Celebre D’Allen

My name was Celebre D’Allen and I died nearly a year ago. My last race was the Grand National at Aintree; I was 13 years old. 

Racing is hard for all of us, but especially for those rare few of us who have grown older than the others. You don’t see many horses my age still racing, especially in races like the Grand National. Nobody thought I would with the race, but they made me do it anyway. 

I ran on the Saturday and I died on the Tuesday. I was raced to death – worked to the point that my body gave out. I collapsed on the track and never recovered. I got a respiratory infection that I couldn’t fight, my body was too spent. I couldn’t go on breathing. 

When I say they made me race, I mean they made me race. The man who rode me, hit me, and forced me to carry on when I needed to stop was suspended for 10 days after stewards ruled that he had “continued in the race when the horse appeared to have no more to give”. A 10-day suspension was the consequence for actions that took my life. 

After I died people said my name. People said I should never have had to jump that last hurdle, but the truth is I never should have had to jump any of them – none of us should. None of us would choose this life if choice was something we were allowed. We would choose the safety, comfort, and companionship of the herds in which we should have been allowed to live. 

It’s the Grand National again next week. They won’t say my name this year – they’ve already forgotten me. To them I’m just another disposable machine that they can use to win money and trophies. But I was someone who felt fear and pain, and felt my last breaths burn in my lungs as the world went dark. 

My name was Celebre D’Allen. I was someone.