Animal Magnetism

by Rita Mae Brown

  Blackbirds hate foxes. They’ll mob them sometimes. They make a specific sound much like a mob of humans, whose reason, or at least sense of responsibility, seems to diminish the bigger the group gets. Shakespeare wrote scathingly of the mob, and he was right. Blackbirds seem to possess these same qualities. Their mobbing is hostile. If I hear that sound, I can be pretty sure my fox is moving and they are flying over him or her. But blackbirds also gossip. How they gossip. If only I knew what they were saying. You can hear them making a clicking sound, a happy sound as they merrily blather on. Then there’s the distinctive call note. Most birds have a call note as well as a true song. I wouldn’t say that blackbirds sing, but they do emit a series of notes that probably pass as a song among them. This music is precious to someone studying foxes.

  Owls can tell you a lot about foxes, too. Sometimes they will shadow a fox, going from tree to tree or flying over the animal. Took me years to figure out why. It should have been obvious, but I never said I was smart. Foxes and owls hunt the same game. One can assist the other, whether it’s intentional or not. An owl isn’t going to swoop down and steal the fox’s kill because the fox can and will catch it. Given the talons and a good-sized owl, this can be a bloody, costly struggle. But once the fox picks up its rabbit or mouse and moves on, the owl can fly down and kill any mice lurking about.

  Occasionally I’ll see raptors watching foxes, too, pretty much for the same reason as the owls. The raptors—hawks, falcons, and kites—have an Achilles’ heel. Sooner or later, they have to let you know how important they are. And the sounds they make are truly distinctive, piercing and easy to read. The owls—maybe they are wiser—shut up. So do the foxes, for the most part.

  We humans, like the raptors, belong to the babbling class. We even pay people to talk. This would astonish even the most garrulous blackbird. It astonishes me, but I like the paycheck.

  Here I am on Peggy Sue, a beautiful Percheron who reminds me of my very first horse, Suzie Q.

  My First Horse, Suzie Q

  Many humans learn to feel love from a dog or cat. Not too many have felt it from a horse. The emotion is as big as the animal. Given my mother’s great passion for horse racing and the fact that I lived in horse country, I had grown up around horses. But we didn’t own any.

  How desperately I wanted to ride.

  “You’ll ride after you learn to take care of horses,” said Mother. “You’ll muck stalls, feed, water, groom, pick up their hooves and clean them out. None of this just hopping on, young lady. There’s a world of difference between being a horseman and being a rider. Riders are a dime a dozen. Horsemen are rare.”

  As a first-grader, no hack barn wanted me. They figured small, young, and dumb, and pretty much they were correct. Mother dutifully made the rounds seeing if she could find me a little work. A hack barn is a barn that rents horses by the day. There used to be loads of them. These days, thanks to our litiginous age, few remain.

  “Mother, maybe Mr. Byrd would let me work on the farm after school or before school.”

  Tweetie Byrd was a local farmer who owned over a thousand acres of good soil, and lived quite comfortably. He ran to fat even though he worked hard. He was descended from the august Byrd family of Virginia. This fact crept into most conversations with Tweetie—that and the price of a bushel of corn.

  Tweetie’s Percheron draft, Suzie Q, had a beautiful dappled coat that was truly eye-catching. She was well made, well proportioned. And she looked at you with the kindest sweet brown eyes. I loved her.

  “Tweetie, pay help?” she roared.

  “If he let me ride Suzie Q, that would be my pay.”

  We were at the big open stall market during this discussion. A late-season cantaloupe filled her hand. She examined it and dropped it in her grocery bag. “You might have something there, kid.”

  Once home we put away the groceries. The Norge refrigerator made a racket in the kitchen. The springhouse could still keep milk and cheese cool, but the refrigerator was handier. Still, I didn’t like it.

  I swept out the kitchen, trying to be more than usually helpful. Since I had to be browbeaten into housework but would willingly perform outdoor chores, this seemed a big deal to me.

  Mother laughed. “All right.”

  She skipped (yes, she skipped a lot) to the black phone in the hall. It was a party line. Our number was four digits. Mother complained it was hard to remember everyone’s number because they used to be three digits. That was before I was born. Four seemed okay with me. Fortunately no one else on the line was gabby, although Mrs. Mundis didn’t mind eavesdropping on conversations, nor did Vergie Walker.

