Profit

It is a little-known law of the cosmos, and one frequently ignored by animals who ought to know better, that if you invite a monster into your garden to settle a dispute with your neighbour, the monster rarely leaves when the dispute is finished. In fact, it usually stays, builds a conservatory, and renames the garden after itself.

The Horse, who lived in an olive grove that had belonged to his family for three hundred years, had a problem. His neighbour, the Stag, kept grazing on his grass. It was a minor, stubborn disagreement over borders, the sort of thing that ought to have been settled over tea, or at least a long, tedious meeting of the Local Meadow Board.

Instead, the Horse went looking for an ally. He found the Man.

The Man was sitting on a crate, polishing a very shiny, very expensive rifle, and wearing a coat tailored in a distant, wealthy capital across the sea. He had a great deal of money, an exceptional collection of heavy artillery, and a habit of referring to himself as an Indispensable Partner to Regional Stability.

“Help me drive away the Stag,” said the Horse. “He is taking what is mine.”

“Say no more,” said the Man, with the oily warmth of a lawyer offering a loan. “I am a great lover of justice, freedom, and strategic real estate. But if I am to help you fight, you must let me put this iron bit into your mouth, and this heavy leather saddle upon your back, just so we can coordinate our maneuvers.”

The Horse, thinking this was a temporary arrangement, nodded.

The Man climbed up. Together, they drove the Stag out of the grove. They did not merely drive him out; they chased him into the mountains, built a razor-wire fence along the ridge, and shot two of his cousins for good measure.

“Thank you,” said the Horse, panting, his mouth bleeding slightly against the cold iron bit. “The Stag is gone. You may get off now.”

The Man adjusted his stirrups, lit a fine cigar, and looked around the olive grove with the keen, calculating eye of a gentleman developer.

“Get off?” said the Man, chuckling. “My dear fellow, why would I get off? It’s dangerous out here. There are wild beasts everywhere. In fact, I’m going to build a high wall around this grove. And a guard tower. And three luxury apartments for my relatives.”

“But this is my home!” whinnyed the Horse. “I only asked for your help!”

“And you got it,” said the Man, digging his brass spurs deep into the Horse’s flanks. “Now trot.”

Over the years, the wall grew higher. The olive trees were chopped down to make room for concrete barracks. The Horse was driven into a tiny, dusty corner of his own paddock, penned in by high gate while the Man rained down heavy boots and iron horseshoes upon him whenever he tried to kick.

Across the ocean, in the grand, carpeted halls of the Great Powers, where civilised men sat drinking sherry under portraits of their ancestors, the Horse’s muffled cries could occasionally be heard over the wireless.

The Horse called out to them: “Look at what he is doing to me! He has taken my land, he has locked my children in the barn, and he is crushing my ribs with his boots!”

The Great Powers put down their teacups, put on their reading glasses, and held a summit.

After eight months of intense deliberation, they issued a joint statement:

“We are deeply concerned by the noise coming from the paddock. We firmly believe in the Horse’s right to express a mild, non-disruptive discomfort, provided he does so politely and without disturbing the traffic. However, we must unequivocally defend the Man’s absolute right to ride, spur, and beat the Horse, as the Man is a key democratic partner and buys a tremendous number of our rifles.”

One of the younger diplomat-clerks raised his hand. “Sir, shouldn’t we ask the Man to perhaps stop digging the spurs in quite so hard? The Horse is bleeding.”

“Nonsense,” replied the Prime Minister, adjusting his tie. “That would be interfering with the internal mechanics of equine management. Besides, we’ve just signed a multi-billion-dollar deal to supply the Man with sharper spurs. It’s excellent for the economy.”

Back in the dust of the paddock, the Horse stood beneath the blazing sky. His back was broken, his fences were shrinking by the day, and above him, the Man loaded another belt of ammunition into a drone.

The Horse looked out toward the distant, shimmering palaces of the West, where men spoke passionately about the sacred sanctity of human dignity, international law, and fair play.

And the Horse realised, with a cold, quiet clarity, that the rules had never been written to protect the horse. They had been written by men, for men, to ensure that no matter how loudly the saddle chafed, the ride would never have to end.