Szarak

We were on our way to book him, as they say in this trading world. All we knew was that he, his mother, and the two foals he’d raised with had been taken to slaughter two days ago. And he simply didn’t fit. Luckily, he survived this time and gained a few days. When we got the news, we were there last night at 6:40, negotiating with the dealer. Szarak has a problem with one leg, and I suspect they tried to force him onto the truck, but it turned out they wouldn’t succeed. So they decided to wait a few days.

We’re standing here negotiating, and imagine that suddenly a young man in tracksuits walks in, flashing the dealer his few white teeth. Then they high-five each other, chat for a moment, and he simply walks past us and—as if we weren’t there—approaches Szarak, even though, to him, this horse is nothing. And then he punches him in the rump a few times, laughs loudly, unties the rope, and simply walks away with him. And he walks past us again as if we weren’t there. I look at the dealer, but he completely ignores me. I see Ilia clenching his fists, approaches, and asks what’s going on. The dealer replies, “The customer is king. If he offers $83 more than we do, the horse is sold.”

We didn’t know what to say, because we’d been negotiating for over two hours and knew our limits. We also don’t like to overpay, because we knew that then these slaughter horses for various foundations would cost several times more, and the whole operation would be pointless. But now we stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do. And then a real tragedy unfolded around us, because Szarak was indeed limping badly. The man in tracksuits seemed completely unconcerned. He walked up to the gangway and gave it three tugs. The rain was getting heavier, and the gangway was very slippery. A moment later, another man got out of the car and started pushing Szarak and pulling him by the tail. The horse was bracing itself as if it knew where to go. From what I understood, these men lacked a horse for a complete transport, which would generate a lot of profit anyway, so they probably preferred to overpay Szarak the $83 to get the amount they were paid for.

The grey horse didn’t fight for long. He fell to his knees, looked around, and leaned his nostrils against the gangplank. It was clear his leg was hurting badly and he didn’t have the strength to go any further. But it wasn’t like anyone cared. They continued to drag him by the tail and kicked him a few times. Ilia, standing to the side, knew he had no chance anyway, but he couldn’t resist and rushed towards them. I was already sure I’d have to call the police soon, because Ilia wasn’t the type to stand by. Especially since he’d never been passive in his life, and he was also a border guard. I had a feeling there was going to be a big fight. Though it was somewhat deserved, because these people were treating this horse with absolute contempt, to put it mildly. First, the shouting started, and then I felt my whole body shaking, and I ran to the dealer. I asked him to stop it and that we would pay the man the $83 and the additional $55 he would have earned on the horse. I begged the dealer to step in and break up this argument.

Do you know how it ended? The dealer did it, of course. And now I’m standing next to this horse and I don’t know what to do next, because the man is reaching out for money. We have to give him $410 today because the horse is practically his. This situation is comical, but it’s not the first time it’s happened to us. It happens all the time at fairs. A horse arrives at the fair and before leaving with the right customer, it changes hands three times right there in the fair itself. And here I am, standing in the rain with this horse, I can hear Ilia gasping for breath and rage right next to me, because for those kicks, those two young men deserve justice, not just any money. But as I told you, at competitions and fairs, this is the so-called norm, and unfortunately, in recreation too, it often happens. So what can we do in a merchant’s yard if children are kicking them while they sit on horses, and the instructor stands there, watching, and nothing happens. I feel my hands slowly starting to freeze-I don’t know if it’s from nerves or from this cold and downpour. I’m begging you for help, stand here with us in this rain, even if only for a moment. I promise you hot tea later, but for now, let’s give him those two minutes. And let the world hear the little Gray pounding his twisted hoof on the concrete and begging for the end not to come today, for them not to drag him up this horse trap.