My beloved friend Pancho is an off-track thoroughbred who has been with me for 24 years. In his youth, in the early 2000s, he soldiered through a vigorous mid-level career on the competitive tracks of Southern California. At nearly 28 now his life is approaching its natural end. Our life together riding trails has been the purest gift. But his slow decline forces me to face the unsettling possibility of euthanasia. It’s a decision that haunts me constantly, like a whispering djinn. Some days are good, some are not. Though I dread the day I may walk into the barn and he lets me know he needs my help to die I am consoled only by the dignity of his life. He’s privileged where many thoroughbreds of his day and thousands since were not. As it was back then, as it is now and will continue to be, for the young racehorse who dies on the track there is no dignity in the end.
As thoughts of Pancho’s creeping decline weighed on me, I took a job at a large equine hospital to fill gaps in my knowledge and learn how best to care for him as health problems arise. But after a while I admitted to myself that the more sincere reason I am there is to observe other horses die. It may sound dark or morbid, but it hardly compares with the deaths I’ve witnessed before: young racehorses with shattered legs or hearts that burst mid-stride, collapsing before an audience in the name of sport.
