Sunday, April 13, 2008

Alydar Alpo?  Filet of Filly?  No, thanks.

Ed. Note: A recent posting by HRI blogger Marion Altieri has illuminated the inhumane manner by which horses are slaughtered for consumption outside the United States and engendered lively debate on this site.

The fact that proponents of equine slaughter can stall a bill and keep it from being passed enrages and disgusts me. It should enrage you, too.

S. 311, A bill to amend the Horse Protection Act to prohibit the shipping, transporting, moving, delivering, receiving, possessing, purchasing, selling, or donation of horses and other equines to be slaughtered for human consumption, and for other purposes

OK, horsepeople, let's dice this out logically, shall we?

Apparently there are those among us who can sleep at night, after spending their days convincing themselves that equine slaughter is a necessity. Because there are just too many "unwanted" horses. Because thinning the herd in this heinous way actually benefits the breeds. Because it's their God-given right to dispose of their horses any way they see fit, damnit.

They probably tell their small children that "Daddy works in a horse slaughterhouse, but it's OK 'cause the horsies like it."

Let's think about this as if we're all intelligent, compassionate human beings. A few facts:
1) Equine slaughter is not only cruel--it's executed in a particularly, intentionally vicious fashion. Something to do with the myth that a horse who’s killed after being euthanized doesn’t taste as good. Or the meat is gamey. Or some such crock.
2) Equine slaughter is NOT necessary. All the reasons given by the pro-slaughter people are crap.
3) It is neither legal nor culturally acceptable to consume horsemeat in the United States.
4) The meat from those dead horses goes to Europe and Japan. For upscale dining and dog food. Most notably, to France and Belgium, where horsemeat is a delicacy. It's not like a 1,000 pound mustang is sacrificed to feed starving children in Appalachia or Africa. It's going to feed the egos of snotty Europeans who want to brag that they can afford a $100 Thoroughbred steak. Or that Phydeaux digs eating Triple Crown Alpo.
5) The Big Argument--that there are "just too many horses" is easily remedied: QUIT MAKING THEM.

It's precisely because I love horses that I know--and YOU know--that equine slaughter MUST be stopped. NOW.
There's no logical reason to continue the practice. A horse--or donkey, mule, burro or zebra, for that matter--is NOT a used Kleenex. You cannot just toss it out when you're through with it.

An equine is a living, breathing, feeling being, capable of giving and receiving love. In our culture--that of North America--horses played an integral role in the settling of the nations. They fought wars with us; provided protection and comfort; camaraderie and friendship. The equine species in North America, with the exception of wild horses--are domesticated animals. Like cats, dogs and gerbils.

Would you consider sending your beloved cat off to be slaughtered, to feed a rich Belgian or his pooch?

Then why--WHY--would you take your precious Thoroughbred--whose only mistake was being born slew-footed--and allow that animal to be slaughtered at the hands of a heartless human pig?

For four-hundred bucks?

Are ya kiddin’ me?

All the money that goes into breeding a Thoroughbred, into feeding, sheltering, training--and you'd let that horse go for a lousy four-hundred dollars?

What the Hell is WRONG with you???

All equines--ALL of them, including those wild horses, and Aunt Betsy's pet mule--deserve our unwavering protection, from inception to natural death. We in the world of Thoroughbred racing have a moral obligation, and a spiritual mandate, to not create horses for whom we cannot guarantee a good life.

They're not disposable. They're God-given gifts. They're not here on Earth for a "trial"--to see if you like them or not. You may have made them: you may be the breeder. But make no mistake: you are not their Creator. As breeder or owner, you bear an obligation to follow that horse all the way through its life, and assure that it never ends up in a killpen.

I attended the Keeneland Sales this past week, both nights. It was wonderful, I had a blast. The air was electric.

I couldn't help but think, though, about the billions of dollars represented in that sales pavilion. Amazing. So many people there who can buy and sell the world.

And I thought to myself...if each of these people took just ten minutes of their time to call their representatives in Washington, and demand that the Amendment to the Horse Protection Act be passed...it WOULD be passed. Senators and Congresspeople are very responsive to the demands of those who threaten to take away their fat jobs and bennies.

The Amendment makes illegal the shipping of equines for slaughter. Simple: horses can't get slaughtered if they can't get to the slaughterhouses. And, smart as they are--and lacking thumbs--they surely won't drive themselves there. This Amendment must be passed, so that the slaughterhouses' business dries up. They can't torture and kill what can't get to them.

