Pola

Meet Pola. They say seconds are the deciding factor. And these are the only seconds when you can do it. Two deep looks and you’re either with Pola or you go back to washing dishes. It is true that the seconds will turn into a minute and the minutes will turn into an hour, but the hours will no longer turn into a day. Tomorrow at the same time, Pola will be just a memory. By Wednesday the memory will fade.

I sit and sip my chicory coffee, looking through the wide shutters at our autumns snatching hay from the horse feeders. These are the less fortunate ones who have succeeded. I drink another sip probably out of impotence and out of a sense that we won’t help everyone. I see the bottom of the cup. I set it down. I walk closer to the door. I swing it open. The cool air rushes in silently and cools my emotions. And although for eighteen years I should have had this realization that the world is not saved, and understand it emphatically, it would have been so difficult to work then. It would have been so difficult to choose the one among the thousands that will die today. Sometimes we choose the old, sometimes we choose the young, sometimes we even choose the kids. Don’t ask me what decides. In fact, I don’t know myself. Sometimes some won’t survive transportation, and sometimes before others a lifetime. Somehow it’s like you’re standing there and you know that this one will come out with you today. Or it won’t come out if the collection fails. So many times I’ve mentioned the one at which it didn’t work out. He was so similar to Poli. He was very old. Pola is also old. Pola worked in recreation all her life. One might even be tempted to say that she was the founder of the center and the stable, where she later worked several jobs. Because Pola went out all paths and welcomed all children. Unfortunately, not only children. Because although Pola is not one of the stout ones, she was ridden by every beginner. Because Pola could be tugged, kicked and chased. And she did not react and never objected. They are such golden horses, as they say. Every equestrian center wants one. Because the customers are delighted. No matter what they do. They are guaranteed that the horse will do absolutely nothing. And my impression is that this is not good for one or the other. Why it’s not good for the horse, I don’t need to explain to you. But I think for people it is extremely unedifying.

I pour boiling water over another chicory. It’s cool. I take my hands away so I can keep writing.

Pola worked at a large equestrian center. When the land was sold and it became clear that all the horses had to be sold too, most of them sold out like hot rolls. But when horse lovers approached Pola, they lowered their gaze. They would quietly say “too old, not so, worn out” and move on. They left with other horses, and Pola just stood and watched. I don’t know if she understood. I, for one, will never understand how you can exploit someone all his life, and then simply get rid of him, and then peacefully go to sleep. I don’t understand what such businesses are built on and why no one does anything about it. And all in the majesty of the law. The owner knew perfectly well that no one would come back for Pola. All the horses had found homes, and the constantly shepherded, kicked and ridden to the limit Pola did not live to see her man in those days. Everyone was very sorry, but everyone said they couldn’t afford another horse. Suddenly everyone was losing their jobs or going abroad. As they approached the old gray mare, she would stick out her warm snouts with hope. It was as if everyone suddenly got amnesia. It was as if they had forgotten how much they owed her and who it all started with. Everyone would come out and say they were keeping their fingers crossed, and then go about their business. And Pola stood and waited like that, until the last door slammed and the last horse left. With a man who didn’t even look at Pola. It’s such a center of equestrian lovers, which has little to do with love for animals. The owner, cleaning to the end, also cleaned Pola. He loaded her up with trappings and took her out to the dealer. He told everyone, of course, that Pola was going to evergreen pastures, and there was a lot of truth in that. But he didn’t say what route it would take to get there. Because it wasn’t, despite appearances, about the evergreen pastures in Mazury or Lublin. It’s not those pastures.

The ones Pola is going to, lead through the Rainbow Bridge. And the narrow corridor of the slaughterhouse leads to the Rainbow Bridge. And tonight Pola will go just through it.

If my coffee with chicory could save Pola, I wouldn’t touch a sip again. But that’s not the order of magnitude. We would have to give up hundreds of coffees today to give Pola life.

Coffee for Pola?
Are we all denying ourselves today to take her away?