viable options in place is flimsy, at best. Many Americans simply aren't aware. From those who are, I imagine you and every other Senator are getting letters and phone calls. And much like horses, we won't forget who decided to put an end to this. Or not. Slippery and ultimately empty are the pockets lined with blood, whosever they are.
Is our valiant steed any less valiant or noble, simply because we have replaced his biggest role in our lives with the automobile?
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Regards,
Anna

As I was sitting in the drive-thru line at Starbucks this morning, I was thinking about something I once heard; America’s industry has become service oriented. That’s a little scary, in my mind, I thought, while willingly sitting in line for a $4.00 cup of coffee with half a cup of sugar in it.

I consider all the times I’ve shopped or eaten somewhere and gotten truly cool treatment or truly horrid service. Unfortunately, it seems the latter is the more frequent. Some companies still seem to ‘get’ that service with a smile goes a long way, while others don’t give a flyin’ flip about return customers (or know that they’re the only place in town for item X).

I have a rule of thumb about restaurants, and that is that they get three chances. I work hard for my paycheck, and spending it on lousy food and lousier service is offensive to me. I’ll chalk one bad experience up to an ‘off day’. Even the second. But if it happens a third time, I will not return. I’d be hard pressed to return to Chili’s at this point.

The credit union I use recently pulled the last stunt they’ll pull on me. Come Monday, my accounts there will be closed. The attitude I received was one of ‘tough cookies’, this latest incident. I don’t appreciate creative banking. I’m about to apply this methodology to stores and services of any variety, I think.

When we open an account somewhere, instead of a free gift or even a simple thank you, we get a fee imposed. The sad part is we’ve grown to expect this and tolerate it, all the while griping about it. I don’t know about you, but I find this offensive, and while I’m at it, and it’s brilliant marketing, I refuse to pay someone to wear advertisements for them.

Now, if all these cashiers, salespeople, wait staff, tellers, customer service agents, etc. are so unhappy in their jobs that a smile is too much work, why is that? They aren’t some foreign entity, they are US! They are our sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, best friends and parents. I’m of an age where I remember that most moms didn’t HAVE to work outside the home, although some did. Dad was the main breadwinner. There was usually one car in a driveway, and kids had bikes, baseballs, and Barbie dolls. We were never what I’d call “well off”, but we did get to take road trips now and then. We did okay.

Today, there’s no way in hell a person can support him/herself on 40 hours a week at minimum wage, much less a family, and many positions offer only that or a laughable quarter an hour more. Mom has had to go to work in most families now, even if there’s still only one car in the driveway and (in some cases) the kids don’t have video games, but bikes, baseballs, and Barbie dolls. My own children have never been on a road trip with me, because the means were not available. Now that the kids are grown, I don’t go alone. The means are not available. I have a good job, too. One that I enjoy going to every day (give or take one or two here and there). The truck in my driveway was paid for long ago. Its close to my own age, and replacing it is not an option at this time. I earn considerably more than minimum wage, too.

Am I griping about being “under the poverty line”? No, not really. I think happiness or lack thereof can be found at any income level. I just think it’s a lot more difficult when one is constantly worried about where groceries are going to come from- and thankfully, I’m not that poorly off, but have been.

I can see why it’s so hard for the cashiers, salespeople, wait staff, tellers, customer service agents, etc. to smile. Even their job security (ha) is at risk, with automated this and self-check that (which I abhor don’t use unless it’s truly unavoidable). I want a real live person- even a grumpy one- over a machine. How many of us even notice that they’re a real person, instead of a necessary inconvenience to deal with on our way to whatever it is we’re running towards?

We’re in major trouble if we’re that dependent on being a country of service oriented industry. I have noticed, however, that Starbucks employees seem to be a perky lot.

We’re paying dearly for all this convenience. Are we voluntarily turning ourselves into the numbers we claim we’re not? What are we running towards?



 

This Saturday, I did something out of the ordinary, and while it may seem mundane, it was quite an event for me. In the interest of research for the story I’m writing, I studied the horses entered in the Breeder’s Cup, plunked down a bit of money in wagers, and parked my behind in front of ESPN for an afternoon.

I have a love/hate relationship with horseracing. I love to watch them run, dislike many aspects of the sport~ topping the list of which is breakdowns.

I missed the first race I’d intended to watch, because like a doofus, I’d forgotten the fact that Churchill Downs is in the Eastern time zone. My horse won. Well, she's not "mine". Dreaming of Anna was the one horse I had wagered on without laying eyes on. I chose her simply because she’d already beaten the colts at Woodbine and we share a name. I later saw the replay and was impressed.

The races were great to watch, outside of the Distaff. I didn’t know what had happened until after the race, as Denman didn’t call it and the camera was focused elsewhere. I heard that a horse had been pulled up, then another. Fleet Indian had been pulled up, and Pine Island had somersaulted. Javier Castellano, Pine Island’s jockey, lay crumpled on the track. I was in tears and crying, “nonononono!” From an aerial view, I saw Pine Island on her feet, standing still and calmly, and hoped that her injury wasn’t too severe. It was. She’d annihilated her left fore. I later saw a picture in a paper of her standing calmly, waiting for someone to come help her, twisted ankle not appearing to be hurting her, yet. They vanned her off and she was destroyed shortly thereafter. Javier said he was fine, and while I don’t think he should have ridden Bernardini an hour later, that wasn’t my call. Fleet Indian, after having waited 20 minutes for an ambulance (there were two at the track), it seems will be okay. I hope she will.

The image that perhaps hit home hardest for me was seeing Edgar Prado, aboard Round Pond, with whom he’d just won the Distaff, seeing that something was wrong. As he was led to the winner’s circle, his eyes were on the scene behind him, obvious concern written all over his face. Shades of a day earlier this year encroached~ while Edgar and trainer Michael Matz had won with Round Pond, memories of the Preakness flooded in, and the scene of Barbaro in a similar situation as Pine Island. With an exception.

Barbaro wasn’t destroyed. He underwent surgery and despite a devastating setback weeks later when laminitis struck his good hind, has slowly and steadily improved. He is healing. His doctors can’t explain why he’s done as well as he has, other than that he’s an extraordinary creature. Not just physically, either. His influence, which many call “The Barbaro Effect”, has brought attention to horse related issues long squashed down. Injury, illness, theft, and the worst, slaughter. There’s little doubt that his influence has swayed some in regard to Polytrack. His followers have found inspiration in a world of anger and violence, and purpose in the issues they now know they can influence the outcomes of.

Barbaro himself took a mighty big step today. The cast on his shattered leg came off today, replaced by a boot with a splint. The hoof on his other foot still needs months to grow out properly, but I’ve as much hope as his other fans that he’ll take care of that quite well, too.

I learned a lot on Saturday, and as for my wagers, managed to bring back home most of what I’d laid down to begin with. I’m learning as much about the people in racing as I am the animals. Most of them aren’t hardened, crass and abusive to their animals. They truly care about them and take issue with many of the same issues that I have, from outside the world of the track.


The lanky home~bred filly Pine Island was laid to rest at Claiborne today. My sincere condolences to those who love her.