So we have before us only two actions, both of which can be done this very night:

1) Every person in Thoroughbred racing--trainers, owners, breeders, fans, writers, editors, publishers, feed distributors, hay farmers, farriers, van drivers, grooms, exercise riders--can decide tonight to pick up the phone tomorrow morning and call our representatives in Washington. Tell them to pass this Amendment, stop the transportation of equines to slaughterhouses--and effectively stop the mass murder of our horses.

2) Every breeder in the United States can sit back, take a chill pill, breed selectively and remind themselves of why they do this: because they love these horses. If you make fewer horses this year, you may be a tad less-rich next year. But you'll also sleep better at night, because you have the assurance that you're helping pull the plug on equine slaughter. Your conservative breeding this spring means that five years from now there'll be fewer "unwanted" Thoroughbreds.

(I know, the thought of an unwanted Thoroughbred just doesn't make sense to me, either. Thoroughbreds are God's most magnificent creatures--who'd ever get rid of one? I want one so desperately, my own Thoroughbred--filly or colt, doesn't matter--that I cannot fathom anyone getting rid of one just because they "don't work out." )

If you breeders stop making so many babies, cool your hooves and breed more selectively--concentrate on quality, rather than quantity--you'll be contributing to the anti-slaughter effort in immeasurable ways.

This column is a call to stop slaughter, post-haste. Let's quit screwin' around, talking about it, clucking to ourselves, and feeling self-righteous because we know it's wrong. Nothing ever gets done because a bunch of horse lovers sat around bitching about it over a Dos Equis. Pick up the phone. Call Washington. Threaten their jobs--we ARE their bosses, we CAN vote them out.

Let's make a promise--a vow, if you will--to stop the heinous mass murder of all equines, once and for all, in the United States. It's not a good indicator that our nation allows it, for one very good reason: the quality of a society is measured by the quality of life of its weakest members.

Horses don’t have thumbs. Because of this one factor, they depend on us for their food, shelter—for their very lives. Even wild horses depend on humans to not destroy the natural vegetation and habitat in which they dwell. By merit of their dependence on we mere humans—equines are, indeed, in that “weakest members� category.

Ergo, if our society is being measured by our treatment of horses—we’re screwed. If we fail to stop the mass murder of our beautiful, loyal, sentient horses—we deserve the mantle, “barbarian,� for it’s a sign that our culture is going the way of the pterodactyl—and of Rome.

I'm an opinionated woman, I know. But the fact is that if you make a living in this sport and don't care enough about our horses to make sure that slaughter stops, immediately--you don't deserve to make a living in this sport.

Obviously, I like horses a lot more than I like humans: I've never met a horse I didn't like. I can't say that about people.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Silence is Not Necessarily Golden.

No one realizes the impact of a certain sound, until its absence rings out loud and clear.

I spent a glorious day at Keeneland on Saturday--my first-ever Keeneland raceday. I had a wonderful time: the horses were gorgeous; the people were as psyched as I. I even ran into friends and colleagues I'd not seen since Saratoga--a particular delight. I got a hug from Nuno Santos, the gifted rider from California who rode Champions Azeri and Ghostzapper (to name a few). Watching Nuno ride a horse is like watching liquid poetry. I'd not expected to see him in Kentucky, of all places, so it was a particular treat to see his handsome face on the patio at Keeneland.

And that patio! It's beautiful! If you're not familiar, at the northern end of the grandstand area, in the back, is a gorgeous area with white metal tables and chairs, and a jumbotron. From this sweet setting one can watch the horses as they walk from their barns to the paddock; grab a bite; meet new folks and watch the races on the big screen or easily walk to the rail for live action.

I'd never been to the races at Keeneland before Saturday. (I know, I know--yes, I've been living in a cave.) It was wonderful; I got hooked; I'll be a Frequent Flyer. A Keeneland Trackrat. (Until August, when I'll be a Saratoga Trackrat again.)

Everything was perfect, except one little thing.

And that thing isn't so little.

Artificial racing surface.

The debate has raged on. I, like many fans, have maintained my stance that dirt must be better for horses than Polytrack, or any other artificial surface.

Horses have been running their brains out on dirt for millions of years. Whether on a track or in the Arizona desert--horses actually evolved with dirt under their fingernails.

