by Violet Inkpen, age 13

The chestnut stallion was surrounded by the thunderous noise of a race track. The cheering humans were so loud he felt their screams in his head. The pounding of hooves and ringing of bells thundered in his chest. He was running. He winced when he saw a grey horse beginning to pass him. He knew what was coming. Suddenly the wicked whip came at him and slapped his flanks, stinging him like an evil bee. He increased his pace until he could go no faster. Sweat poured from him and foamed at his neck. He opened his mouth and sucked in rapid breaths. He rolled his eyes to the side and saw horses gaining on him. Down came the whip again and he felt his lungs burning. He couldn’t escape the whip, he couldn’t run from the noise. If he lost the race he’d be beaten mercilessly. He couldn’t loose! He dug his hooves in to the ground deeper with each rise and fall of his feet. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, trying to push himself on to go faster. But he could feel something in his front leg giving way. His right foot felt funny.

The stallion was becoming a black horse from the sweat. The noise was fading into a faint whisper for him. He saw the people becoming blurs. Everything was fading. He suddenly collapsed on his right leg, falling just past the finish line. His jockey screamed in anger and spite, leaping off the saddle to avoid being crushed. But other horses raced towards him. The chestnut didn’t care that the oncoming storm of hooves and fury could crush him. He was slipping into a blackness and it felt great to be free from the whip, free from the race.

The chestnut was in a dream world where he was watching himself as a foal. He looked closely and saw that as soon as he was born his owners forced him to his feet and began making him walk with their hands wrapped around his shoulders and flanks. He saw himself struggle to move, to please the humans, and he saw the desperate look he gave his mother, wanting to greet her. “This one will be a champion. I’ll see to it that he is running every day. Got to build his endurance from the beginning!” His trainer snarled. His owner shoved his nose away from his mother and they forced him to walk faster. His legs were long and clumsy and he fell many times before they left him alone to nurse.

He watched anxiously as the tiny foal cried. He wobbled to his feet and began nursing. His mother tried to comfort him but he was afraid of the humans already. The dream faded and then turned to when he was a year old. They put a saddle on him the day he turned a year and began galloping him on a lunge line. His eyes were rolled white in fear and his mouth was opened in shock. They didn’t give him a chance to get used to the saddle before they galloped him. “We should call him something dignified,” his owner called from the fence where he watched. The farm didn’t bother naming the horses until they knew if they were fast enough to make good on the track. Otherwise they got sold to the slaughterhouse because they were ‘of no use’. The chestnut watched himself pin back his ears. “We’ll call him Sultan of Kentucky! A good luck charm name to ensure he wins the Kentucky Derby!” The owner’s wife, a very superstitious character, giggled.

So Sultan it was. The poor horse was worked extra hard every day, sometimes even pulling a cart full of bricks and people up steep hills to ‘build’ muscles. The Sultan who was watching himself in a dream cringed at the memory. Since he was five days old his owner had been using a whip to ‘train’ him. He saw himself stagger at the top of the hill, trying to catch his breath, but down came the whip and he was off again.

Once again the dream faded to black and took him to another time in his life. His mother’s death. He watched her die giving birth. He was in the stall next door. The owner looked at the foal. “Not worth bottle feeding I bet. If the mare can’t feed it I won’t.” And before his eyes his sister was killed. He looked at his dead mom and cried in anger. His owner was cruel and had treated his mother like a foal-making machine! It was like a puppy mill except with horses!

Sultan looked away from the memory. Why? Why did it have to happen? He looked back and saw himself in his first race. Being forced to gallop at the lead the whole time. He came out of that race weak and weary, but did anyone care? No, they went out to dinner and left his care in the hands of… himself. Luckily a kind girl borrowed some grooming tools from the racetrack office and fixed him up.

But his owner was pleased with his performance. From then on it was two races every week. Sultan found it harder to recover each time. True to his name, he had won the Kentucky Derby that year. Now he was seven years old and run down from his hard life. But still he was forced to run.

The dreams faded once and for all. Sultan blinked his eyes open and saw sharp and painful lights flooding his vision. “He’s injured. How long will it take to get him in racing condition again?” his owner barked.

“I’d suggest you give him a rest until next year,” the vet said.

“How long?!” the owner shouted.

“Three months until he recovers. But it would be best for him…” the vet was pushed aside.

“See to it. Three months.” Then the man stormed away.

The vet rubbed his hand down Sultan’s neck. “I am sorry boy,” he whispered. Sultan shifted his weight and screamed in pain. He looked down at his hoof and saw it bandaged up. He looked up at the vet with puzzlement in his eyes. “Ah, feeling the pain now are you? Well I’ll give you another shot in the morning,” the vet said, sighing mournfully. He walked out of the room to attend to other patients. Sultan tossed his mane and looked around. Would he die like his mother? Why was life so full of evil? Would there be any mercy?

Three months passed and the pain was mostly gone, but Sultan did not want to race. He felt sore and still a little weary. But his owner insisted. So once again he was racing at top speed with the whip chasing him all the way. But during the fourth race he ran since being healed, he felt his foot giving way again. He didn’t want to risk more pain, more anger from his owner and certainly not any more dreams! He slid to a stop and refused to move. His jockey wickedly beat him with his whip. The other horses passed and finished the race. Sultan flicked his tail and backed up, rolling his eyes. His owner raced towards him with a huge whip. Sultan saw the tip fly towards him and heard his owner shouting nasty words at him.

The crowd went silent and witnessed this stroke of anger and rage from the famous John Mattock. Sultan of Kentucky was beaten harshly and rapid whippings from both jockey and owner left him scared and bloody. Everyone raced towards the scene and the owner was dragged away by police. The jockey was banned from the racetrack and Sultan was led away to the vet.
After a week of recovery Sultan found himself in a happy home with a family that loved him. He went on long and pleasant trail rides. Even though the family owned racing thoroughbreds like Sultan, they never raced him. He was happy for that. He hated the track.

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In the eyes of a horse, things like the loud noise of a racetrack and the whip can be cruel and dangerous if the horse isn’t properly cared for and loved. It takes love and patience and kindness to make a good horse. Horses shouldn’t have to live in a place where people only care about money. Treat your horse right and they will love your forever.