The Soul of a Horse (8 page)

10

Survival

S
urvival.

This is the number one instinct of the horse.

To survive, the horse needs food, water, and safety. That’s it. Along with procreating, that’s pretty much all they think about every waking hour.

Much of the survival drive is wrapped up in the instinct to be safe, which means being part of the herd, understanding the language of the herd, and understanding the social order of the herd. Every herd, no matter how large or small, has a distinct pecking order. All determined by who moves who, thus who respects who, which translates into who feels safe with who as their leader.

So where does that leave
us,
the humans in their lives? Many people have told me that if they let their horse live with a herd 24/7, they would lose their relationship with the horse. The horse would forget all about them. Ignore them.

This is simply not true,
if
the relationship begins correctly in the first place.
If
the horse was allowed to make the choice to be with his human.
If
the human has proven to be a good leader.

The object for the human, then, is to become part of the herd in a leadership role. And no matter how it has been made to look in movies and television, leadership of the herd is not forged out of fear of the strongest horse. It is much deeper and more complex than that and has a great deal to do with who the herd trusts and respects. And who they believe will keep them safe.

Likewise, when a horse has chosen a human to be his or her leader, along with that choice comes an implied responsibility to do what the leader asks. So long as the horse understands what the leader is asking. So long as the leader keeps the trust and respect of the horse. And so long as the horse feels he or she is safe with this leader.

Such a relationship does not dissipate just because the horse spends time with other horses. The human is now part of the social order. When Cash leaves the pasture, whether for hours, days, or weeks, he is still the leader of the three in his clan when he returns. He knows it, and the other horses know it.

And I can walk in at any time and have a special moment with him, or with any of the other horses. Even with halter and lead rope in hand. No one runs or hides. Often they’ll come to me and follow me around. I’m not just one of the guys, I’m one of the
respected, trusted
guys. One of the
safe
guys. As is Kathleen. They know that whatever comes, it’s not going to be bad, and will most likely be good. And we make sure that’s the way it works out.

The leadership must be genuine, which for us has meant spending time with the herd absorbing the way they make decisions. How they discipline each other. And how all that translates into respect, and trust. For a while, this was difficult for Kathleen. As she worked her way through her fear, she would often try to fake it by yelling and waving her arms at the horses to assert herself, which she didn’t realize was really a step toward dominance. And it scared the horses.

“A leader doesn’t act like a wild person,” I finally told her. “All you need do is swell up like a horse and pin your ears.”

“I can’t pin my ears,” she grumbled.

“Yes, you can,” I said. “Figuratively, you can. Watch.”

I turned my back on Scribbles, who was always trying to invade our space, get close, nibble at my hat or shirt. And, sure enough, here he came. I spun around, looked him straight in the eye, and swelled up like a hot-air balloon. A flick of my finger and the words
back up,
said firmly but quietly, were all it took. He stopped in his tracks, and took two steps backward. I rubbed him on the forehead and scratched his ear.

“Good boy.”

The next morning at feeding time, Kathleen worked the same magic on Mariah, who was always trying to steal Skeeter’s feed from her. And she amazed even herself. That afternoon, when I couldn’t find her, I wandered over to the pasture and there she was, in class. Soaking up the way the horses do it.

Respect does not come from bossmanship. And conversely it is not given to someone who showers horses with baskets full of love, without discipline. Sit and watch a herd sometime. Just watch. Make note of who respects whom, and how it’s shown.
I respect you enough, and trust you enough, to subordinate my judgment and safety to you.

Pretty powerful when you know that, to the horse, safety means survival.

And, again, for us humans it means “love, language, and leadership in equal doses.”

That
equal doses
part is what kills most relationships.

Does the person who can get her horse to come only because she’s offering treats gain the horse’s respect? No. That’s just telling the horse that her presence means food. You want your horse to come because he or she wants to be with you. And when you begin by giving the horse the choice to be with you, and when you learn to communicate from the horse’s end of the lead rope, creating that willing relationship is totally doable. It is never too late to begin again.

Does the person who lavishes love on a horse without discipline and training garner the horse’s respect? Watch the antics of the herd. The respected horses are the leaders. Those not respected are being led.

