by Joe Snyder
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Until World War II came along, the only horses I recall seeing were those who pulled wagons to deliver milk in our Kansas City neighborhood, or those who were used by the Manor Bread Company to deliver goodies from their bakery, or an occasional "huckster" who brought fresh produce from nearby gardens right to our front door.
Somehow I always enjoyed seeing and petting those horses. Little did I know that a few years later, I would be drafted into the United States Army to find myself at Fort Riley, Kan., where I was assigned a horse whose name was Crackers and whose main goal was to make me as miserable as possible each and every time I got on his back.
I have written about this situation before, I think, but cannot recall in what detail or how long ago it was. All I am sure of is that my experience with Crackers during my 13-week Basic training course is embedded in my mind and comes to mind every time I see a horse, even though I have forgiven Crackers for the misery he gave this city fella’ back in WWII.
Actually I have developed a level of affection for horses, even though I have not been on the back of one for quite a few years and thusly spared of saddle sores and tortured skin in my thigh area, to say nothing of my backside. However!
I still get a lump in my throat when I read of the loss of a notable horse. I read just recently that Barbaro, a spectacular race horse, had to be put to sleep – a victim of a world in which horses are sacrificed again and again for the pure sport of humans. Barbaro died eight months after shattering his right hind leg at the start of the Preakness Stakes.
After an injury like that, most owners would have "put down" their horse minutes later. Conscience often comes in last but Barbaro’s owners gave that horse exactly what he had given them, which was everything. That was truly exceptional in a sport where that is often as cruel as it is beautiful.
Humans are not exceptionally good at noticing horses but Barbaro was exceptional. So if his life causes us to pay attention to the possibilities of all horses, his death should cause us to pay more attention to horses and their so-called keepers.
You will have to look a long, long time to find a dishonest horse or cruel horse. I realize today that my horse Crackers back in 1941 was testing me and actually helping me learn how to avoid being thrown to the ground in front of my often more experienced fellow "troopers" and commanding (were they ever?) officers. I quickly learned that if I was assigned a cruel or dishonest horse, it was made that way by the company it kept with humans.
I don’t believe there is a dishonest or cruel horse. If you find one it was made that way by the company it was forced to keep with humans. I believe a horse is pure of heart. Some are prettier, faster or slower – some wind up in a winner’s circle. All of us should recognize the generosity of conscience that was expended in the effort to save just one horse – Barbaro.