In the midst of such grandeur, there is the wretchedness we have wrought.

As we set out on our hike, David and I saw the horses and mules tacked up for the day's trail ride. And while I'm far from being a fan of these "rent a horse while on vacation" outfits (trail horses typically lead, at best, a life of drudgery, and when they've outlived the purpose that humans have ascribed to them, most go to slaughter), the animals actually looked terrific: their weights were ideal, their hooves were in great shape, their coats healthy. I was also heartened to learn from the guy running the outfit that the mules and horses work for two days and then have a day off. Many "dude ranches" and trail rides and carriage horse operations give their "employee," i.e. the horse, only one day off per week.

"They're luckier than most," I said to David.

And so we headed out, exploring the glorious Zion Canyon as described earlier, spending an absolutely delightful afternoon, until we got to the fork in the path.

"Let's go this way," David suggested.

After a few hundred steps, lo and behold, we arrived at the barn where the horses and mules lived, and my fantasy of spacious pasture and ample shelter that the hard-working animals would enjoy on their day off was instantly shattered.

Over 40 mules and horses were packed into a turnout pen that was, at best, 60' square. On their day off, these animals, mostly mule geldings, had only a tiny, dusty, shadeless pen. NO trees, NO grass, NO room to frolic. The single run-in shed was way too small to accommodate even half the animals, which presumably means that when the scorching sun is high in July and August and the thermometer reads well into the 100's, many animals must simply endure it.

I checked their water. It was green. Thick algae lined the entire trough and an oily scum floated on top. Shit. People call Catskill Animal Sanctuary when they see animals enduring conditions such as these. "Can you do anything?" they ask, naively hoping that we'll either take the animals, file criminal charges, or guide them through the process of doing so.

"No," I say...more often than I would like. New York State laws are far too lax and far too vague. Law enforcement is extremely resistant to prosecuting all but the most horrific cases. If an animal's weight is good and water (even if it's filthy and unpotable) and shelter (even if it's a tree) are available, no law is being broken. All one can do is look for ways to engage the owner about his animal husbandry practices, and monitor the situation to ensure it doesn't get worse. It often does. Then we can act.

I sat cross-legged in the dirt outside the paddock. Four animals--a mule and three horses--approached eagerly. Three were old mares, their huge bellies sagging, their bodies scarred from the kicks and bites of more dominant animals. These animals were far too old and worn out to be ridden.

They approached eagerly. "Hi, girls," I said. "I'm sorry I don't have treats." Still, one nuzzled my face, another lowered her head and allowed me to massage her cheeks.

Twenty days a month, year after year, these animals work hard, carrying mostly those who know nothing about riding--nothing about sharing an experience with an animal--back and forth along the same dreary path, in temperatures that rise to 110 degrees. Their reward for their service? A few days off in a hot, tiny, dusty pen drinking contaminated water.

Across the U.S., there are tens of thousands of such animals...just as their are in zoos, in traveling circuses and rodeos, in canned hunts, at racetracks and theme parks. They endure their respective wretchedness because humans want to be entertained by them. But would our lives diminish qualitatively if we no longer attended a rodeo, a dog or horse race, or a circus? Would our vacation be less enjoyable if, instead of riding a bored and overused animal, we hiked the trails ourselves? If instead of taking the kids to Sea World to watch dolphins jump through hoops, we took them to the real sea to swim and build sandcastles?

That human beings feel entitled to use animals for any purpose we determine to be fun or profitable is a level of callousness or obtuseness or disregard common to most of us, I believe. It's an assumption of privilege. It never occurs to most of us to question the status quo.

But if you do, and especially if you allow yourself to acknowledge your own role in the suffering of animals, how does it feel?

It's this very concept that Matthew Sculley discusses in his book Dominion. If you've not read it, I highly recommend it. Sculley asks whether "man's dominion over animals," as discussed in the Bible, suggests dominance or caretaking. Providing snapshots of the brutality and misery inherent in many animal industries, Sculley makes the obvious case that humans do, indeed, dominate all other animals species with breathtaking disregard of their suffering.

But this domination/subjugation/oppression model was not God's intention, he argues. No. By giving us "dominion over animals," God intended us to be their caretakers.

Today is Easter Sunday. As I walk around this precious animal sanctuary on this symbolic day, joyful animals, allowed to be themselves, surround me. Policeman, a 1000-pound pig rescued from a Bronx apartment, is one happy camper stretched out on the sunny side of the shavings pile. Molly the cow and Sammy the steer playfully butt heads. I smile as Helen the blind calf licks the face of Andy, the young gelding too weak to be turned out with other horses. No matter: Helen takes such good care of him. The goats play "King of the Mountain" at their rock pile, and, in one of the surest signs of the coming of spring, the hens are busily scratching in the dirt for whatever endible tidbit they can uncover. At the far end of the farm, Buddy the blind horse, featured on the jacket of Where the Blind Horse Sings, rolls blissfully on the cool ground. I watch these lucky few, and I remember the Zion horses.

Jesus suffered mightily. So do the animals. The power to change this is in our hands.

Happy Easter.