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20.01.22 Update

Antoś is safe now!

Antoś has arrived on our farm, where he will start a completely new life, free from fear and pain. His eyes still shine with uncertainty, but we are convinced that a little care, a few carrots, aromatic hay and professional care are enough for him to soon understand that thanks to you he has joined the group of the lucky survivors. Of course, Antoś still has to undergo quarantine, a visit from the veterinarian and a farrier, and as soon as the isolation ends – the gray-haired will join the rest of the saved horses.

On behalf of Antoś – thank you!


His Story:

Antoś is a horse like millions. It has his history, he has his beautiful moments, and the less beautiful ones too. But where he stands now, it is the darkest of his moments that he will ever have. And this is the last moment that will be given to him. Because nothing will happen anymore. In 48 hours, the world will cease to exist for Antoś.

Don’t be surprised. This moment is the same for millions of horses. This is the moment when it doesn’t matter where they came from or what they’ve gone through. It doesn’t matter what they want, it never matters. Even if their only dream is simply – it is a dream too unreal for a world in which they are just a piece of meat. Oh, a conflict of interest.



The trader opens the door of the barn, made of old metal, somewhere in the middle of vast meadows drowning in winter aura. We drove here for a long time, we passed winding roads, forest paths and muddy ditches. It stood there, a barn full of life which will soon pass away. Several horses in it and only one that can still be saved. A trader brings horses here from all over the world. As a rule, those that cannot be sold in their home country. Because they are too old, because they are too sick. Because. Each country has different regulations.

And so, by virtue of his age or his disease, Antoś ended up in this gloomy tin barn among gloomy, marshy, frost-covered fields, somewhere in the Subcarpathian region. It served someone, someone exploited it, someone earned what was needed on him. Well, someone got rid of him. Tied briefly by a rope, staring at the wall, counting down the time. Or not. Because maybe he isn’t even aware of what he’s doing here. This awareness will come as the hoof strikes the concrete floor as he strides down the narrow corridor to his end.

When the trader, very irritated, starts to urge me on, I quickly take a few photos of that pleading look in which I feel like I’m going to drown if I don’t get out into the air right now. And I have to go out to ask the world for help. Without it, the countdown for Antoś will end on Friday. I don’t know if they’ll throw him on a truck or chase him up the gangplank. I don’t even know if they will take him to a local slaughterhouse or redirect him to some kind of transport abroad. It doesn’t really matter.



It’s just that Friday night those warm, wet nicks will turn cold. And those beautiful eyes that you can drown in will stop looking at you. And this photo will remain, from the darkest moment that ended Friday night. And there will be no post-scriptum, and neither will there be a second chance.