Looking back to my childhood, I have fond memories of horse racing, and in particular, the spring racing carnival. Both my grandfathers liked a flutter, especially my paternal grandfather (who I’m also named after), who would often be seen with the form-guide in one hand, and the portable radio in the other. Many a Saturday after Greek school, we’d find him at the local TAB, scanning the form. While his English wasn’t the best, he could still make out the names of the horses and the jockeys. Even back then, ‘D Oliver’ was one of his favourites.
He and his friends would hang out at the TAB, shoot the breeze, smoke cigarettes (yes, it was a while ago), and generally be merry. (Well my grandfather was merry, I don’t know about the other guys.) On occasions, my Dad and I would just pop in quickly to say hello. My Dad might have even placed a cheeky each-way bet on the next race too. As an adoring son and grandson, I’d watch and look forward to the day when I could do that too, and hang out with the adults. Watch the horses go round, or as I - and many others knew them back then - the horsies. It looked like fun. And truth be told, it was.
I eventually became an adult, and as most Melbournians do at some stage of their lives, I hit up various events of the carnival. Cox Plate, Caulfield Cup, Derby Day, and of course, the Melbourne Cup. Friends and partners in tow, we’d get all dolled up, make a day of it, place a few bets, and (usually) drink too much. We’d always have a good time of it. One night at Moonee Valley, I even made it through to the final of a fashions on the field contest. If we happened to win money along the way, well, that was just a bonus.
Did I know that horses were put down when they broke their legs? Probably. I say probably because I’d never really stopped to think about it, but I’d heard enough jokes about glue and dog food to know what probably happened when a racehorse didn’t quite make it as a racehorse.
Living in the inner north-western suburbs of Melbourne, with Flemington and Moonee Valley not far away - racing was big. Some of my friends were involved in the industry: at least one lad I went to high school with was a strapper for a leading stable, and one of my closer friends and his siblings owned shares in racehorses. I’m pretty sure they still do. While I was no insider, the world of racing was certainly far from foreign to me.
Gradually, over the years though, I began taking less part in it. Friendship circles changed, I moved cities, and it became a smaller part of my life. Spring carnival would come round though, and my dad and I would still have a yarn about who looked a likely winner. A few weeks ago, at the local with a few friends, I realised the Caulfield Cup was about to start. For old times sake more than anything else, and to kill time before the Wallabies game kicked off, I handed over some of my hard earned for Dandino. It ran second, and its run was handy.
Fast forward a few weeks to yesterday, and I decided to stick with Dandino in the Cup. No public holiday here in Sydney, so a normal (and busy) work day kept me occupied. There was a brief hiatus come 3pm, as I joined my colleagues downstairs to watch the race. The race was run, with the favorite Fiorente getting up. As thousands began fawning over the Waterhouse family, and the celebration - indeed, the ‘carnival’ - continued for thousands across the nation, for many it was just back to work.
Then came the bad news, that the French mare Verema had broken down badly during the Cup. Hearing that she had then been euthanised shortly thereafter, was just awful. As close to a hundred thousand people at the course celebrated (or drowned their sorrows), a makeshift green screen was put up, and a horse was killed. Just like that. Barely five minutes after what was probably the biggest race of her life, it all came to a sudden end. The Channel 7 commentary made no mention of it.
For me, this no longer sits right.
To some extent, I do understand that when a horse snaps its cannon-bone, there is probably no other way of dealing with it, and that it unfortunately needs to be put down. In a climate where live animal exports are a political hot potato though, and the way in which many of our Australian exports are slaughtered is gruesome, it is curious that the manner in which failed racehorses are treated right here in Australia, doesn’t seem to attract similar attention and scrutiny.
The Coalition for the Protection of Racehorses, created in 2008, has sought to change this, drawing attention to the plight of racehorses that don’t quite make it to the big league. Their task is a sizeable one, up against the might of a billion dollar industry. Their undercover videos, given little attention by our mainstream media are nothing short of horrifying. Some of them show that across a number of knackeries and slaughterhouses across Australia, thousands of horses meet their final destination. For all the horses that do make it as racehorses, it is estimated that close to double that amount don’t. The video released by ‘Animals Australia’ titled ‘Wastage’, which shows what happens to these horses, is truly horrifying. Away from the glitz, the glam and the colour of the carnival, watching such footage, it is hard to fathom how it can be called anything other than animal cruelty.
The racing industry employs thousands, and does plenty for the economy. My decision to no longer bet is but a mere drop in the ocean. The ridiculous amounts of money will still flow, the champagne bottles will still be popped. I will not judge those that continue to bet on horse racing, nor will I preach. But for me, and I dare say many animal lovers alike, betting on it just no longer seems right.
It may be the race that stops a nation, but next year, I’ll just carry on with my day, and in my silent protest, I’ll spare a thought not for which horse might get up, but for all those that didn’t quite make it.
Elliot Giakalis is a lawyer turned communications adviser. He is also an animal lover and the proud owner of a golden retriever named Sammy.
