Happily Oblivious

All I know about horse racing is that if you cross the finish line, you win. I watch the Triple Crown mainly because of the spectacle, but I can appreciate the performance of these horses under the jockey’s who ride them. To have to keep a wild beast three or four times your size in line takes some kind of skill. From the day they are born, racehorses are trained, primed, and conditioned to run.

Knowing that, it was quite upsetting to see what happened to Kentucky Derby champ, Barbaro, last weekend at the second leg of the Triple Crown. Charging towards his bid for sports immortality, the two-year old colt was pulled up lame by his jockey, Edgar Prado somewhere around 100 yards into the Preakness Stakes. The injury was later determined to be a fracture above and below the ankle.

Being a sports fan, it was a disappointment to see a goal disappear into thin air. It sure opened up the questions of what could have been. However, since Barbaro’s injury, I can’t help but frown. Browsing the last few day’s headlines on MSN about the incident makes me wrinkle my brow even more:

“Barbaro’s hospital known as on of best.”
“A disturbing reality of racing.”
“Prado goes on with life with heavy heart.”
“Are thoroughbreds weaker than ever?”
“Fans support Barbaro with flowers, apples.”

An outpouring of support has been shown for Barbaro in recent days. Signs asking the public to “Pray for Barbaro,” apples and other treats being left at the New Bolton Center where the horse is being cared for. Well wishers express that owners, trainer, and jockey have been brave in light of this life endangering injury.

And while I am an animal lover and don’t believe that racing is cruel, I can’t help but think we’re missing something here. We’re praising the humans involved and we’re hoping the best for Barbaro like he was a cancer patient. Here we are caring the world for this horse, but no one is asking the question on our minds:

Does Barbaro even know?

Last time I checked, horses don’t talk. And unless Dr. Doolittle is in the house, we’ll never really know what his thoughts are. But here we are carrying on about an animal and I’m pretty darn sure he wasn’t aware of the fact that he’s now a part of racing lore. When he was in the starting gate at Churchill Downs, he wasn’t thinking about being a racing legend. He was probably wondering if he was going to get an apple after they were done.

Barbaro probably wanted to eat that wreath of roses rather than wear them.

The horse is the one who has to live with what looks like seven pins, a metal rod, bubble gum, and dental floss in his hind leg. But you know what? He has no concept of the drama that we humans are creating about his injury! Barbaro’s life would be the same whether he continued racing or if he were a regular horse out in the field working. For all we know, he is happily oblivious to anything outside of recovery.

All of this public outpouring of care is nice. And to a certain extent, Barbaro might be a rallying point for someone in their life. Who knows who he’s inspired with his story. I just find it hard to justify praying for a horse when 1) He doesn’t realize it and 2) We got other things to think about. Imagine if we took this much time and effort when dealing with the price of gas or the homeless or education.

It’s almost like we’re wasting our efforts on the horse, because he’ll be happy regardless if we write him a get well poster or not.

Maybe I’m just jealous of the horse. No, not because it’s getting attention, but because he is happily oblivious to the fuss. I know my life would be easier if I didn’t have to worry about the next tank of gas, whether or not public education can withstand standardized testing, or even if the kids Lenny teaches now will run the country into the ground. Who doesn’t long for a carefree existence? But alas, humanity was not meant to be that way. We like drama too much.

Look at Barbaro’s stories and tell me I’m lying.