Horse Puckey

I woke up early with plenty of energy, the sun was guarded and diffused by lime green curtains casting a euphoric glow over my bedroom. A beeping was going off on my dresser and I stumbled, bleary-eyed to end my early-morning suffering. Though I was awake and alert, I couldn’t seem to abide the constant nagging and ringing of an alarm clock that couldn’t take a hint. Alarm clocks should know when to shut the fuck up.

I walked into the kitchen to make some toast and put the kettle on for coffee. I settled down at the kitchen table and read some news from the internet, not much good in it and the bad wasn’t much better. The kettle whistled up a boil and I filled the French press with water. I buttered my toast and read about distant troubles, domestic miracles and a mysterious horse holocaust in Florida.

Having recently been in Florida myself, though not being a horse, it seemed interesting to me and I researched onward. It seemed that immediately before a polo match in West Palm Beach, a slew of the horses began dropping dead, some of them dropped dead later in the day on their way home and a total of fourteen were dead by the end of the day.

This makes me wonder if a horse is a horse of course of course and if it is a horse, it ain’t foaling anybody. Somebody had run afoul these foals, for what purpose? To what end? I know about doping racehorses and sending bad investments off to the glue factory, but polo is a game invented and played by the idle rich, who obviously do so to counteract their idle nature for the opposite of idle is galloping down a field wielding a mallet whomping giant balls from one side to the other and looking rather dapper doing it.

Naturally I always assumed the wealthy and privileged classes always had the best stuff, took care of their possessions and always spent the money regardless of personal cost, but maybe this isn’t the case. Maybe they cut corners, squeezed pennies and in light of the current economic climate killed their horses to escape some form of financial obligation. Maybe it was a pre-arranged club or cabal of struggling socialites who categorically decided to assassinate their own horses for the insurance money. Double indemnity pays off triple on business trips and these horses were at work, on the job, gearing up for the game of their respective careers.

I’m reminded of Alfred Hitchcock, a kind of The Birds meets Strangers On A Train. A kind of ‘you kill my horse, I’ll kill yours’ engagement and so it goes. I eat out fewer times a week, make far fewer indulgent purchases and a gaggle of debutantes off their ponies. Is this art imitating life or life imitating a poorly written serialized television program? Is it not enough that the proletariat feel the crunch and gnash of the economy’s teeth as it chews up the workforce, must we punish the upper classes too? And what of the horses? Where is their bailout? When their owners are in financial ruin, will the dog food factory be the euphemism for where thoroughbreds go to die? No mausoleum for Seabiscuit’s brood? Those mighty Clydesdales, the poster-pets of beer-drinking, blue-collar escapism, I fear their respective manes may well be on the line as well. An ad campaign, launched in memoriam for the brave horses that gave their lives, to feed the masses of starved brewmasters all over America.

In all seriousness, it is a very sad state of affairs, I have had many a pet myself and am greatly saddened by the loss of prized polo ponies poignantly pricked from polo-nial platitude. And so it is with a heavy heart I ask for a moment of silence, an ode to the loss of these fourteen dedicated athletes and the ultimate gift to which they gave their lives. I only hope someone has checked on Mr. Ed, for when a horse turns in its grave, everyone within reach and earshot turns in theirs, because of proximity. Hi ho silver and farewell