The Soul of a Horse

by Joe Camp

  Kathleen was right. We had no business adopting her. Who knew what she had been exposed to in the awful conditions where she had been living? And it was difficult enough to keep our other six moving forward, never mind, as Kathleen had said, the cost of the feed and the added poop to muck. And up to this point, the youngest horse we had any experience with was six years old.

  Sojourn.

  Who was no longer with us.

  And he had spent several months with a trainer before arriving at our place.

  Mouse was barely a year old and had had no training whatsoever, except the time she spent with Monty. Maybe three hours total over the week.

  Still, I was smitten.

  But the minute I faxed the adoption agreement back to Carol, adopter’s remorse hit me like a brick in the back of the head. What did I know about baby horses? What if it didn’t work out? Already everyone in the course was asking how soon updates on Mouse would be on our website. Suddenly I was very nervous. Maybe this was all wrong.

  Maybe I should take Mouse out for a walk and see how she responds to someone other than Monty.

  Dylan and I worked with her in her pen, generating a bit of followup, the next step after Join-Up. Encouraging the young horse to follow us around, which she did very readily. Then we walked her down to meet Cash and Handsome, and that went well. Lots of nose-to-nose sniffing and blowing. So I was beginning to feel better about the whole thing.

  Until feeding time.

  Mouse was chomping away in her pen. I went in to give her a rub and say good night, but suddenly met her hindquarters spinning toward me and a pair of striking feet! I twisted my shoulder leaping toward the gate, barely avoiding a hoof to the thigh. My adrenaline soared and I was shaking. This was a different horse! Once outside, I was caroming wildly from fear to anger to not really knowing what to think.

  But there was no question I had made a huge mistake.

  Was she some sort of Jekyll and Hyde?

  Get back in the herd, I kept telling myself. Why would she flip out like that?

  I dug my way back to the thinking side of my brain.

  And finally it struck me. Just look at her. Ribs showing. Spindly legs. Before rescue, there was no telling when she’d last had a decent meal. And maybe she had to deal with bigger, older horses moving her out and taking her food away from her. Or perhaps she had never dealt with a herd at all and had no idea about hierarchy. In any case, she was clearly saying, This is mine! Perhaps the best meal she had ever had. And she wasn’t giving it up to anyone. Herd member or not, stand clear when I’m eating!

  Proof once again that we never stop learning.

  As I write this, Mouse has already come to realize that there will always be enough food with us. I wondered how many of the people we had met over our short two years with horses would have whipped her for striking at them. Or walked away and left her, with no attempt to understand why she had acted the way she did.

  Two days later, back at home, while our natural-hoof specialist was rasping away on one of those same back feet, I was rubbing her, one hand on her forehead and one under her jaw, and she fell asleep in my arms, trusting me to support the weight of her head, confident that no one was going to hurt her.

  And I was smiling.

  She’s going to be fantastic.

  It suddenly occurred to me that Mouse was a bridge from one journey of discovery to another. Yet another way to help horses. And I thanked God for that, and promised I would be telling folks about Miss Mouse.

  29

  Empty Stalls…Again

  It was late afternoon and Kathleen and I were once again sitting on our front porch looking out over the cute white stalls with the red roofs. The sun was sinking beneath the ridge of mountains to the west. The larger stall had been split into two, so now there was a total of three.

  “Those stalls surely seem empty,” Kathleen said. “Wouldn’t it be nice if there were a couple of horses ambling back and forth down there?”

  “Those were the days,” I said.

  “Like a picture postcard.”

  We both smiled.

  “Too bad it didn’t work out. I enjoyed watching them.”

  “Yeah,” Kathleen said. “Too bad.”

  “It’s hard to believe we were so stupid.”

  “Not stupid,” she corrected. “Lacking knowledge.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Coming up on two years.” She chuckled, raised her wineglass to mine. They clinked softly.

  “We done good,” she said. “We done good.”

  Our first three horses occupied those cute little stalls for several months. They all wore metal shoes, ate pellets from a table-high bucket, and hay from a feeder even farther off the ground. They stood in one spot to eat with no reason to move around. In fact, they stood in one spot most of the day. They had nowhere to go. They did have time with the herd. Sort of. The three stalls were open to each other and the horse in the middle could actually nip or be nipped by the two who flanked him. Not because we set it up that way. That’s how it was when we bought the house. Fortunately, there was no barn, or I’m sure they would’ve been in it. But there were also no pastures or turnouts, and the only exercise the trio got was when we took them to our small arena. We bought leg wraps. Almost bought blankets. In short, we were the typical horse owners.

  Almost.

  Stumbling across that article on Monty Roberts saved us. By giving our horses the choice to accept us as their herd member and leader, we created a true relationship with each of our horses. We saw them and talked with them and rubbed them often. We hung out with them, even when there was no riding planned. No agenda. We watched them interact with each other, and learned more and more of their language. And with all of this came responsibility. Lots of it. We wanted them to have a good, happy, and healthy life. We did not want to merely use them. And we felt responsible for making it so. So we began our quest for knowledge, realizing from the get-go that there were many schools of thought on how to bring up horses. We read books and watched DVDs from Monty, Clinton Anderson, and the Parellis. And we subscribed to horse magazines.

