Ground Zero

"Perhaps it's best I don't see it."
"It's only a 20 minute drive, but I am really busy today."
"If I go, maybe I will end up smelling like it, and that will upset Argus."
"Why would I subject myself to that? What would it accomplish?"

These are the excuses that swirled around in my head each time I contemplated making the short drive to Hell: the place where Argus spent his life in prison.

The address is written on a beat-up pad that sits in my car. I look at it every day. "Heck, you don't even need the address," someone told me, "you will know when you drive by which place it is."

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It's true, when I drive by, I cannot help but gasp and say "Oh, my God." I am stunned into silence. The mare motel where Argus lived is in plain view. It sits only 50 feet from the road, and about 20 feet from a private driveway. I am not only able to get a close look, I am able to see everything.

It's about 4pm when I arrive, and feeding time has just taken place. The four horses left on the property are each in a 12 x 16 covered paddock. Loaves of bread are scattered everywhere. A bay horse contentedly munches from a pile of iceburg lettuce.

There is a stack of hay, and it's neatly tarped. Sealed, almost.

I can see two bay horses and a gray. I am not sure the color of the fourth horse. They all have long, badly matted manes. One looks very thin, the others are in decent weight. They are all matted and filthy, just like Argus was.

There's fresh shavings in the pens, which surprises me. She knows people are watching now.

It's a beautiful neighborhood dotted with farmhouses and quaint million-dollar horse setups. People obviously care about their horses here. Clean white board fencing, swaying pine trees, emerald green pastures dotted with fuzzy sheep and cozy blanketed quarter horses. It's a happy place to be.

All except Hell. Hell is a filthy place with trash banked against the house's walls. The house is an old farmhouse, and you can tell that once upon a time, it was pretty, and someone loved it. Now, it's rotting at every corner. You try to imagine what the inside must look like, but you can't.

There are rusty pipe panels stacked haphazardly, or zig-zagging in crazy lines around the perimeter of the property. The wooden roof supports of the mare motel are so badly dry rotted, they look like they will collapse in a good strong wind. Metal t-posts stick out of the ground, like dangerous swords poised to sink into a horse's chest. I can't imagine Argus being safely turned out here.

There is pasture, a couple of acres of it. But it is empty.

I hear rustling in the bushes. Nearby, a large black dog slinks up the driveway, heading west, a huge loaf of french bread in his mouth.

Such misery. And all within view of the thousands of cars that travel this country road, every day. How did it go on for so long? How were we so complacent?

I sit in my car for a long time, glaring at the house, imagining that she is watching me through a window. I am not afraid. I am making plans.

I glance around the neighborhood and see what Argus looked at all those years. He had a nice view. The property sits on the slope of a little valley, and to the east, and north, and south are many things to see. I can understand why his ability to stand and study things in the distance is so keenly developed, because he had many things to observe. It's what kept him from losing his mind.

There is something familiar about the neighborhood; it takes me a moment to figure out what. I've been here before, several years ago. Ironically, just a few doors down, there is a house that was the center of an Extreme Home Makeover project for television. The neighborhood was filled with workers, trucks, television trailers, equipment and people. It was busy and exciting. It must have been the highlight of Argus' life, to watch the steady stream of people who filed by his paddock on foot.

The thought of it makes me weep.

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Everyone wants to know what is happening with Argus' half sister. She, and the other three horses are still in the hands of their owner. Good people are working hard to get them out of there.

They will not be forgotten.

We are watching you, crazy lady. Your time has come.

Psychiatric Times -- Animal Hoarding