What You Don't Know about the Kentucky Derby

A few years ago, I went to my local pet store to pick up some grub for my doggies, only to discover the owner, Sherman (a chick), weeping inconsolably.

Sherman not only runs the place but does great animal rescue work. She had arranged to save a racehorse from going to slaughter that day but the person who had promised to take the horse backed out at the last minute.

So, a trailer with a 1400-pound animal was pulling up to the store and she had no solution.

I really did not want to get involved. Unlike apparently all other women, I've never been a big fan of horses. Never owned one, never rode one, never wanted to.(I tend to stay far away from anything that weighs over 1000 pounds with a brain the size of a walnut.)

But the sight of this beautiful creature being led down the ramp.... and knowing it was gonna be Alpo if something didn't happen quick.... did a number on my common sense.

Next thing I knew, these words came out of my mouth: "What will it cost?"

"Fifty cents a pound. That's what the slaughterhouse is getting."

Seven hundred bucks later, I was standing on the corner of Busch and Pacific Coast Highway, holding a rope harness attached to a beast named Not A Chance.


He was a thoroughbred gelding and a winning one. He'd pulled in nearly $350,000 in his career. But he had gotten a little arthritis, so the owner had no qualms about sending him off to be meat on someone's table.

When I got him, there wasn't much meat left. He was literally skin and bones. It was clear he hadn't been fed a real meal in a long time. He was very skittish and uncomfortable in open spaces; apparently, his entire life, he was brought out of his stall only to practice and race. When I tried to get Chance to eat a carrot, he had no idea what to do with it. Most racehoses never get treats, so Chance had never tried one.

I did some fast talking and found a great couple with a ranch who volunteered to give Chance room and board. And I persuaded two of my friends to co-own him (which really meant sharing some food and medical expenses). He was renamed Chester for reasons I don't recall and ended up spending his days grazing in meadows and pining for a quarterhorse named Miss Tuffy, who was the shameless whore of the stables.

He died just a few weeks ago of kidney failure.

To me, he was just like a giant but really stupid dog. And he was sweet as hell, the star of the stable, ridiculously affectionate and kinda goofy. There were no dry eyes when the big guy took his last breath.

Was saving him a good choice? I dunno, in hindsight, I'm not too sure. My tendency is to spend my limited discretionary income helping human animals. I seriously doubt I would have made the choice had there not been such urgency attached to the decision.

But am I sorry I did? No. Chester was a great guy who gave joy to many, including lots of schoolkids (he was part of a local "Pet a Horse" program). And I learned some pretty important information about the dark underside of horse racing. Folks, don't kid yourselves: it's a dirty business.

All these people weeping for friggin' Barbaro might want to consider the thousands of race horses treated cruelly throughout their brief lives, then carted off and hauled down chutes to their deaths in seedy domestic and foreign abattoirs. (We're great at selective caring in this country, it seems.)

Remember that for every retired thoroughbred shot in slo-mo trotting through a swath of Kentucky bluegrass, there are a hundred shot in the head when their earning days are over.

Yes, there are many thoughtful and decent owners. But they are in the minority.

And no, this isn't dog fighting. The folks who run these operations wear bonnets and sip juleps. And they're much smarter at covering up their bloody tracks.