  It used to frost Mother. She’d finally say in a clear tone, “Vergie, will you get off the line?” Naturally not a peep was heard from the ever-curious Vergie, but you did hear the faint click on the line that meant she’d hung up.

  She dialed Tweetie.

  “Tweetie, Juts. How are you?”

  I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  “I’ve got an able-bodied young lady here who will work for you in the mornings or after school for free in your barn. Her remuneration will be time with Suzie Q. Now, I call that a good deal. She’s young and small but she’s mighty.” She liked to describe me like that, her mighty mouse.

  Saturday at six in the morning I was dropped at Tweetie’s by Dad on his way to work. Dad and his brothers owned a grocery store and meat market that had been in their family since before the Revolutionary War. When you own your own business you work all the time. He seemed to like it, though. He was a good businessman. He put people before money, which taught me you can. Because of sympathy and humor, business never slacked. He wasn’t a Pollyanna but if he had to do with less to help someone eat, then he did.

  Tweetie—Mr. Byrd to me—welcomed me and handed me a pitchfork. He showed me where the straw was for bedding, where to dump the manure, where to wash out the wheelbarrow, and where to put it when I was finished. He had written down in careful cursive handwriting each horse’s dietary needs. He owned five horses, two pairs of matched Percherons for the plow as well as to drive, and Suzie Q, reserved only for foxhunting. Like I said, he was a successful farmer. He also owned a Brewster carriage, deep maroon with pinstripes. My God, it was a work of art, and I’d kill to own it.

  He covered the packed dirt floor of the stable with cedar shavings. The aroma was so pleasant and invigorating. I had to pick out the center aisle, replace the cedar shavings, then rake the aisle.

  Fortunately, the barn had electricity. He had splurged on a big water heater which was outside the work stall, enclosed in a small insulated structure. Hot water. What a luxury. The tack room was tidy, every bridle had its home, every saddle sat on its own rack. A small wood-burning stove reposed in the corner. It had been there since the early nineteenth century.

  Tweetie bought oats in huge quantities and had them blown into a large outdoor corrugated zinc holder at the side of the barn. Think of it as a four-sided silo narrowing at the bottom. You flipped the latch, and out rushed the oats. He crimped them himself because it saved money. A crimp is a kind of slice or depression so the hull is split but not removed from the oat. He could have bought them crimped and steamed but it’s more expensive. Crimped oats digest better, so the horses don’t waste as much feed. They’re just the best. Given the ease of prepared foods, people rarely use them today. As always with horsemen and equine vets, people have strong opinions. Some will argue against crimped oats. They may be right but Tweetie’s horses gleamed.

  “Do you know how to make a bran mash?” He looked down at me.

  I felt like I was in the shadow of a mountain.

  “Yes, sir. I use PopPop and G-uncle’s recipe.”

  “And what might that be?” He had great respect for the brothers.

  “You heat the water for the bran, mix it up until it’s not too watery but not porridge either, throw in some flaxseed for their coat and two jiggers of cheap whiskey per horse.”

&nbs
p; “Whiskey, now?” His blue eyes twinkled.

  “Yes, sir, but we don’t let PopPop do the whiskey part.”

  Tweetie shook his head, saying nothing. My grandfather’s decline saddened most people who knew him before the Great War. And of course there are always a few people who actually feel superior to the alcoholic—not many, but enough to turn your stomach. Tweetie and I both knew who they were.

  Weekends, I showed up at six A.M. Sundays I would go to vespers if Mom and Dad went, or I could always go to mass with Aunt Mimi. Mother, not Catholic, didn’t care if I beat my beads, as she put it. Religious dogma flew over my head. Still does.

  Weekdays, I worked after school. The horses had already been fed and turned out but I picked stalls and if there was something that needed to be soaked overnight, like beet pulp, I prepared it. Beet pulp puts weight on a horse so if you have a nervous horse or one who’s worked off the weight or been ill, it’s a help. You have to roll up your sleeves and get your hands in it to really mix it up. On a bitterly cold day it’s an onerous chore but at least the water was hot. The bucket was bigger than I was so I’d lean over, face about down in the beet pulp, to sink both arms in up to my elbows. Threw in brown sugar, just a little, and the two jiggers of whiskey per horse. Never underestimate the power of whiskey.