Does a person get respect by charging into a stall or a pasture, immediately haltering her horse, and dragging him straightaway off to work? Without, maybe, pausing to speak with the horse, or rub him, or just hang out for a bit? Perhaps asking for permission to halter?

Sound silly?

Try it. I hang out, at least attempting to put the relationship before my selfish desire to go ride or train. I rub and talk a bit. Sniff some nose. And almost never put a halter on a horse who hasn’t offered to help. It makes such a difference. I believe if you give respect, you’ll get it back tenfold.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t treat horses like puppies. I treat them like partners. Junior partners, of whom I expect great things. And so far they’ve all delivered more than I’ve asked. Because, for the horse, to acknowledge and respect a leader is to feel safe. This is deeply rooted in their nature. And feeling safe means survival. Which makes the leader the source of emotional comfort.

Is it any wonder, then, that they work harder for a good leader?

Don’t we all?

11

Relationship

I
t had been a long and hot day for the young colt, made hotter and longer by the weight on his back. But he wasn’t complaining. They had found each other, the colt and his boy, almost a year ago on the island where the colt’s ancestors had lived for ten generations. The colt had been only a foal when they met, but a proud foal. A direct descendent of the mighty stallion who had endured the shipwreck and led his herd onto the island and taught them to survive.

Now the colt and the boy would have to do the same. They were both without homes, without family. The boy was a young Powhatan, one of the few remaining from the great chief’s band of tribes scattered through Virginia and the Carolinas. After his parents both died of English disease, his grandmother raised him until she, too, died. The boy had seen the island horses once on an outing with his father and had decided then that one day he would be family with them.

The colt had seen some cruel humans during his short life, but the boy was different. When he first appeared on the island, the boy spent many days camping well off away from the herd, watching them and studying their communication. And showing them he was no predator. When he moved closer, he would sit for long days on a fallen tree trunk, only watching, making no attempt to confront or pursue. When the sun disappeared across the sound, and daylight turned into darkness, he would sleep under the fallen tree, wrapped in a thick blanket his father had traded for with an English man. The boy carried no weapons, no ropes. Just the blanket.

Gradually, the herd became curious and wandered closer, encouraged by the kindness in the young boy’s eyes. One cold winter morning, huddled in his blanket under the log, the boy awoke to the warm breath of horse. He slowly opened his eyes to see the nostrils of the foal, sniffing, puffing. He did not look the young horse in the eye as a predator would, but stayed focused on his nose, and he, too, puffed and sniffed a greeting. The foal stepped back, and the boy sat up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He turned his back to the young horse, his head down, his shoulders slumped in a show of friendly submission, saying, I am approachable, I am not a predator. He had learned this from observing the herd. It was the next day before the foal actually touched him, and only then did the boy reach out and rub the young horse on the nose, then on the forehead.

Since that day, they had become very close. When the time came to be shunned from the herd or fight the stallion for dominance, the young colt chose the boy. They swam together across the sound to the mainland and were now far away, traveling through the wilderness more or less following a group of boats on what the boy called a river. The young Powhatan was excited about seeing new lands.

The colt didn’t understand it all but was having a wonderful time. They would run like the wind through the trees and on the riverbanks, with nothing between the boy and the horse but the boy’s leather breechcloth. The colt could feel the boy’s every movement, every pressure, and the two had developed a language of what each movement and pressure meant. The colt and his boy were like one.

At the moment, they were standing on a tall bluff, looking down on the boats traveling upriver. They could see their friend, a man as black as the colt’s mother. He wasn’t hard to pick out of the group of so many white men. The boy had called him York when the man had arranged for them to cross a big river on one of the boats. Along the journey, the boy and the colt had been helping the man hunt for food for his master, one of the leaders of the white men, and York had appreciated their help and was anxious to keep them tagging along.

The boy swung himself up onto the colt’s back, clung tightly to his mane, touched his neck, and nudged him with his calf. Imperceptible requests to anyone who might be watching, but the blond colt knew exactly what to do. He spun on his hindquarters and trotted off through the woods. The colt could actually feel the thoughts of the young boy. It was a good partnership.

