Second Auction: a short story

There is a damp musty smell in the air; the smell you normally associate with a cold, neglected barn. This place is not much better, but it is much bigger, with an assortment of pens and a collection of horses, and the occasional mouse scurrying around. Horses were here when I arrived last night, more horses arrived throughout the morning. There are all types of horses: large working animals, smaller trotting horses, riding school ponies, and a few old racehorses. Some horses look like they were just dragged in from a field, still caked in mud. Others, like me, still have their sweat marks around their midriff from their last riding activity. Some horses are fat, many are skinny ribby horses.

This is all very confusing, I am only used to other horses like me and the occasional pony horse; I am a racehorse.

We were placed in a corral and just left to our own devices. I guess I was fortunate, Jake put me in a corral on my own and no one has been added. Quite a few horses were shoved together in their enclosures; this has created a lot of anxiety – squealing and biting. Not because we are mean or anti-social, we are just not used to sharing such close quarters.

Overhead there are boardwalks, people are walking along, and gazing down at us. The more adventurous are on our level, carrying out a closer inspection of what is assembled.

I was tired. It was difficult to rest last night. We don’t need much sleep, but this was just too weird a place. I was stood on a dirt floor, no straw for comfort. Through the night there was an occasional call out from a new arrival and a squeal from an anxious animal; it was impossible to relax. My ankle also ached.

I chatted for a while with my neighbor, Indy. He was a trotting racehorse, the kind that pulls a cart in his races. He’d raced 74 times, winning 12, which is pretty great. Like me, he had his aches and pains. Indy had actually been at this auction before. After his racing career was over, he was sent here and was bought by a local farmer. He was used as a driving horse, taking the farmer and his family around the local countryside and into town, in a buggy. Two years later, and a few more aches, he is back again. He has a story.

This is a strange place. I now know it’s an auction, but not like the one I had been to when I was younger, before I started my racing career. At that sale, I had an attendant outside my stall at all times. Whenever anyone appeared interested in me – and there were quite a few – my handler would bring me out, make sure I was clean, and trot me up and down for inspection. Conversations would move from my good conformation to my relatives; apparently my half brother, Ace of Spades, was a Grade 2 stakes winner. I sold well for $150,000.

This auction is very different. No one seems interested in me, no one is attending to me.

I was a good racehorse in my youth. My first trainer, Mike, a great guy, was always keen on me. He had his best groom look after me. I won four races for those guys, including a stakes race which seemed to particularly thrill everyone. Unfortunately, I did suffer from a sore ankle in my right front leg; my groom worked very hard to try to keep it pain free. Sometimes a vet would give me some joint injections to relieve the swelling.

I spent two years in Mike’s care, mostly they were two good years.

One day, after finishing second in a race for Mike, someone from another barn collected me after the race. And this started to happen frequently; I was now competing in a claiming system that moved me from barn to barn, from racetrack to racetrack, until I found myself at a small track in Ohio.

Two years after leaving Mike’s barn, he stopped by to see me. He had shipped a horse in to run in a race later that night at our little track; this was far from the big tracks where Mike usually raced his horses.

I remember the visit well, he was my friend. “Hey pal, I hope you are doing well. You look good,” Mike had said to me. He also gave me an affectionate rub on my nose. But I could detect an uneasiness in his voice, a hint of regret perhaps. We can sense this stuff you know, call it a gift. Mike gave me a mint, before he left he called out, “I’ll see you next time.” I remember wondering when that next time might be.

In my last start, which was only three days ago and two months after Mike’s visit, I got hurt, hurt very badly.

I was what they call, “racing sound.” I had my aches and pains, mostly that right front ankle that I first hurt when I was two, but with some drugs I was able to keep running. But now things were different. My right front ankle had blown. They needed to load me into a horse ambulance after the race to remove me from the racetrack. My ankle was painful, I could hardly put that leg on the ground. The vet who attended to me gave me some pain relief and my groom bandaged up the damaged leg.

That bandage was now long gone, the pain however, was not. Someone entered Indy’s corral and herded him out aggessively, striking him several times on the rump with a bull whip. Indy glanced over to me as he scooted out of his corral, “Maybe see you later pal, good luck.” The old guy disappeared down the shed row towards the sales ring.

This is not good, my routine has been shattered. Things have not been ideal for me at the racetrack over the last couple of years, especially with my troubling ankle. But I know the racetrack, I know the routine. This was another world, and not a friendly place.

No one was paying attention to me at the auction. But I do have a story; I won seven races, I was a good racehorse. I would have won a lot more races if I had not hurt my ankle early in my career. I was very fast. When I won that stakes race, Mike was so proud; he knew how tough I must have been to beat a good group of horses when I was not 100% healthy. Honestly, I really do think he liked me, a lot. He also had pretty ambitious plans for me, if only he could have fixed me up a little more. I know he tried.

A few horses were being ridden in the shed row in front my corral. I assumed that they were being tested to see what sort of horse they were. There was no chance I was going to be ridden; I could barely limp – it did seem like an odd time to put me up for sale.

A lady entered my corral. She seemed nice and talked to me in gentle whispers. “Hey pal, let me look at your lip.” It was a curious thing, but when I went to the races the guy at the entrance of the paddock did the same thing, he checked underneath my top lip. When I was young, someone had placed a mark there, so I assume this is how I am identified.

The lady spoke to a friend, who remained outside my corral, “Shame, it’s too hard to read, there’s no way that we can identify this guy before he goes up for sale. He does look like a thoroughbred, and that ankle looks pretty shocking.” She slipped me a mint.