  Even though the horses had been turned out I checked them. Picking up those big Percheron hooves, especially if the horse has a sense of humor and wants to watch you sweat, is difficult for a child.

  I groomed them—such an enjoyable task, as is cleaning tack. The odor of a horse is heady perfume to me, and so is the sweet aroma of leather, oil, and saddle soap.

  Once every six months I washed the tack with harsh Castile soap, stripping it. Then I’d put, say, a martingale and bridle in a bucket of light oil. Journeyman Saddlery in Middleburg makes just such an oil. After the tack had soaked a good two hours, I’d hang it up on tack hooks, a bucket under each bridle. Finally I’d wipe them dry and put them back together. Most bits, especially those made of fine English steel, were sewn in so I didn’t have to worry about putting the tack back on the bridle. I cleaned the bits until they gleamed. Eventually, I reached a point where if there was a tiny pit in the steel I felt it and immediately reported it to Tweetie. He could smooth it out in his mechanic’s shop. Every tool known to man and woman sat in that shop. Every tool hung on a pegboard, nothing lay on the ground.

  Suzie Q repaid my efforts tenfold. We loved each other. Then again, I learned so much just being around Tweetie. He was highly organized and didn’t cut corners. Eagerness must have radiated from my face, because he took me under his wing and taught me a great deal about caring for horses, and about farming, too.

  Young as I was, I could ride Suzie Q. To put the bridle on I had to stand on a big box. She was patient with me and would kindly lower her head. Tweetie told me not to canter when the ground was too hard. If it was brutally hard, I wasn’t to trot either. But I could always walk her up and down hills. Walking when the ground is tight saves a horse from becoming footsore. He pretended I was conditioning Suzie Q. She was in fine condition, but how thoughtful of him to make me feel competent.

  Balance was all I had, since I couldn’t get my legs around her big barrel. I knew nothing, but at least I could stick up there. My inner thighs ached until the muscles adjusted to the spread.

  Some days it was so cold my fingers curled around the reins and didn’t want to uncurl, but I didn’t want to stop. Night vision isn’t the problem for horses that it is for people, so on a December day at four-thirty, when the sun was setting, we could still get some riding in.

  I learned diagonal leads, how to ask for a canter, how to sit a bit deep when you wanted to stop, because Suzie Q taught me. I wasn’t fortunate enough to have an actual riding lesson until I was thirty-four. The way Suzie Q taught was intuitive. I could feel the changes in her rhythm with the lead. It took me awhile but I figured it out. The canter, as always, is easy. Posting creates difficulties for most people learning to ride because the tendency is to go up and down. That’s not what you do. The horse’s motion throws you up and down, but posting means you move your pelvis forward and backward with the motion as you rise and fall in the stirrups. It saves energy. Sitting a trot becomes tiring, especially in the hunt field. It may be easier to sit a trot in a Western saddle, but I only rode in a Western saddle once so I’m not sure. I remember it drove me crazy because I felt I had no contact with the horse. If I were on a cattle drive I bet I’d learn to appreciate it.

  Suzie Q taught me to understand her language. If she lowered her head when I came to fetch her from the paddock she was interested and focused on me. If she shook her head, whether I was on foot or up on her back, that motion meant the same as it does among humans: “No,” or “I don’t want to do it.”

  Tweetie had an old McClellan saddle. Seeing me ride bareback he said I could use it, but it was just too big. Took me two weeks to reach that conclusion. I threw a square saddle pad on her with an old overgirth, a densely woven cloth girth that typically goes over the saddle. It’s used in addition to the regular leather girth. You’ll often see overgirths in team colors, on polo ponies. They come in different sizes and I found one that fit, even without going over a saddle. It kept the saddle pad from slipping. I’d found it while looking for something else. Isn’t that always the way? I rode her bareback. I’d draw my legs up. One is supposed to reach down with the legs to get a firm grip. I couldn’t do that yet. But if I kept my legs drawn up, like a jockey, I could keep my balance.