And now the report in last week's "Thoroughbred Times" that, just as we'd all predicted--the difference between fatal breakdowns on artificial and dirt is barely noticeable. Millions--probably billions--of dollars spent by tracks and racing associations around the country, and it's just not worth it. My argument--and that of many others--has been that, while artificial may not produce the actual dust that dirt throws off--we don't know what the chemicals in that product can do to a horse's lungs, heart, eyes. Like asbestos, silently inflicting mesothelioma--the artificial ingredients in Polytrack and any other artificial may, in the long run, burrow down in a horse's body microscopically and cause cancer. The years of testing required to determine that result weren't conducted in the rush to plaster the countryside with beige/blue/pink pseudo-dirt.

If burning tires and breathing in the chemicals from that action are bad for living beings--what marketing genius decided for us that grinding up tires and breathing them in was a Good Idea?

Just sayin'.

After the last race in Saratoga on Labor Day last year, I took a baggie, walked out onto the legendary track and took some of Saratoga's dirt home with me. I gingerly brought that baggie to Kentucky, a palpable reminder of all that's important to me, all that I love. Of the past 47 years of my shared history with that place. I hope that NYRA doesn't mind that I brought some Saratoga Dirt to Kentucky.

I also took some of that dirt because I feared that one day, all Thoroughbred tracks would be artificial. Maybe not: the results of this new study may stop track operators...well, in their tracks...before the fad becomes the fashion.

I surely hope so, because I experienced something at Keeneland on Saturday that surely broke my heart. I had a ball, I loved the venue, all other aspects of the day were positive.

Except one. One big one.

I managed to get past the throngs of partyers in the apron to stand at the rail for the seventh race. I joyously anticipated That Feeling--the moment the human heart stands stock-still as 10,000 pounds of energy pounds past, the fulfillment of so many dreams, hopes, and workhours. That moment for which spectators crush the rail, to get that single second of glimpsing into Eternity. The spiritual, emotional, physical rush of sharing the power of God.

And it didn't happen. Why didn't it happen? As the horses ran past--they were dead-silent.

WHAT?!!? I felt dizzy, became totally distracted from watching the race's end as I realized that...I couldn't hear the horses as they ran directly in front of me. I was actually thrown off my pins as it sank in that any cushion, artificial surface...absorbs the sound.

I nearly cried as I wrapped my head around it. Much to my disappointment and sorrow--artificial surfaces rob us of the sound, the feeling, of Thoroughbreds pounding past. Like watching a touchdown with the sound turned off, but worse. Worse because those horses running their guts out should give humans the thrill of our lives.

It's that one second of unbridled power that gets human hearts hooked on this sport. The feeling of sub-sonic soundwaves wanging off the track, up through our feet and into our hearts. It's that sound of horses' hooves, like so many crazed soldiers, taking the day.

Imagine if the Battle of Agincourt (1415) had been conducted on Polytrack. The non-sound of 50,000 horses silently surging down the hill toward the unsuspecting Henry the Fifth and his small band. The silence may have been welcome--but that frightening sound was what stirred their hearts; scared the Hell out of them; and caused them to raise their crossbows and win the day.

Silent horses at Agincourt would have been unnerving--but more than that, the absence of hoofsounds would have changed history.

We mere mortals need That Sound, human souls have always responded to That Sound. To rob racing of the frightening, thrilling, heart-gripping sensation of Thoroughbred hooves beating into the ground for one single second as they roar past us--is to steal the very soul of horse racing.

You want to know how to market this sport? Market it to women and minorities. (More on that in next week's column.)

You want to know how to NOT market this sport? Don't take away the one sound on Earth that moves grown men to tears: the sound of joy, the noise of bliss, the clamor toward victory, Eternity and triumph.

Put back the dirt, and grow the sport. Rob us of That Sound--and cut us (and all potential fans) off from the one noise on this earthly plane that connects us to the thunder of God's own creative Hand.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Drunkards, and Floozies, and Sots--Oh, Why?!?

Don Clippinger of "Thoroughbred Times" opined this week about Churchill Downs' latest faux pas--a contest to see who can drink and debauch "the best." at the Kentucky Derby.

Fire the marketing team.

So I was compelled to write to Mr. Clippinger, in response to his excellent piece about Churchill Downs' latest Bad Idea, that of finding a Chief Party Officer for the infield on Kentucky Derby Day. Oy.