Yes, my ankle hurt. But this was puzzling to me. Jake, the guy who dropped me off last night who is a pony guy at the racetrack, knows who I am. Surely he let the auction house know. I was a winner of seven races, a stakes winner no less.

I’m also hungry, really hungry! Jake left me here with a flake of hay, but that was nearly a day ago. At the racetrack we were fed like clockwork, three square meals a day, first thing in the morning, after training, and in the evening. A bag of hay is always there for munching. I would eat anything they put in front of me. Where the heck is Jake?

Someone else came into my corral. He did not try to come to me, but used a bull whip and a little hollering to herd me out. It’s the same guy who came for Indy. He’s not a horseman, it’s easy to tell these things. Frankly, he seemed scared of me. Now I was freaking out. Not visibly, in fact I acted like nothing was unusual, I wanted to be cooperative. But inside, I will admit, I was horrified. I also still had those sweat marks on my body from my race three nights ago. Was no one going to clean me up before I was put up for sale?

Bull whip guy herded me onto a machine that was there to weigh me. I was not sure what my weight had to do with things, but I guess a good weight could be a sign of health. I do have a great body, always ate well – when I was fed – and always retained a good body weight. Maybe this is a good thing for me.

The horse in front of me was ridden into the ring. He was not weighed, but he was skinny. I overheard some of the bidding; it was all over in a matter of 30 seconds. The skinny horse was sold for $600; this is a far cry from the $150,000 I had fetched at my first auction.

Now it was my turn.

Bull whip guy herded me into the ring, loose. I thought that was odd. The gallery was packed with onlookers, chatting among themselves. I spied Jake, sat in the top left corner, eating a sandwich. He didn’t seem to show any interest as I entered. Come on Jake, help me out here!

While I did not know Jake that well, he had seemed nice enough. One time he ponied me before a race, I spooked at a black bag that was gusting across the track. Jake jumped off his pony immediately, took hold of my reins and started petting me and whispering to me in a calm, soothing voice. It was a good thing too, my jockey was getting more uptight than me. I won that race. I really needed that soothing voice right now.

The auctioneer made no mention of who I was, he hollered out over the crowd noise, “Does this horse come with a signed paper?” The audience silenced, Jake replied, “Yes, I’ll sign.” The auctioneer continued, “Sold with signed paper, 1,100 pounds.” I had no clue what this all meant, but I knew it was not good; everyone was now looking at me.

Odder still, the bidding started at 10 cents. 10 cents? I could not believe what I was hearing. “15 cents.” “20 cents.” “25 cents.”

There were three people bidding on me. The lady who had been in my corral was one of them, I really needed her to win. There was a guy in a red shirt in one corner of the audience who was also bidding. And a third guy, who sat close to the front and center of the gallery. He stared at me, intently, with his dark, soulless eyes. This third bidder barely made a signal for each of his bids, but was closely monitored by the auctioneer. He lacked basic humanity, we can tell these things. Maybe it was the same with the red shirt guy, but there was something very unsettling about this guy.

The man with the red shirt dropped out of the bidding at 30 cents. The lady’s final bid was 40 cents. The guy with the soulless eyes purchased me at 45 cents and scribbled a note onto a card he held in front of him. He then turned to chat to his motley group of hangers-on.

The whole thing was over in less than 20 seconds. The audience returned to its buzz of gossip.

Bull whip guy herded me out of the sales ring, I was shoved into a large corral; my ankle was really throbbing now – there was a sharp stabbing pain shooting up my leg.

The corral was already full of horses. I spotted Indy in the corner; he glanced over at me with a resigned look, “Things don’t look good pal.”

Whoever the soulless eyes guy is, he bought a lot of horses. Looking around, the other horses were all different shapes and sizes. The one thing we had in common, we were all of good body weight.

I kind of wish that Mike was around right around now. Not too much made any sense to me anymore.

An hour passed, a few more horses had been shoved into our corral, but the sale was over now; people were leaving. The soulless eyes guy came over to inspect his new stock; he is surrounded by his posse of hangers-on, which now includes Jake. The lady is also with them, she appears to be in an animated conversation with the soulless eyes guy and Jake. I wonder if Jake has shared my story.

5 thoughts on “Second Auction: a short story”

  1. I like your writing, but it hurts me to know the sport that I like can cause stories like this to occur everyday……

  2. A sad story. On the writing though, I thought it read well. I didn’t plan on reading it this evening, but once I started, the piece carried me through on its own merit, which means overall I think its good.
    To give you your money’s worth, I’ll stay away from grammar, but a couple of words/phrases hit me kind of as speed bumps to the normally easy flow of the piece. Noted below with a half assed suggestion.
    some injections directly into the joint -> some joint injections
    “A league” -> what’s with that phrase? I can’t imagine this nice horse all the sudden throwing out slang like this
    “good doer” ->kind of same as above
    Should Overweight guy and Soulless guy be formally named, eh, could leave them lowercase for more anonymity? Just don’t know if this horse is a slang throwing, nickname giving type of horse when the rest of his story is honest and simple.

  3. The writing is beautiful. My Arrow knew where he was going and what would happen. I am glad I saved him that fate. They do have those conversations within the context of their species. What if another species came down here and deemed us property. Deemed us less. Deemed us only a dollar value etc. What would we do or could do? A horrible Karma we are creating for our species every day.

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