  One of the first to arrive in the mail contained the article on barefoot versus shoes. I was dumbfounded. It had never once occurred to me that a horse was designed to stand on his own four feet, without man-made shoes.

  More reading.

  I gobbled up the works of natural-hoof-care practitioners Pete Ramey and Jaime Jackson. Together they have libraries full of research on wild horse hooves and decades of first hand experience at trimming barefoot horses with the wild horse trim.

  Now all seven of our horses (yes, with Miss Mouse, we are seven! Egad!) are barefoot with the wild horse trim and they’re doing just terrific. In the arena, on the trail, on the road, wherever.

  Some believe that high-performance competition requires shoes to protect the horse’s feet from stresses they wouldn’t be encountering in the wild. Never mind that if the organizers of high-performance competition actually believe that, it begs the question of why they are doing it to the horse in the first place. But even more important, the barefoot folks have disproved the concept that horses need shoes to rein, or jump, or race, or do any other competition.

  But will my horse still win without shoes? After all, winning is why we’re in this thing in the first place.

  The answer is yes. Every issue of The Horse’s Hoof Magazine reports on barefoot winners in virtually every discipline. The most recent issue reports on High Flying Princess, a barefoot barrel racer with six first-place wins in her first barefoot season. Houston trimmer Eddie Drabek has many similar stories. As do Pete Ramey and so many others.

  But jumpers need cleats on their shoes to get traction for a jump.

  The response is no they don’t. The Fall 2007 issue of The Horse’s Hoof features a lengthy article on the Horses First Racing Club in the United Kingdom. All of their hunter/jumpers compete barefoot.

  But my horse needs shoes t
o do a good skid stop because shoes are slick and they slide better.

  Ah, so it’s okay to restrict the circulation in the rear hooves in order for Flicka to slide farther?

  Hmm…

  The logic and bank of knowledge on this subject were enough for us. We pulled every shoe. But didn’t stop there. We kept digging ever deeper to learn what movement around the clock can mean to the horse. What his natural systems, when working on their own without human intervention, can mean to the horse. As well as the gain when he always eats from ground level.

  And so it went.

  Why are we so different?

  We’re not, really. There are a lot of folks around the world who believe as we do and are doing the same things we’re doing. Perhaps more than you think, but we are still a decided minority. Is it because the majority doesn’t really care for their horses? I don’t think so. We cared for our horses from the first moment we chose them. But we didn’t know. And because we were listening to folks who were just like us, who also didn’t know, we were all doing the wrong things. It was when the horses were allowed to choose us that things really began to escalate beyond just “caring.” That’s when a feeling of responsibility really took hold. I realized for the first time that this horse had just said to me, I trust you, and I promised him, I will do right by you. Your needs will take precedence over my desires.

  Dr. Matt was right when he said that until recently horses were pretty much just beasts of burden. But I believe many of them still are. Just different burdens. Instead of pulling a plow or a wagon, they’re jumping fences. Or racing. Or doing heavy-handed dressage ballets. That’s not to say that those owners don’t care for their horses. I suspect they do. Some of them. But Monty Roberts’ website details the story of what happened when one of the world’s top dressage trainers Joined-Up with her horse. She totally abandoned the heavy-handed approaches that many if not most dressage trainers use and now her horses are performing as a matter of choice. And remember Horses First, that winning race and hunt club in the UK. Or the top reining and cutting trainers in the United States who have taken their horses barefoot, like Clinton Anderson. It’s amazing what you can do for your horse when you care enough for him to spend the time to gain the knowledge that will allow him to live longer, healthier, and happier.

  It’s important for this word to spread. During the past five years the horse population in the United States has leaped upward to ten million, an increase of approximately three million in just a few short years. Overpopulation has flooded the market, and many of these horses are ill cared for. Recent projections indicate that as smaller generations follow the baby boomers, fewer horses are going to be sold. Horse & Rider magazine projects that high-end breeding and sales of glitzy foals will fall off substantially and the only market to sustain will be for the family horse. The baby boomers themselves, those who have horses, will want to involve their grandkids—and for that they’ll need calm, bombproof, babysitting kinds of horses, the kind of horses who have made the choice to bring humans into their herd and into leadership roles.

  The old cowboy on the Texas trail ride told Kathleen that all her horse wanted to do was get back to the herd. Kathleen showed him that she was the herd. The horse was already there. You don’t really need to be a horse to be part of the herd. You just need to spend the time and effort to think like one.

  And you need to care.

  30

  Part of the Herd

  The man had been there for days. Sitting on a far-off boulder. Alone. Just watching. He was same man they had encountered in the box canyon, and certainly unlike any man the stallion or the matriarch had ever encountered before. He had no means of transportation other than his feet. He did nothing that seemed to be a threat. He was just there.

  A couple of the younger horses had ventured closer, curious about the man. But the stallion had called them back. His bay foal, who was now nearing a year old, was one of the curious. The stallion took such pride in how bright this young colt was, yet one day he would have to shun him from the herd. There could only be one stallion. There are exceptions, but they are rare. When shunned, a young stallion will usually band together with other like youngsters until he is mature enough and strong enough to challenge some older stallion for a herd. But all of this was at least a year away for the young bay colt, maybe more.