  At the time I didn’t think of what I was doing in these terms: a medium-sized predator making common cause with a large prey animal. We literally see the world differently. Their eyes, huge, are on the sides of their heads. Their vision is almost three hundred and sixty degrees except for a small area between the eyes. They can see you sitting up there in the saddle. Our eyes are in the center of our flat faces. We can focus intently, but we lack field of vision.

  Their ears, large and movable, detect the slightest sound, and their first defense is to flee. If not, they will fight. At six years old I was starting to understand the difference between prey and predator behavior. Suzie Q knew all about how humans operate. I was the one being taught.

  Draft horses have mild temperaments. If you ever have the privilege to be around a Shire, the largest of the drafts, take the opportunity to ride it. I hunted a friend’s Shire once. My friend was a big man; I’m a small woman. Riding his draft horse, Oreo, made me feel like I was in a BarcaLounger. It may be a cliché, but you are in the company of a gentle giant. Belgians, a pretty breed with their golden color, are also mild. Percherons have temperament. While they are not as sensitive as Thoroughbreds, I wouldn’t classify them as always mild. They have good temperaments. I like a bit of pizzazz, but not so much that I want to become airborne at regular intervals.

  Suzie Q was kind. It’s funny how horses recognize a child’s lack of strength or ability. Rarely will a horse toss a child or someone who is not able-bodied. It does happen, but it really is unusual. Regardless of my mistakes—tugging on the reins, bringing my hands up, putting my legs in the wrong position—Suzie Q forgave me.

  For the first time in my life I experienced an exhilarating partnership. We were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Horses have a big range of emotions and they sense ours. Suzie Q knew when I was peeved, hurt, happy, or tired. She’d nuzzle me if I was on the ground or put her big head over my shoulder. I’d stand on the box and run my hands along her crest. She fairly wriggled with happiness. I’d run my hands over her back and rub the muscles on either side of her spine. I’d massage her legs. We showed our affection through touch. She knew a fair number of words. The tone of my voice relayed information, but the best communicator for us was touch. Naturally, the carrots and apples helped. I liked the other horses, but I loved Suzie Q.

  Some horses have a pronounced sense of humor. She sure did. If I put down my notebook and she could reach it, she’d pick it
up and drop it in her stall. She’d pretend to chase the farm dogs. She’d allow the cats to walk on her back but she was very, very picky about people. If she disliked someone she avoided them or wouldn’t come out of her stall corner to say hello. Literally, she showed them her ass. She didn’t like nervous people or loud people. Strange, but someone can appear calm on the outside yet be churning on the inside. Horses know. Sometimes that kind of person has an “electric seat,” which makes the horse hotter than a peppercorn. The horse senses this, just as they are amazingly good at identifying mental illness. Horses cannot be around crazy people. A dog or cat, depending on the type of mental illness, can often bear it, even seem to sympathize with it, but horses can’t. They can deal with cerebral palsy and other forms of damage, like people without arms or legs. You can ride without your legs from the knees down, but you do need your thighs. With the advance of prosthetics, I bet there are some people who can ride with an entire manufactured leg. Horses can deal with all these conditions.

  Humans’ belief systems cloud reality. We think we aren’t animals and we have forgotten how to read one another’s bodies, much less other species’. I am speaking in broad terms but I don’t think you will disagree. We are moving at warp speed away from the gifts of our species and instead are putting our faith in technology. Technology must be the servant, not the master.

  Suzie Q lived into her late twenties. It was hard to leave her when we moved to the Deep South. Dad just couldn’t stand the cold anymore and neither could Mother. They wanted warmth, and the vividness of deep Southern individualism. When I bade my friend goodbye, I cried. Dad, not as strict as Mother about showing one’s emotions, gave me time. Tweetie gave me twenty dollars. A fortune!

  Suzie Q died when I was eighteen. Mother wrote me a letter to tell me because I was in my first year at college. A wave of nostalgia and loss rolled over me. The three creatures who showed me and taught me the power of unconditional love were now gone: Dad, Chaps, and Suzie Q. Through time I learned to accept and moderate. Love surmounts even death. Love is like remembered light, it will guide you through the darkness. Suzie Q, Chaps, and Dad are still my lanterns.