Pen 44
Somewhere, four hours' drive from here, a horse stands in the dark, in a new place he's never been before.
He doesn't know why.
New places are too common lately; in the last day he has been in at least three different trucks, emerged somewhere foreign, with herdmates he has never met. They have all been frightened together, touched muzzles, shared breath, taken comfort.
He doesn't know why.
He was taken, three days ago, from the place where he was, from the others he was with, led into a truck and out into a noisy place with strange, fearful horses and shouting. People gathered around him, staring, numbers were shouted all around him, they left, he was led into a truck with some of the frightened others and out into a different place with them.
He doesn't know why.
This morning he and the others, herdmates barely-forged, were taken from the place where they were, led into a truck, crowded together, and out into another noisy place, driven through a gauntlet of frightened, calling others, voices all around, fearful snorting, and sticks behind. He ran through the corridors, new herd crowding around, the little ones under his legs, hiding wild-eyed. There was a herd's comfort in closeness, but sticks and flapping arms separated them into steel-bound yards, one in each.
He doesn't know why.
He ran, though there was not a stride's worth of space, crashed into steel, frightened his herdmate of three days into spinning from him. She crashes in turn, he runs, and on the other side, the two little ones huddle from the noise, staring and snorting. He runs again, half a stride, cut short. All around, people gather and watch.
He doesn't know why.
With nowhere to go, he stands in the centre of the steel, shaking at the noise, a hundred separate scents of fear and sweat and people and blood. Every muscle taut to trembling, eyes wide. He's surrounded; the mare who was his herdmate pushes against the fence that separates them, calling him, calling. It's just more noise. A human opens the gate, closes it with a crash, the noise makes him start and he runs again, in tiny circles, sweat breaking, and when there is nowhere left to go, he stops, frozen, trembles. Rope is placed on his head, he is led around, spun, pressed with hands. The rope is removed and the human leaves.
He doesn't know why.
It was not always like this.
He doesn't know why.
He stands for hours. There is no food. The mare sorts through the sawdust for stray strands of hay. The little ones huddle, small, near the fence, quiet and wary. Another human enters the yard, eyes on his, gate closed quiet, stands looking at him, hands stroke gently, soft voice that captures an ear, holds it. He's ready to run, spin, but the touch on his neck softens his breath, the touch on his face closes his eyes, briefly. Then the noise begins again and there is no quiet here. There is still blood on the rails across the way from a previous inhabitant who has been taken elsewhere.
He doesn't know why.
She leaves, her eyes sad.
He doesn't know why.
For a while he is left alone. Then, there is movement and noise from across the great, covered yard, panicked hoofbeats from where the humans cluster, voices raised, increasingly. A loud bang. Murmurs, then the noise, the hoofbeats begin again, a clang as a strange horse's chest meets metal. He can't see her, but he's caught hints of her scent across the yard. The voices clamour fast numbers, bang! then quiet. Again, and again. He remembers this. They will get closer.
He doesn't know why.
The slow pulse of chaos pumps through the yard, leaving panting, white-eyed, salt-flanked horses, or unresponsive hollow animals in its wake. It draws closer. His head lifts, muscles tighten, fear rises. Sensitive nostrils flare, information-seeking. He should flee. He can't; none of them can. The mare clangs a sudden hoof against the fence; on the other side of him the little ones have withdrawn utterly and do not even hear it. The tide of noise rolls closer.
Then they are all around him, humans, staring at him. On the metal walkway above, footsteps and a staccato voice, barking. He lurches away, cranes his neck to see, and one kicks dirt at him, to see him leap from it. They laugh. His fear makes him beautiful.
He doesn't know why.
The voices keep rising, and he simply stands and trembles, caged by the cacophany that closes around him from all sides. So many eyes on him, and so much noise. He knows the rhythm by now; it must end soon. There is a bang above him. It still makes him start. The humans leave, move along the rail, stare at the unseeing little ones that were his herdmates. The noise begins again, but it's rolled past him. Somehow he knows this, and finds the water, drinks it and the larvae in it, stale though it is. The fluttering of his sides subsides, flinching only slightly at the next bang that comes from above the little ones' heads.
Then it is done, and the humans disperse, flowing past him. Some come back with sticks; his herdmates are driven down the corridor, into separate trucks. He calls, but they do not answer. A man stands at his gate with a stick, and he is tight again, frozen, ready to be driven. The man leaves. Other horses are driven past him, loaded and driven away. They call to their own herdmates; herds of two formed for comfort in the noisy, fear-filled space, now separated again. Horses are always saying goodbye.
He doesn't know why.