  Now there was only playful curiosity about the strange man. One cold morning the man moved closer, walking first this way, then that, never straight toward the herd. He found another boulder, much closer, and there he sat. Again, just watching with kind eyes. And for a long while the herd watched him. Especially the stallion. And inexplicably he felt no fear. He continued to graze.

  At night the man would bundle up in his blanket and scrunch under an outcropping of the big boulder. And the horses would draw closer, meandering, as if only to reach for one more sprig of grass. One step closer. The man would never look at them. Sometimes during the day he would turn his back and lower his shoulders and head in a show of friendly submission, saying, I am approachable, I am not a predator.

  The stallion was drawn to the kindness in the man’s eyes, and something somewhere deep inside moved him to like this man. But he never ventured close because his job was to protect the herd.

  One cold morning, huddled in his blanket under the boulder, the man awoke to the warm breath of horse. He slowly opened his eyes to see the nostrils of the bay colt, sniffing, puffing. He did not look the young horse in the eye, as a predator would, but focused on his nose, and he, too, puffed and sniffed a greeting. The colt stepped back, and the man sat up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He turned his back to the young horse, only partially, his head down, his shoulders slumped, and waited for the colt to touch him again before he reached out and rubbed the young horse on the nose, then on the forehead. He was impressed with the colt’s manner, the clarity of his eye, the obvious intelligence.

  It would be several more days before he would ask the colt to come with him. Neither the stallion nor the matriarch minded. This man seemed to be one of them.

  Before leaving with the colt, the man managed to persuade the stallion to touch his shoulder and accept a rub on the forehead. He then turned and walked away. The bay colt followed. It was days later, back at his ranch, when he chose a name for the colt.

  It felt right to call him…Cash.

  31

  Synthesis

  Discovering the mysteries of the horse is a never-ending journey, but the rewards are an elixir. The soul prospers from sharing, caring, relating, and fulfilling. Nothing can make you feel better than doing something good for another being. Not cars. Not houses. Not face-lifts. Not blue ribbons or trophies. And there is nothing more important in life than love. Not money. Not status. Not winning.

  Try it and you will understand what I mean. Apply it to your horses and your life. It is the synthesis of this book and why it came into being.

  Give the choice of choice. To your horse, or your employee, or your friend, or your loved ones. Care enough to want them to be healthy and happy. It will come back a hundredfold.

  And always question everything. Be your own expert. Gather information and make decisions based upon knowledge and wisdom, not hearsay. Know that if something doesn’t seem logical, it probably isn’t. If it doesn’t make sense, it’s probably not right.

  Learn the art of discipline with compassion.

  And care about the way we care for the domestic horse. It needs to change. An extreme makeover, if you will. Going back to square one and beginning anew.

  There are many who teach relationship, riding, and training with principles of natural horsemanship. Others support the benefits of going barefoot with the wild horse trim. Still others write that your horse should eat from the ground and live without clothes and coverings. Some promote day-and-night turnout, where your horses can move around continuously. But few have explored how dramatically one without the other can affect the horse and his well
-being. Few have put it all together into a single philosophy, a unified voice, a complete lifestyle change for the domesticated horse. When I gave Cash the choice of choice and he chose me, he left me with no alternative. No longer could it be what I wanted, but rather what he needed. What fifty-five million years of genetics demanded for his long, healthy, and happy life.

  I’m still astonished when I think of where Kathleen and I began such a short time ago, and where most horse owners still are today, training with dominance and cruelty, cooping up their horses in small spaces, weakening their natural immune systems, feeding them unnaturally, creating unhealthy hooves and bodies with metal shoes. All because most folks actually believe it’s the right thing to do.

  Yes, there are those who still only want a beast of burden. Do as I say. Make me a winner. Jump higher. Run faster. Slide farther. People who care not about having a relationship with their horse, and who will, when confronted, continue not to care about the health and happiness of their horse. But I believe that most horse owners today care about their horses and are operating, as we once were, with little more than emotional logic, old wives’ tales, and very little real knowledge. I hope this book will be a crack in the armor, a small breeze if not the strong winds of change, a resource for what needs to be done.

  And a longer, happier, healthier life for all horses.

  Afterwhinny

  Joe has known me since I was nine. I’m almost eleven now. He really doesn’t know from whence I came, nor does my former owner. Only that my name, Cash, came with me. Joe believes that the story he told of wild horses throughout this book is a fable. I’ve heard him say that there’s no validating written record. And he’s not old enough to have been there for most of it. But I’ve also heard that very few good stories are pure fiction. There’s a place where a storyteller’s life, his cares and concerns, his passions, and his imagination all come together into something magical that’s part truth, part could be, and part maybe not. I know Joe, and I know this to be true: His story of my ancestors came from the heart. And from good research. Because any or all of it could’ve happened just as you read it. That’s the way it is in the wild. Joe was trying to illustrate how we are supposed to live, and how truly easy it is to be one of us, and to allow us to live as we should, as we always have.