Harry Sweeney has his hand up a horse's backside. The mare looks put out by this intrusion. Her eyes dart about nervously and she shifts her weight before accepting five thick human digits probing her insides. After feeling the uterus and the swelling of the ovaries, Sweeney's arm, slick with mucus and excrement, reemerges. He doesn't even need to look at the monitor. "She's pregnant," he confirms, smiling.