The numbers shouted about him were a lottery; the gavel bang on steel railings a judgement about which truck you are chosen for.
He is left almost alone; a hundred others have departed, or been crowded together into the pens, where the calling becomes squealing, roaring, kicking. Clang of hooves, legs, chests on steel railings. One mare far down the corridor screams again and again for her companion of the last two years, loaded with a dozen others, the answering whinney is faint across the carpark but her ears prick at it and she paces relentlessly, even after the vehicle is out of sight.
A wheelbarrow, carrying the first hay of the day, now that the sun is low, grumbles along the corridors. Its passage is now marked by hopeful whickers; horses who have been sorting through sawdust and old manure for hours to find wisps of hay finally see an end to the gnawing hunger and acid burn of empty stomachs. There is only feed for eleven horses; the others watch, as they are passed by, unfed, or they thread delicate necks through the bars to catch the stray edge of a neighbour's feast.
They don't know why.
We think of horses as powerful and majestic. To us they are symbols of freedom, wildness. We borrow wildness in our proximity to them.
The price of our borrowed wildness is their utter vulnerability; they make no choices for themselves. Not of food, or friends, or fences. Not of warmth or shelter. Not of rest or profession. Not of their lives or deaths.
I look at him, still supple in his exhaustion, all that fruitless power spent, and get his hay, watch his eyes brighten
He's one of the lucky few; his were winning numbers. My numbers.
He doesn't know why.
Later that evening, when the shadows of the bars had lengthened across the floor, and the calling had finally stopped, another human comes for him. I like to think that her voice and hands are soft, as she loads him onto yet another truck, him alone, without his herdmates. There is another journey, and then he is in another strange place, with new herdmates. They touch muzzles, share breath, take comfort. There is food.
Somewhere, four hours' drive from here, a horse stands in the dark, in a new place he's never been before.
He doesn't know why.
And in another day, he will be led again into a truck, and out again, another journey, and then he is in another strange place, with new herdmates. It has rolling hills, long horizons, and a future of soft hands, quiet voices, no more lotteries.
I don't know how long it might take to realise that this place, which he has not chosen, will be his home. This herd, which he has not chosen, will be his family. This love I give to him, which he has not chosen, will be his to accept. But within that absolute vulnerability, I can only hope that there will be peace for him, and such happiness as horses can take from such a world.
And my job, from now and for the rest of his days, is to make sure that when I must ask something of him, he knows why.
He doesn't know why.
New places are too common lately; in the last day he has been in at least three different trucks, emerged somewhere foreign, with herdmates he has never met. They have all been frightened together, touched muzzles, shared breath, taken comfort.
He doesn't know why.
He was taken, three days ago, from the place where he was, from the others he was with, led into a truck and out into a noisy place with strange, fearful horses and shouting. People gathered around him, staring, numbers were shouted all around him, they left, he was led into a truck with some of the frightened others and out into a different place with them.
He doesn't know why.
This morning he and the others, herdmates barely-forged, were taken from the place where they were, led into a truck, crowded together, and out into another noisy place, driven through a gauntlet of frightened, calling others, voices all around, fearful snorting, and sticks behind. He ran through the corridors, new herd crowding around, the little ones under his legs, hiding wild-eyed. There was a herd's comfort in closeness, but sticks and flapping arms separated them into steel-bound yards, one in each.
He doesn't know why.
He ran, though there was not a stride's worth of space, crashed into steel, frightened his herdmate of three days into spinning from him. She crashes in turn, he runs, and on the other side, the two little ones huddle from the noise, staring and snorting. He runs again, half a stride, cut short. All around, people gather and watch.
He doesn't know why.
With nowhere to go, he stands in the centre of the steel, shaking at the noise, a hundred separate scents of fear and sweat and people and blood. Every muscle taut to trembling, eyes wide. He's surrounded; the mare who was his herdmate pushes against the fence that separates them, calling him, calling. It's just more noise. A human opens the gate, closes it with a crash, the noise makes him start and he runs again, in tiny circles, sweat breaking, and when there is nowhere left to go, he stops, frozen, trembles. Rope is placed on his head, he is led around, spun, pressed with hands. The rope is removed and the human leaves.
He doesn't know why.
It was not always like this.
He doesn't know why.
He stands for hours. There is no food. The mare sorts through the sawdust for stray strands of hay. The little ones huddle, small, near the fence, quiet and wary. Another human enters the yard, eyes on his, gate closed quiet, stands looking at him, hands stroke gently, soft voice that captures an ear, holds it. He's ready to run, spin, but the touch on his neck softens his breath, the touch on his face closes his eyes, briefly. Then the noise begins again and there is no quiet here. There is still blood on the rails across the way from a previous inhabitant who has been taken elsewhere.