I realized that I should share my letter and my two cents with you folks. Well, you know me: it's more like thirty cents, but you get the drift...

Dear Mr. Clippinger:

Opening my mailbox, I was delighted to see that the new (April 5, 2008) Thoroughbred Times was waiting for me.

Doing my traditional first flip-through, I was compelled immediately to read your entire editorial, "What Exactly is the Message Here?". Halleluia and praise the Lord, you said it thoroughly, honestly and succinctly.

I could not concur more. I moved to Lexington from Saratoga six months ago: my hope was to be welcomed into the world of Kentucky Thoroughbred writers, perhaps to get a writing job at a publication with the cache of Thoroughbred Times. It hasn’t happened yet, but hope springs eternal.

You can imagine how it killed me to leave my beloved Saratoga, but, as they say—Kentucky’s the place to be if one wishes to write about horse racing. (Or at least to jump-start the career. I can always go back to Saratoga.) The lore, the legends, the spirit of Kentucky racing—tentatively I left My Old Saratoga Home, and came south.

The first thing that comes to mind when the word, “Kentucky” is uttered is the Kentucky Derby, of course. (Even those who know nothing about horse racing and care even less take time out every first Saturday in May to turn on the television and watch the most thrilling (<) two minutes in sports.) The event itself inspires tears in the eyes of the most hardened of hearts. The pageantry, elegance and beauty of the event in toto remind us every year that yes, this sport is singularly unique in all the world.

I’ve attended the Derby only once thus far, in 2005. I trekked to the sacred ground with two friends, Kathie and her mother, Claire (a fan since 1948, when Citation won her heart and lifelong devotion). We were blessed to sit in the front row of Section 117, at the rail. It was the best day of Claire’s life, and—so far—mine. We had a great time—a bourbon devotee, I consumed three Mint Juleps. It was unthinkable to attend the Kentucky Derby and not imbibe in the traditional beverage, at least a nip.

But after the race. Oh, after the race. As we stood outside the gates of Churchill Downs and were besieged by the hordes of drunks streaming out from the infield—our day was diminished. A thirty-something man tripped, fell and in so doing nearly knocked Claire to the ground. He threw up on the sidewalk directly outside the gates of Churchill Downs, and on my shoes. It’s doubtful that he remembers his Derby experience: we will never forget. The thought that this ugly scenario is played out 80,000 times over every year is beyond comprehension.

That Churchill Downs is encouraging this behavior is inexcusable. To encourage 80,000 people to drink themselves blind and indulge in sexual misconduct that would make a sailor blush is not only irresponsible—it borders on the illegal. A bartender in any Louisville tavern would be fined and fired for allowing just one patron to act out in this manner, and to leave the establishment blind drunk. The thought that Churchill Downs is actually conducting a contest, to find the person who drinks and sexually indulges “the best”—is not representative of this sport. It’s a slap in the face of the horses, their connections and the fans who truly love Thoroughbred racing—the real fans, those of us who’ve stuck with the sport through lean times and fat times.

I’ve tried, to no avail, to get four good seats for this year’s Kentucky Derby. I started trying, and applying, last September. No luck. Four good seats, oh, how I’d love Section 117 again! But I can’t get tickets, so even though this is my first Kentucky Derby as a resident of the Commonwealth—I’ll have to watch it on the telly, as in every year past except 2005. And the thing that upsets me the most about this is that I truly love this sport. It’s my passion. I’ve been a fan for 48 years. I write about the sport; spend every spare moment with horses and horsepeople; and evangelize for the sport, bringing new fans to the fold. I, a true fan and professional in the sport of Thoroughbred racing, can’t get good tickets to the Kentucky Derby, unless I want to join the throng of drunks and trollops in the infield.

And that which enrages me about this concept is that…as far as Churchill Downs is concerned…I’m not as important as those who don beer hats and Hooters t-shirts, pulling two twenties from their cleavages, smiling dopily through dull, sodden eyes. Churchill Downs seeks a Chief Party Officer—mistakenly thinking that drunks can somehow magically be transformed into race fans. How, I ask you, can they fall in love with a sport they cannot see because they’re lying face-down in the turf, covered with divots carved by four-inch stiletto heels?

It’s a blot on the day; it’s an insult to the horses; and it’s a statement of blatant disregard for those of us who still understand that the Kentucky Derby USED to be the most elegant day in American sports.