Death's Waiting Room for Horses

This is death row, this is the poor little meat horses who have been sold to the butcher - this could have been Vodka donkey, been weighed, price paid for me, ready to go on the lorry on my final journey.

Mum says it is so painful to see these pictures, all the poor innocent young horses, all dead now, hanging up in a Boucherie Chevaline by now. Most of them never had names, never knew much kindness in their short brutish lives - and they died a pretty nasty death.

She says that whenever I am a bad donkey, I should remember these pictures and appreciate what a lucky girl I am. This was my destiny and I evaded it.

I am concerned that it may still be lurking behind a bush, waiting to catch up with me, but mum says destiny doesn't tend to work that way. It wasn't my destiny to go for the chop, or be made into chops.

I am so relieved, it makes me very ashamed that this morning I attacked Ferguson, tried to pull his rug off, hung from his neck, bit his short stumpy legs, then chased him around in circles - he would never admit it but he loves it really. When he has had enough he boots me fair and square and I give up.

These poor little ponies won't get to play any more. I shall have to think of ways to save some of them.