He doesn't know why.
She leaves, her eyes sad.
He doesn't know why.
For a while he is left alone. Then, there is movement and noise from across the great, covered yard, panicked hoofbeats from where the humans cluster, voices raised, increasingly. A loud bang. Murmurs, then the noise, the hoofbeats begin again, a clang as a strange horse's chest meets metal. He can't see her, but he's caught hints of her scent across the yard. The voices clamour fast numbers, bang! then quiet. Again, and again. He remembers this. They will get closer.
He doesn't know why.
The slow pulse of chaos pumps through the yard, leaving panting, white-eyed, salt-flanked horses, or unresponsive hollow animals in its wake. It draws closer. His head lifts, muscles tighten, fear rises. Sensitive nostrils flare, information-seeking. He should flee. He can't; none of them can. The mare clangs a sudden hoof against the fence; on the other side of him the little ones have withdrawn utterly and do not even hear it. The tide of noise rolls closer.
Then they are all around him, humans, staring at him. On the metal walkway above, footsteps and a staccato voice, barking. He lurches away, cranes his neck to see, and one kicks dirt at him, to see him leap from it. They laugh. His fear makes him beautiful.
He doesn't know why.
The voices keep rising, and he simply stands and trembles, caged by the cacophany that closes around him from all sides. So many eyes on him, and so much noise. He knows the rhythm by now; it must end soon. There is a bang above him. It still makes him start. The humans leave, move along the rail, stare at the unseeing little ones that were his herdmates. The noise begins again, but it's rolled past him. Somehow he knows this, and finds the water, drinks it and the larvae in it, stale though it is. The fluttering of his sides subsides, flinching only slightly at the next bang that comes from above the little ones' heads.
Then it is done, and the humans disperse, flowing past him. Some come back with sticks; his herdmates are driven down the corridor, into separate trucks. He calls, but they do not answer. A man stands at his gate with a stick, and he is tight again, frozen, ready to be driven. The man leaves. Other horses are driven past him, loaded and driven away. They call to their own herdmates; herds of two formed for comfort in the noisy, fear-filled space, now separated again. Horses are always saying goodbye.
He doesn't know why.
The numbers shouted about him were a lottery; the gavel bang on steel railings a judgement about which truck you are chosen for.
He is left almost alone; a hundred others have departed, or been crowded together into the pens, where the calling becomes squealing, roaring, kicking. Clang of hooves, legs, chests on steel railings. One mare far down the corridor screams again and again for her companion of the last two years, loaded with a dozen others, the answering whinney is faint across the carpark but her ears prick at it and she paces relentlessly, even after the vehicle is out of sight.
A wheelbarrow, carrying the first hay of the day, now that the sun is low, grumbles along the corridors. Its passage is now marked by hopeful whickers; horses who have been sorting through sawdust and old manure for hours to find wisps of hay finally see an end to the gnawing hunger and acid burn of empty stomachs. There is only feed for eleven horses; the others watch, as they are passed by, unfed, or they thread delicate necks through the bars to catch the stray edge of a neighbour's feast.
They don't know why.
We think of horses as powerful and majestic. To us they are symbols of freedom, wildness. We borrow wildness in our proximity to them.
The price of our borrowed wildness is their utter vulnerability; they make no choices for themselves. Not of food, or friends, or fences. Not of warmth or shelter. Not of rest or profession. Not of their lives or deaths.
I look at him, still supple in his exhaustion, all that fruitless power spent, and get his hay, watch his eyes brighten
He's one of the lucky few; his were winning numbers. My numbers.
He doesn't know why.
Later that evening, when the shadows of the bars had lengthened across the floor, and the calling had finally stopped, another human comes for him. I like to think that her voice and hands are soft, as she loads him onto yet another truck, him alone, without his herdmates. There is another journey, and then he is in another strange place, with new herdmates. They touch muzzles, share breath, take comfort. There is food.
Somewhere, four hours' drive from here, a horse stands in the dark, in a new place he's never been before.
He doesn't know why.
And in another day, he will be led again into a truck, and out again, another journey, and then he is in another strange place, with new herdmates. It has rolling hills, long horizons, and a future of soft hands, quiet voices, no more lotteries.
I don't know how long it might take to realise that this place, which he has not chosen, will be his home. This herd, which he has not chosen, will be his family. This love I give to him, which he has not chosen, will be his to accept. But within that absolute vulnerability, I can only hope that there will be peace for him, and such happiness as horses can take from such a world.
And my job, from now and for the rest of his days, is to make sure that when I must ask something of him, he knows why.