The will of the animal sings in the hands of the coachman!

 I fondly remember being 19 years old and a young homo sapiens beast jockey. The sport was very popular, and racing animals were not yet genetically selected and improved. Over time, bigger and stronger animals were created by genetic improvement and physical corrections. In those days, we just could choose from among the recently enslaved animals those that were of the physical size to withstand the races.

That's how the human beast 4T8B was delivered to me. He only lasted three seasons, raced for three years, and we even won several races. But soon, its joints began to deteriorate, and the animal started to have pain in its knees, hips, and spine from running around supporting a man with nearly 50 kilos on its back.

The more it was in pain, the more violently I had to whip him to keep the same performance. Before the race, we used morphine to reduce its pain; after the race, if his performance had been disappointing, we punished him with hot irons and whips.

After three seasons, the coach soon realized that we would no longer get the same performance from the animal. The animal was physically ruined; from the wear and tear of carrying me, it was useless for racing.

The race manager and the coach used to slaughter the ruined beasts in front of the others, to set an example and encourage the younger ones to do their best. I was the one who convinced them to sell the animal for other uses. I had grown fond of the animal, I liked to see it cry in pain, and I wanted to hear its groans of suffering.

Twenty years after its sale, I was crossing a street near the jockey club when I saw an old garbage cart pull by an old, ugly, stinking beast of burden.

When the filthy animal passed close to us, I looked into its eyes, and I could recognize my old beast! The animal must have been over fifty years old; it was all deformed from years of hard work, its hide was thick and full of wounds, scars, and ticks.

I could notice that youth's pains were immeasurably worse, and it nonstop cried and sweated and groaned as it struggled to pull the heavy cart. The coachman whipped with constant rhythm and violence to make the broked older beast keep up the slow, suffering step of the heavy wagon.

I'd been retired for five years, and this lazy slut wouldn't last a few more months before It dies under the lash or slaughtered for dismantling and use for flesh and bones.

In my heart, I was happy to see it like this, imagining a long life of hard work, whipping, and pain is all these stupid beings deserve.

On the way, I waved politely to the coachman and commented, "This old lazy beast only works with whips! Hit it with cruelty it deserves!"

The friendly and young coachman returned my sympathy, saying, "This lazy shit is already on his last legs; I work harder than it; my arm is tired from whipping him to pull! I already told the manager that it's not worth it anymore, this is just for slaughter, but the owner's a cheapskate; he'll keep this fag on until it drops dead in the streets!"

At the farewell, I repeated an old saying among the jockeys: "the will of the animal sings in the hands of the coachman!"