12

Connection

T
he sun was low in the sky and the cool breeze from the ocean was at last making its way through the mountains and overcoming the heat of the day. Usually I would give Cash a bit of a massage, brush him down, and clean his feet at the very least before saddling up, but on this day I was thinking about the young Indian boy and the colt. The breeze felt good and I felt spontaneous. And I wanted to be close to my horse.

I looped the lead line on his rope halter, like reins but with no bridle or bit, dragged out the mounting block, and climbed aboard his bare back, my creaky bones well beyond the days of merely “swinging up.” I settled in and he felt good. His muscles twitched under my rear and he glanced over his shoulder and gave me a funny look. He’s always giving me funny looks; some I can decipher, some not. He’s the most expressive horse I’ve ever met.

I touched just the legs of my pants to his side. Just a touch, and he walked off.

About halfway down to our little arena I realized I had never actually ridden down. And I remembered why. The trail is
very
steep. I had ridden up several times, but never down. Now I knew what the funny look was about when I climbed on.
Whoa! You’re out of pattern. Are you sure you want to do this?

I was slipping and sliding toward his withers—
ouch!
—pushing off against his neck. He paused to make sure I was okay. Then we went on.

This is a horse who is very impulsive. I suppose the term
very
is relative to one’s experience level, but let’s just say he does like to go and, as good as he is at most things, he has yet to completely comprehend the maintenance of his speed over long periods of time. But whenever we’re bareback, he is clearly aware that I’m more vulnerable and he always minds his p’s and q’s. For one reason only. Because he chooses to.

He felt good under me. I was thinking about the young colt and his Powhatan friend, and wished I was a better rider. I would have loved to race the wind bareback on this horse, like the young boy.

During the year and a half since Kathleen and I had leaped so innocently into the world of horses, I had worked with Cash to develop a relationship and communication like that of the colt and the young boy in the story.
What does this touch mean? And that one? And does this work better than that?
But the saddle always seemed to be a deterrent to this new form of communication. It got in the way. When I was in the saddle, we’d both try, but progress was slow. I was never sure if I was in the right spot or if I had applied enough pressure. I couldn’t feel him. Couldn’t sense his feel of me.

That’s what spurs are for, one crusty old wrangler told me. You can probably guess my response to that.

Then one day I decided to have a go at it without the saddle. Cash was doing so well on the ground, I decided to not only ride bareback, but to use just a halter and a lead rope. No bridle and bit. And that was the day.

It was exhilarating. The difference was so extreme. It was like feeling the ocean’s currents in a bathing suit versus sitting in a deck chair on a cruise ship. We developed our communication and learned well together, and when I returned to the saddle, we both knew what to do. I never enjoy riding with the saddle as much as bareback, but now we both understand the communication. I recommend riding bareback to any novice. Not on just
any
horse, of course. Be certain on that score. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way. Do your homework. Be sure you have a calm horse, with good controls, and a relationship you have nurtured. Then it can be a life-changing experience.

I enjoyed our ride immensely that day, but it was what happened
after
the ride that caused me to rewrite this chapter and wipe tears from my eyes.

Cash and I were trotting back up the hill from the arena, me clinging to his mane to keep from sliding off his butt. Kathleen was making her way toward the tack room, where we often spend a few moments in the late afternoon relaxing and talking about our day. We have the only tack room I know of with a back deck, overlooking our little arena and the setting sun.

But on this particular afternoon, we didn’t venture out on the deck. We just plopped down on the tack room step to enjoy each other’s company. Kathleen, me, and Cash. After a bit, I decided to remove his halter, thinking he would wander up to the little patch of grass, maybe thirty feet away, where it would be fine for him to nibble on a snack before dinner. I asked him to lower his head—it’s not a very tall step we were sitting on—and I untied the halter. But Cash didn’t leave. He nuzzled my nose, sniffed, checked out our water bottles, nibbled on my hat…and just hung out. For maybe fifteen or twenty minutes! It made my night, and the next day, and here I am still talking about it. How good it feels to know that this horse whom I love so dearly really likes being with me. With
us,
a part of the family. Part of the herd.

Relationship.

Choice.

Connection.