Muszka

My name is Muszka.
I was a pony for hire for 20 years.
For photos. For smiles. For children.

I lived behind the house, in a tin shed.
Sometimes with water. Sometimes without.
In the shade of their pool, their white Range Rover.

The owners were wealthy.
A factory, an office, a second home.
Always in a jacket, always with a watch.

Their children played with me in the summer.
In the winter, I stood alone, my hooves freezing.
I didn’t have a blanket. I had a duty.

I worked at every event.
They hired me for weddings, birthdays, advertising.
Children, dogs, laughter, and confetti followed me.

The salesman said that’s how they are.
That the world is full of freeloaders.
And they won’t feed them.

They have the same philosophy for children.
And for animals.
Everything has to be profitable.

I was an investment.
I made money.
I didn’t get sick.

And when I started limping,
they bought a younger one.
They put her in the same barn.

They sold me.
Without a word. Without a touch.
“She’s just an animal.”

That’s what they told the dealer.
“It’s just an animal that no longer works.”

As if my pain were silent.

I’m not asking for mercy.
I’ve never been sentimental.
I was punctual. Quiet. Efficient.

But I thought I’d die peacefully.
Not in fear. Not with a knife behind my back.
Not as trash.

Animals truly know.
We feel when death is decided.
When it doesn’t come naturally—only as a decision.

I’m shaking all over.
My body doesn’t know how to leave.
Because my whole life has been just a task.

I have no one to trust.
They cut off their shame long ago.
They didn’t even look back when they sold me.

I once thought I mattered.
That a home is more than a shed.
That children’s hands remember warmth.

But memory is for people.
For us, there’s only exchange.
Old model for new.

Please, light that I still see—
give me $495 of life.

We have 80 hours.

I ask for nothing more than what I’ve earned.
I don’t want to be a freeloader.
I want the right to breathe without fear.

I have fur like moss.
I have eyes that have seen all the seasons.
And I have a heart that still beats.

Not because someone loves them.
But because it doesn’t give up.
Not yet.

If you can, do what they didn’t.
See me.
Hear me.

I’m not just an animal.
I’m an archive of a child’s touch, smell, and voice.
I’m a body that gave its entire life.

Please, let the world give me back even a moment now.
Before it’s too late.
Before I stop being afraid.

We’re raising $495. We have 80 hours—until Monday morning.
For a life that didn’t wrong anyone.
For Muszka.