Eating Horses

       The eating of horses has recently been newsworthy as European meat supplies have been found to be infused with horse meat. The horse meat has shown up in processed meat products (ground meat and prepared meat dishes) where it is difficult to detect, as opposed to prime cuts or hanging meat (carcass).

       This recent debacle over horse meat brings me to a topic I am passionate about — eating horses. I have never eaten horse meat, but don’t disparage against cultures that do. There is a long history of herdsman using the horse entirely and not just for transportation. Horse milk, meat, bone and hide were all used to the herdsman’s benefit. This served as a form of herd selection and improved the horse species as a whole.

       In the United States, the consumption of horse meat, historically, has been in times of need rather than by choice. The horse served a greater role in transportation and in draught (pulling carriages and farm equipment) and was considered too valuable for consumption. As the internal combustion engine replaced traditional horse power, the role of the horse shifted from livestock to that of companion or pet and with that shift, a change in the attitude of people concerning the slaughter of horses for meat.

       Friends and associates, you know me. I have been outspoken on my feelings concerning horses and animals in general. Some of you have described me as an “animal lover,” a title I won’t argue.

       How do you think I stand on this issue? How do you stand on the issue, would you include horse in your diet if you had the choice?

       Over the next few blogs, I will present a few arguments for and against horse slaughter and consider the consequences. I will also show how this topic affects us all.

Hey Cowboy, Where’s Your Hat?

                As a student at Sinclair Community College, I was introduced to the “Hat” concept in small group communication class. The textbook introduced the idea of six thinking hats signifying six approaches to decision making and problem solving¹.This was easy for me to understand, I was introduced to the concept when working an open pit copper mine in the mountains of the southwest. In a high risk environment such as mining, this was one of many tools used to minimize the risk. Sound teaching from an excellent class!

Out in the western world, you most often have to stuff all those hats under one hat. Your small group consists of a couple of good horses and a cow dog, if you’re lucky. For the most part hazards are minimized by considering the consequence of actions taken. You put your hat on in the morning, or the consequences are brain fry, or brain freeze, depending on the season. My hat was a necessary piece of equipment.

Here in school, my hat is a distraction. There is enough “noise” in our learning environment without me adding to it with an unnecessary appendage. I would be compelled to take my hat off in class, adding to the noise around us, and I’d wear a hole in the brim tipping my hat to the ladies on campus!

I wore my hat on campus on two occasions; once for a speech class topic on the unwanted horse problem in America, and once for the Martin Luther King Jr. walk. I did this in an effort to break stereo type, and because I marched not for his color, but for his character. My hat is off to the man no matter what!

How do you wear your hat?

Works Cited

¹Myers, Scott A. and Anderson, Carolyn M. The Fundamentals of Small Group Communication  Los Angeles, Sage Productions 2008 print

       I stood in the middle of the Little Miami River with a horse in each hand; we were savoring the cool flow of water around our legs. We were just short of our destination in the Waynesville area of Ohio and after 20 hours straight driving the horses and I were a bit shaky. My cat and dog were safe in their carriers and my thoughts were free to roam. The horses and I stood in silent wonder of the water in the middle of the Little Miami.

      
       It was the beginning of September 2010 and we had just high-tailed it out of the desert country of southeast New Mexico. I had been working a big spread about 60 miles north east of the city of Carlsbad, famous for its caverns and mining interests. The V-Steeple Ranch was seventy square miles of upper Chihuahua desert; a mix of poorly maintained private and BLM lease land that pastured 600 head of cattle. They were tough cattle in a tough land.

       Water was of course critical in the desert, and the water system for keeping the cattle alive was working, but just barely. Only a third of the available “drinkers” had water in them.  I was determined to get the water working to capacity for both me and the cattle.

       I saddled the big bay horse, “Kenny”, and headed out to the target pasture at first light. We followed a water pipeline toward its source; a huge tank at an oil and gas pumping yard about 15 miles southwest of ranch HQ. The target pasture was so named because it was once a target range for WWII fighter aircraft. Every once in a while I would come across a concrete dummy bomb that had been dropped years ago.

       I was glad to be on ole’ Kenny, he was a long legged crossbred and big in stature and stride. He wasn’t worth a damn for roping. But he sure could eat up desert miles, no matter how hot it got. After passing four dry drinkers, I became worried. The cattle would head for the earth tanks. These are large areas dozed out to collect rain water. Good during the short monsoon season, but as summer heat bears down they become a muddy trap. I reined Kenny west and headed for an earth tank about three miles through desert mesquite and dunes, looking for cow signs as we went. I eased the bay horse down off the ridge that surrounds the earth tank; I could see a cow mired in the mud.

       As I rode up I could see signs she had been trapped for some time. The mud around her was wallowed out and there was a substantial pile of dung at her backside. She was buried to mid belly, her chest and haunches were all I could see. The only signs of life were her labored breathing and eye roll as I approached.

The hot desert sun had taken its toll on this poor cow; she was dehydrated beyond help and destined to die where she was. She looked at me with death in her eyes, and I with tears in mine. I lifted her head and pushed the point of my knife through the skin of her throat in search of the carotid artery from which to bleed the misery from her. I cursed myself for not packing a pistol with me as the knife gave the sensation of cutting boot sole, so dry was her skin. The artery found and severed, her blood pumped like thick hot motor oil over my hand and knife and onto the mud that would become her tomb. She gave up the ghost with a relieved sigh as I pushed her eyelids closed. I got up and rode away from that place of mud and blood and tears.

       Three weeks later, with the desert behind me, I’m standing in the middle of the Little Miami River with its life giving water flowing around me. The horses chortle softly through their nostrils, and I smile at Ohio’s cool wet welcome.