If I were a racehorse who spent all of my life running my guts out just so people could waste their money, lose their houses and alienate their spouses by betting on me outrunning another horse—not a penny of which is given to me, of course—I would expect a damn good retirement package. A stable on a hill, maybe, with plenty of room to gallop as I please (no jockey on my back, thank you very much), plenty of hay, some carrots, and maybe a nice chenille blanket to cozy up with. Read more
