One of my coworkers flung a copy of a pop culture magazine across the table in our breakroom. It was opened to a story about Barbaro, the Derby winner and Tripe Crown hopeful who went down in epic form. We had watched him fight back from stunning injury, images of horse hero Seabiscuit in our heads as we imagined him racing again after a broken leg.

The article was about his death following another attempt to mend the animal. "I'm glad he's dead!" my coworker exclaimed. "That horse had suffered enough. I'm tired of hearing about it." She went on to say that she believed the owners had kept him alive so long, not for the love of the horse, but to get him well enough to sire offspring and realize a fortune via his bloodline, since racehorses can't be bred artificially. But I think there was more to it.

I think what she was really protesting was the proliferation of Barbaro stories on the air, on the computer, in our magazines and newspapers.

I could say something about our star-crazed society which takes great pleasure in beating dead horses (sorry, bad pun)--when something manages to capture our attention for a moment. We want to see it from every angle, analyze it, dissect it, consume it, until there's nothing left, and even then, we're not satisfied.

I suppose the message was pounded a little harder here, given than horseracing is such a big part of our culture in the Bluegrass. The spring and fall meets are as much a part of life as going to church--more for some folks than others. Horses are legendary here, and few more so than Barbaro. I saw people weep when the news broke of his death. (I have to admit that I felt a little sad, too.)

Still, it's all about perspective. He was a fast horse. He had a strong will to live, apparently. A good animal. Will it make my life any different, though?

Nope.

Not me. My life is full enough without having to consume that of someone I don't even know.

So, while I wish the horse had survived, I think I can agree with my coworker this much: Let sleeping horses lie.