Lobuz

They sold him.

Because he was “naughty.”
Because he wouldn’t stop when they wanted him to.
Because he wasn’t a machine.

“Stop, you idiot!”
“Moron, not a horse!”
“You wimp, stop while they take pictures!”

Do you know how many sentences like that you have to hear as a horse?
Not in one day. Not in one year. A lifetime.

The bully heard them millions of times.
Millions of times he was dragged by the muzzle. Millions of times he was kicked, whipped, jerked, kneed in the side.
For fear.
For not understanding.
For being alive.

No one taught him. No one listened to him. No one tried to understand.

From the beginning, he was supposed to be “obedient.” Like a tool.
Like a thing.

And today he stands in the snow.
Minus 10 degrees.
The cold seeps into his bones.
Steam billows from his nostrils like his last breath.

And he faces the final judgment.

There is no jury.
No lawyer.
Not even a prosecutor.

There is only him.
And the verdict.

A verdict that cannot be argued with. Because no one has any interest in it. And where there is no interest,
there is no mercy either. No conscience. No help.

He stands and stares.
Quietly.
As always, when he didn’t understand what was wanted from him.

I don’t know if he knows yet.
I don’t know if he understands yet.
But I know one thing:
When he understands, it will be too late.

Because to the world, he’s just a horse.
“Unprofitable.”
“Problematic.”
“For sale.”

For us, this is someone whose entire life was taken away
and who today has one last chance.

Today we’re raising a $340 deposit for him. Not for a miracle.

Not for promises.

On time. For a few more days.

For a break between life and death.

For the moment when someone finally says:
“You don’t have to do anything anymore. You’re safe now.”

Will you join us today?

Because sometimes a single decision

separates silence from screaming,

and life from a truck heading to slaughter.

We have 48 hours.