Friday, March 28, 2008

The Immortal Bard: Hooflet

To be blunt, or not to be blunt: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler to ignore the stupidity of those that have no equine knowledge or to suffer the slings and arrows of their outrage when you point out they have the brain of a flea and no business owning a horse. Is it better to speak against a sea of misinformation, and by opposing opinion end them?

To die: to sleep, and experience nightmares of horse abuse; No more; and by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand unnatural things a horse is put through. 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd. Let the stupid die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream of a day when all horse people will have to take a test before owning a breathing animal: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of stupidity what dreams may come?

When the horses have shuffled off this mortal coil, and ended a sad life riven with morons and disrespect. This must give us pause: where's the respect, what makes calamity of so long life? For who would bear the whips and spurs of time, the ignoramus's lack of feeding knowledge, or basic vet care, or that a farrier comes every six weeks. The pangs of neglected horses, the law's delay in rescuing them.

The insolence of "gurus", and the cult like followings they engender, stupidity masked as caring. That patient look of the worthy horse when he must tolerate a person with their head so far up their backside they see their own tonsils. The sadness when the horse himself resorts to blunt training measures to enforce upon the ignorant that certain things are not acceptable.

When a person, through laziness, a need to feel "special" or just plain stupidity buries their head in the sand (or manure pile) and refuses to acknowledge that as a horse owner they are a complete failure.

To breed, to breed, and over produce junk that will not sell even in third world countries where cooked spiders are considered a delicacy. Such is the goal of the unknowledgeable and profoundly stupid.

To qualify, neigh, to justify, that a "rare" color, bloodline, or conformational flaw makes a horse so special as to merit its reproduction. We've only to look at their own efforts at producing social baggage to understand why they feel their animals must do the same.

Is there hope? A shining knight in armor to protect our hoof'd friends? Does the ghost of Hi-yo Silver arise to lead them against a plague of idioicy? Neigh, neigh t'is not so. For in the end the only thing that will protect your horses from meeting such a fate is to NOT make any more, and to screen your buyers as if they were applying to the CIA. To do less is to bring about the regrettable fate of so many equines, at the hands of the blithely, and orgasmically ignorant, hordes.

Truer words were never spoken!

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