It wasn’t his first sale, but it would be the first he would remember. The sights, the scents, the bewildering, bellowing sounds forced themselves into his memory, tattooed in the manner only fear can.

The morning of his arrival at the sale was a dizzying display of pampering. The large, gangly colt was bathed, trimmed, and even painted a touch—a whitening makeup was applied to his two white feet and the stripe that trickled down his forehead to his muzzle. Teeth and hooves were picked clean, legs were rubbed down, and despite the inconvenient trepidation he’d felt initially, the yearling found himself readily enjoying the attention.

At the completion of the coddling, a number, 29, was slapped on his chestnut hindquarters, and the adhesive that held it on gave the thoroughbred colt an almost intolerable itch. This “hip number” served as identification for potential buyers, who would then refer to the coordinating page in the catalog. There, they would learn of his weak pedigree, his late foaling date, the minimal racing success in his family, where he was born, who bred him, and any special registrations, such as for the California-bred owner’s premiums or, for the most richly bred, the Breeder’s Cup. Hip #29 was not so qualified.

There was a considerable change in atmosphere a few hours later. Yearlings were led from their stalls and arranged in a long line, where various interested parties would come and go, rubbing legs, opening mouths, walking away. Booming sounds emanated from an unseen source, and more and more people were arriving, adding a volume of their own. The chestnut grew agitated, made nervous by the frightened whinnies and tense atmosphere.

Half the afternoon passed before it was his turn out of the stall. He balked, throwing his head high into the air to avoid being grabbed by the halter. The handler grimaced; even as a yearling, this colt was tall, and he’d already learned that tossing his head back would fluster the handlers and elude their lead shanks. Still, massive as he was, he was yet not fully grown and could still be reached -- with effort.

Led from his stall, #29 stood behind a long line of horses. The dark bay colt #28 ahead of him was surprisingly mellow, an advantage of his stupidity. Too dim to be aware of the frightening atmosphere, he simply stood there and mouthed the halter lead shank.

A few came and looked the chestnut colt over, making chagrined comments about his appearance. The handler, as instructed, tried to remain cheery and positive. However, he was aware that this colt would not bring a decent price, and that the boss at home would grimace and cuss over the financial loss this colt would mean.

The colt meanwhile became more and more anxious as he approached an enormous domed structure. There was a walking ring right before the entrance of this building, and it was a good place for him to pace away the nervous energy that consumed him. Here, the heavy air was filled with and the din of prospective buyers and the scent of horse dung and sweat. People were positively everywhere, a virtual sea of human bodies that opened as a horse was led from the ring, then swallowed them up, washing the horses into the crowd. Terrified whinnies broke out frequently, and the chestnut colt became convinced something atrocious awaited him.

One by one, each horse left the walking ring to be placed in a chute behind the building’s door. Handlers had their most challenging work here, attempting to both console and contain the scared creatures in their charge. A noisy crowd that shouted jokes, comments, cheers and jeers to the handlers surrounded the horses on all sides. Meanwhile, above all of this was the piercing electronically amplified baritone of an announcer. It was too much for the steeliest nerved animals, and even some of the people.

A light bay, next in line behind the building door, went into an all-out panic, rearing, twisting, and falling over the low chute walls. Stunned patrons fell back away from the chute (dubiously labeled with a warning to stay away due to “unpredictable animals”). The now wildly panicked animal screamed in horror and immediately tried to right himself, but his forelegs were tangled in the lead shank. Flailing wildly, the little bay eventually found his feet, and his stunned handler found hers. Frothy flecks of sweat and saliva dripped from the neck and mouth of the colt as his handler placed her hand on his muzzle, speaking softly to him in an effort to console. Her worried eyes followed a small stream of blood trickling down his left foreleg. The wound did not appear serious, but any blood is an ominous sight. Swiftly, the crowd parted and the frightened colt was led back toward the barns where a vet would inspect and treat him. It was likely that he would be dropped from the sale.

#29’s handler had turned him so that this frantic display was unseen, but the sounds and smells could not be guarded against. The chestnut colt whinnied nervously, and drippings of loosened bowels spilled in his fear and anxiety. This was a bizarre sight to the unfamiliar observers; but for those in the industry, it was unremarkable.

The mellow dark bay was next in the chute. He was an incredible contrast to the smaller colt that had preceded him, his demeanor aloof, unaware. His quietness was the murmured compliment of the crowd that had slowly returned (although a few chose to stand a few feet further from the chute walls). The murmur grew in intensity as his pedigree was studied and legs observed. The dark bay’s legs were straight, sound, and strong—a most fine specimen. Physical correctness is extremely important in horse racing, where a badly formed leg can both slow the horse and make him prone to injury. Though there are exceptions, horses with crooked legs or knobby knees are typically racing failures. This was the distinct problem of hip #29.

#29, still making his circular route in the walking ring, watched this dark bay with nervous interest. He became quite uneasy when large doors opened up; a separate attendant—dressed in a tuxedo—exited them, took the shank away from the colt’s handler, and led the bay through the doors, disappearing from view. As far as the chestnut understood, the domed building had swallowed him alive.

“Entering the ring we have Hip #28,” the announcer’s tenor voice declared, “and we needn’t tell you whose son this is...” The announcer continued singing the praises of the great value and potential that this equine held.

Taking his cue, the auctioneer began the bidding. “Who’ll give me a hundred, a hundred…” He was speaking of a hundred thousand--the highest starting bid of the afternoon. The horse just before sold after some fairly competitive bidding for a “mere” $72,000. The auctioneer had no problem finding a buyer for $100,000, or $150,000, or $200,000. And the bids kept coming.

$550,000 later, the colt walked out of the arena, in complete ambivalence and ignorance of the excitement he had caused. Just another horse, walking off the stage.

Now it was #29’s turn. He had tolerated the chute behind the door, although he nickered a few times and pranced awkwardly. When the door opened, the swiftness of the change in handlers and leading onto the auction stage gave the colt little time to react. Suddenly, he was on a polished wooden stage, standing behind velvet ropes, with a handler he’d never seen before. There were three men on a bench several feet above and behind him who spoke into thick black microphones. The colt’s widened eyes took in the full circumference of the round room, and its shape confused him. There were so many humans, so much movement, so much noise and smells and lights and sounds—it was bewildering. Nervously, he nickered again and paced; the handler turned the colt so that his prancing turned him in a complete circle.

A couple in the audience paused their conversation and watched. There was a problem—this mammoth colt wasn’t meeting his required $2,000 minimum bid. If he didn’t, he’d be reverted back to his owner, who would then have to take whatever price he could just to cover costs of bringing him to the sale. Most certainly, it would be at a loss.

The woman from the watching couple, perhaps out of sympathy for this futureless racehorse, signaled the bid caller. The relieved auctioneers, who had paused several times trying to encourage a bid with various attempts to be positive about his potential, gratefully took it and wasted little time trying to find another.

$2,000 later, Hip #29 walked out of the ring. It was the closest to a horse race he would ever come.

Things would not go so fortunately for the pricey dark bay. He would win his first race at age two impressively, and was favored in his second. Turning for home, his left front knee shattered while making a move into second. The owners would blame the trainer, and the trainer would blame the owners, but the accusation was the same: one or the other was pushing this horse too hard too early to try to get the half-million investment returned. The underdeveloped colt—racing before he was physically age two thanks to a bit of forgery, against California racing law—broke down.

The owners would be fined an “undisclosed sum,” and the trainer would be suspended five days.

The colt would be put down.

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