Clova Chocolate

I was born into racing, and I made it to 4 years old. Still a child when I died, knowing nothing of the world beyond training, running, jumping… 

My last race was on the 14th of May at Perth. I hated it and everyone could see. I didn’t even make it halfway through the race before I ran off the course and dumped the man from my back. I went down as a ‘DNF’. The same day I was reported as ‘deceased’. Nobody said what, or who, killed me. I was just gone from the world, never to be spoken of again. 

There are so many horses like me. We were never anyone’s ‘tip’. We never entered a big race, let alone won one. Nobody photographed us and promoted us. We never earned anyone any prize money, and nobody spoke our names in excitement, in love, or even in memorial. 

We did not give our short lives to racing; racing stole them from us and didn’t even have the courtesy to mark our passing. We are disposable to them. We are gone now and hardly anybody is even asking why. 

My name was Clova Chocolate. I was someone.

Main image: Clova Chocolate’s father, Arrigo. Credit: Gestut Graditz