who will be killed tomorrow. No, not by me.
The horse is sick and the vet cost would be sky high. Perhaps, some of you with kind hearts may send some comforting thoughts/energy towards this horse.
We are all connected.

The quote below is from the book by R Monroe, titled “Far Journeys”.

“. . . Our little dog with the funny name, Steamboat, he is walking with me along the road in early morning . . . he is such a friend . . . his bright gladness at seeing me . . . he actually grins when he wants you to know what a nice guy he is, just because that's what his human close-by god does . . . his seeming need to be with you, enthusiastically do what you want to do . . . just a word from me, and he comes running to me joyfully . . . it's much more than the fact that I feed him, most of what we do has no relationship to such . . . w e have a bond that might be called friendship, he's succeeded in making friends with his god, doing things together, that's pretty good stuff, making friends with your god . . . now he's been diverted into the wooded bank alongside the road, eagerly seeking an ever-elusive rabbit, but after a short search, he will return, bounding across the road to walk just in front of me again .
. . then I hear a vehicle, a car or truck, approaching behind the blind curve and I call to Steamboat to come to me, stand and be where it is safe . . . it is a truck, and it comes around the curve quickly, too quickly . . . just ten feet away from passing me, Steamboat leaps down the bank from the woods and directly under the wheel of the truck . . . there is a rending scream as the wheel grinds over the lower half of his body, flattening it completely . . . the truck moves away and stops, and the driver gets down from his cab, sadly apologetic . . . I get to where
Steamboat is still trying to come to me, his front legs trying to drag the crushed half across the road to where I am . . . I sit down on the road in front of him, and he stops trying to move as I reach out and rub his head, tears forming in my eyes as minuscule evidence of the deep sorrow within me . . . through my hand, I feel the heavy tremors moving through his body from the pain, and he licks my hand and looks up at me, asking, hoping his god will take care of the pain . . . I look at his body, the damage so irreparable there is no hope . . . he licks my hand again . . . and I accept the responsibility . . . I get up and move to the waiting truck driver, removing
my pullover shirt as I go . . . a look passes between us and he knows that I do not blame him, that he should harbor no guilt . . . sadness shared, yes . . . but no guilt . . . I was responsible, not he . . . I move to the truck, remove the cap from the gas tank, and push the shirt into the tank, soaking it with fluid . . . then I remove the dripping cloth and move back to Steamboat, who has watched me expectantly, too weak to do more . . . I sit down, and his head drops into my lap, eyes looking up to me, asking, asking . . . gently, I move the cloth over his nose with one hand and place the other on his head . . . his eyes look at me deeply and the tremors in his neck subside slowly and are gone . . . I see and know the closeness we share is eternal, and he somehow knows this, too . . . the conscious awareness in his eyes dims and is gone . . . and they are only eyes with my tears
in them . . .”