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It’s hard not to be seduced by the Kentucky Derby.

There are few venues in sports more beautiful than Churchill Downs. There is something charming about the beautiful southern belles in their extravagant hats and flowered sun dresses, sipping on their Mint Juleps.

When the band starts playing ”My Old Kentucky Home,” even the most stoic among us must fight to keep the tears from welling up.

Finally, there are the horses. They are magnificent specimens, massively powerful animals perched upon spindly legs. Each of them has been bred, fed and trained for this moment.

Watching the Kentucky Derby, you could easily imagine that the Civil War had never happened. There were precious few Black faces in the crowd of over 150,000. This was a world where wealthy White people could gather, socialize with their own, bet a few million dollars and go home happy and tipsy.

How civilized it all was.

Well, the race was run and the heavy favorite, Big Brown, did what he was expected to. He ran a brilliant race and won handily.

That’s when something unexpected happened. The second place horse, a filly named Eight Bells, crossed the finish line, ran a bit more and then collapsed. Both of her ankles had snapped.

Minutes later, she was “put down,” a gentle term for “killed.”

There was much anguish at Churchill Downs. A perfectly nice day had been sullied by the death of a horse.

In the aftermath, a lot of people tried to make it sound like this was some kind of aberration. A bit of bad luck.

The fact of the matter is that racehorses die all the time. Hundreds of racehorses die each year from injuries sustained while racing. One estimate had an average of 800 of these deaths in the United States alone. In England, where Horse-racing is the “Sport of Kings,” over 300 racehorses perish each year while racing.

Funny thing, nobody seems to mind, much.

Not only do hundreds of horses die on the track, many others (when their racing days are over) are shipped overseas and slaughtered for their meat. Even those who survive must endure great pains for their “sport.”

Horses are pumped full of Lasix (which controls bleeding in the lungs, corticosteroids (for pain and inflammation) and phenylbutazone (another anti-inflammatory).

While this may look a whole lot like animal cruelty, the horse-racing industry has managed to all but avoid controversy. These people like to think of their horses as “athletes.” Some call their horses “members of the family.”

Through a bizarre form of anthropomorphism, they claim that the horses were born to run, that they love the competition and are happy to put up with the risks involved.

Overlooked in the press coverage of the Kentucky Derby was this quote from Eight Bells’ trainer, Larry Jones.

“She went out in glory,” Jones said. “She went out a champion to us.

“These things are our family. We put everything into them that we have and they’ve given us everything they have. They put their life on the damn line and she was glad to do it.”

If this wasn’t so obscene, it would be comical.

This guy truly believes the horse not only knew of the possibility of death, but was happy to die a miserable death.

Unlike Eight Bells, life will go on for Larry Jones. He will continue to train horses, make a hell of a living doing it, and live a most comfortable life.

You can’t help but wonder if Michael Vick had the chance to watch the Derby.

Vick, a former star quarterback in the National Football League, is serving a 23-month term in Federal Prison for his role in a dog-fighting enterprise. Dog-fighting is a brutal business, where the participants are routinely mangled and killed.

Vick deserved every day of his sentence.

Now, I’m not going to equate dog-fighting with thoroughbred horse racing, but in both sports the death of innocent animals is inevitable. They give their lives to entertain us.

But dog-fighting isn’t the sport of choice for the wealthy, for the privileged, for the Lilly White crowds you’ll find at Churchill Downs. Dog-fighting is filled with blue-collar, rural, often Black fans.

The fights are conducted in secret, often in back-woods settings. Nobody plays “My Old Kentucky Home,” at a dog fight. You won’t find society’s elite surrounding a dog pit.

And you won’t find Larry Jones sitting in a Federal prison. It wasn’t his fault.

You see, Eight Bells wasn’t a victim here. She knew the dangers. She put her life on the line. And she was glad to do it.