The Ghosts of Ponies Past
It's easy to be the life of the party on the necropsy floor.
October is the month when having a mule skull in my living room makes a bit more sense.
Conchita and I have been together for ten years now. She lived with me in my tiny studio in San Jose. She sat on a shelf in my cubicle in Berkeley. Now she spends her days in my living room, quietly observing the life I’ve created for myself.
Sometimes Martini hides in her. Spooky.
She is by far the coolest thing I own. I love that I’ve made art with her.
I love what she represents, too. She is a talisman from a previous life. A life whose scars I still carry, both physical and proverbial. The physical scar runs the length of my thumb, a reminder of an incompetent coworker who left a scalpel blade in the instrument bath. I’m very lucky it didn’t cause more damage. It’s a strange feeling when you’re suddenly covered in blood and you’re not sure which is yours and which was already there.
The proverbial scars? You’ll understand soon.
According to the work-study paperwork, I was a Student Pathology Technician. Realistically, an animal undertaker. A crime scene cleaner.
Why would I take this job? Why would I put myself through this?
By the time I took this job in my senior year, I knew I was no longer on the vet school pathway. Calculus and chemistry had crushed those dreams swiftly and deeply. But I was still determined to go into the racehorse industry and I thought this role would give me more insights into my future.
As I’ve mentioned in the first newsletter, when a racehorse dies on a racetrack in California it automatically becomes the property of the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine. I worked in the lab that processed those carcasses, determining the cause of death and whether or not it was preventable.
The lab and the work terrified me, which made me think I should definitely do it. College was a time of facing all of my fears head on and this was one more challenge to push through.
If I think critically about my career path, a common theme is that I’m drawn to roles where I am a guide. Sometimes a literal tour guide. Others an adviser. I guided baby horses into the world. For this role, I guided animals out of this realm. I wanted to make sure that the carcasses were treated with the respect they deserved.
Sometimes an animal would come to the lab alive and a veterinarian would euthanize it there. I’m glad I was there. I could ensure that the last people the animal interacted with were kind to them.
“It’s okay, buddy. Let go. You’re okay. Good night.”
I think of this job often. How could I not? I have memories for each of my senses.
Smell
The smell would hit you in the face as soon as you opened the door into the necropsy floor. I called the smell “Death.” There were different flavors of Death. Death changed every day, depending on which animals were in the lab. Death was a mix of blood, bleach, soap, formaldehyde, fecal batter, and entrails.
Towards the end of my year there, I could start to differentiate animals by the smells of their blood. Horse blood days were the ones I dreaded the most.
Taste
No matter how terrible the smells got, I still breathed through my nose. I learned early on that you’d rather smell it than taste it.
That’s all I’ll say about that.
Touch
Eyeballs are just as squishy as you would imagine them to be. A horse’s muzzle is just as soft when it’s cold. Plucking feathers is satisfying once you get over the initial shock of it.
Sound
Even now I can still hear it. The worst sound I have ever heard.
Whenever I think of it, my head automatically goes to the side, eyes closed, with a grimace across my face. My abdomen tightens and I can feel my stomach climb up my body cavity.
The sound of teeth dragging across a concrete floor.
Sometimes a horse would be so large that its head would drag on the floor while I moved them on the hooks.
I could deal with the sound of sawing through bones. The thud of a carcass falling into the incinerator. I got used to all that. The teeth, though. Scraping along the hard, cold floor. I never got used to that.
And yet.
None of that compares to what I saw.
Sight
I try really hard to be a good person. There is so much to be sad about in this world so I try to keep the sunshine around for as long as I can. Be the kindness you wish to see in the world.
Part of me does this because I know what it can feel like to be seen as a monster. I worry that my face still haunts someone. I have been someone’s boogie man. I saw my reflection on the expression of their face. If I could talk to them now I would say I was sorry. I would tell them that I cried, too.
I had been working in the lab for almost a year when it happened. A Friday shift. The first day of a weekend shift. On Fridays I would stay late, scrubbing the walls, disinfecting the gut buckets, and washing the knives.
The on-call phone rang and I let out a sigh. Someone was dropping off a horse carcass, but thankfully it was just a disposal. Less paperwork to fill out. All I had to do was get it off the truck and hang it up in the giant refrigerator.
I would still be able to get home at a reasonable time and watch Storage Wars with my roommates.
I turned off the music in my headphones and opened the receiving door so I could hear when the truck pulled it. I drifted back into my disassociation as I cleaned out the band saw.
I heard a honk and I washed my hands. I grabbed a fresh pair of purple gloves and put a new chain on the hoist.
A truck backed a small trailer into the loading dock. I lowered the chain as I opened the trailer door. It was a gray pony. Sad.
As I wrapped the chains around the back legs, I heard the driver speak to a passenger. I thought it was alarming how much venom I could hear in the voice.
“Get out right now. I want you to see this. It’s a lesson.”I had begun lifting up the pony when the driver and their passenger walked to the back of the trailer and stood behind me.
I heard a scream followed by intense sobbing. I turned around and saw a man and his young daughter. Oh no. This was her pony.
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Why is she watching? Oh my God, I’m so sorry, little girl.
I suddenly became very aware of my appearance. Blood was splattered all over my scrubs and forearms.
“Say goodbye to Snowball. This is what happens when animals die. You have to get used to this. Death is a part of life.”
My mind was racing. I wanted to run away. I wanted to shield her from what I was doing.
She wiped the tears and glanced at Snowball before turning her gaze to me.
I was a monster. I was the devil.
I stood there uncomfortably for what felt like too long.
“Would you like some of her tail?” Some owners like to keep some hair and make bracelets out of it as a last memento of their companion.
“No, thank you, sir.” She started to cry again.
I turned on the hoist and pushed Snowball into the lab. I grabbed the clipboard with paperwork and gave it to the man to fill out.
He handed it back and said thank you.
Please don’t thank me. Please just leave. I’m so sorry. Don’t look at me.
She had stopped crying and I followed her eyes as they evaluated me. She studied the blood splattered on my shirt and across my arms. She made eye contact again, with tears welling up in both of our eyes.
I said goodbye quickly and closed the receiving door. After processing the paperwork, I reached for a tag and scribbled “DISPOSAL” on both sides. I cut a long piece of string and tied a knot as I approached Snowball. Usually I just tie the tag around a hoof or ear, whichever body part is hanging closest to me.
I braided Snowball’s forelock and tied it with the tag.
Good night, Snowball.
I cried while I finished washing the knives.
Oh Alberto, that was so heartbreaking; my eyes welled up and I felt like I was there. Thank you for being kind in processing those animals. And about the person who scarred their child for life, I say THAT is the monster. I wonder who fucked them up when they were a kid...