A Pony Puppy Mill

On the way home from California, I stopped at the "farm" where Rocko was born. Here I was expecting a beautiful facility with rolling grassy fields, filled with beautiful, long-legged bay wonder-colts , running with their beautiful moms. In the distance, on a hill, lighted by a shaft of sunlight, would be Rocko's sire- mane and tail blowing in the wind. What a disappointment! It was like a puppy mill- for horses. The place was falling apart, with chicken coops, rusting out trailers and cars, a terrible cinder block barn and sad-looking horses. The house attached to the property was a dump. After giving myself a pep talk I talked to the Hispanic workers. One spoke English. I told him that I owned a horse that had been bred there. I asked about Rocko's sire, and the man said that he had colic-ed and died the year before and that Rocko's mother was long gone. He seemed very surprised to hear that a horse from there was jumping. He was very nice, and told me I could look around, but I really didn't want to. I'd seen enough. No wonder the place didn't have a fancy website. Rocko is where he needs to be- in a nice barn, being taken care of and loved, and having a job to do.