“I’m sorry!” Amy yelled out from the cheap seats of the peanut gallery. “I don’t mean to intervene while you are doing your thing … but … what the hell are you doing? You just turned a perfectly haltered horse into a free, uncatchable crazed beast. Just remember, you break it, you buy it.”
Armchair quarterbacks, every sport has them.
I turned my gaze to Samson, who interchangeably galloped and bucked wildly as hoof-sized chunks of mud vaulted from his hind legs like clay targets launched in a skeet shoot. Covering yards of pasture with each powerful stride, the ever-stoic Mustang squealed in high-pitched tones. I’m free, he declared. Free at last. I’m free.
Something was different this time. Samson wasn’t angry, marauding, or running for his life. He was happy; he was joyous; he seemed to be smiling. And with that observation, I came to the realization that moments before Samson hadn’t wrenched away from my grasp and control. Rather, he had escaped, escaped from the clutches of the omnipresent halter. Samson’s ever-growing list of mortal enemies continued to grow: the despised helicopter, the hated rope and whip, and now the loathed halter.
Samson knew of the halter’s power. It could limit, control, and restrain his every action and movement. Resting ever present on his face, it was a minute-to-minute, day-to-day reminder of his captivity, his defeat by the two-legged predator, and his freedom lost. Like a convict who takes off running upon the realization that he has broken free of his leg shackles, Samson too, with the removal of his halter, had struck out for freedom.
As he pounded his hooves in the McHenry soil, as he galloped passionately with the exuberance of a youthful horse and freely with the reckless abandon of a once-wild stallion, in the foreground I saw a bay Mustang. In the background, I saw the plains, valleys, and mountain ranges of Nevada. For an instant, a fleeting moment, Samson was transported back home and I was his journey’s guest.
In describing the legendary pacing white stallion of the American West, J. Frank Dobie seemingly depicted Samson as he galloped free of the halter’s restraint: “… his fire, grace, beauty, speed, endurance and intelligence were exceeded only by his passion for liberty.”9 After a lengthy absence, Samson the once-wild Mustang had rediscovered his liberty.
I let Samson run with the wind and savor his newfound yet short-lived freedom. To expect this horse to change overnight would speak to ignorance as to not only who he was but also what he was. Samson was no youngster. He was determined in his ways and resolute in his beliefs. He was a rigid leader and a traumatized victim. He was damaged goods. Over the course of the next hour, I repeatedly released Samson from his halter and then subsequently caught him. This pattern continued until the point at which the entire process went off without Samson’s physical objection or obstruction.
As our first month of training neared an end, I was exhausted and spread too thin. Due to my weekend Samson commitment, a looming legal brief filing deadline had me go without sleep three nights in a row and a canceled apple-picking excursion with Jamie had me in hot water. And when the therapeutic riding center held its quarterly board meeting, I walked in and then promptly and acrimoniously walked out. With twenty years working in special needs, I had long since known that not-for-profits were as much about board member personal agendas as they were about helping those in need. Nonetheless, my tenure had soured me and it was over.
Now with more time for my pupil, the center’s loss had been Samson’s gain.
My resignation from the riding center probably would have been the final straw—the last excuse I needed to walk away from the horse world—but for Samson. Horse and horseman had made progress and we’d started to trust in each other. But our successes had come at a price. Amy had witnessed Samson’s aggression and wanted nothing to do with her volatile Mustang. More time spent with Samson meant less time for my girlfriend, my legal career, my life. And then there was the violence; without even intending it, Samson could kill or maim me, Amy, or any innocent person.
As October waned, the cost of my commitment was adding up. My pledge to break Samson was now having a ripple effect on other aspects of my life. Buyer’s remorse occupied my thoughts. I questioned my abilities. I doubted my decision to break this unbreakable horse.
The one thing that kept me going was that Samson’s life was in my hands.
The work of the weekend complete, I offered Samson his apple. This time, after great contemplation and deliberation, he lunged forward, snatching from my grasp a quartered section. I waited. I waited for him to chew and swallow so that I could happily offer him the next piece. But Samson did not chew and he did not swallow. My gaze moved up from his mouth to his eyes, where we locked on each other. His intelligent, smirking eyes spoke. I took the apple from you, as you have wanted. Isn’t that enough?
Yes, it was enough. It was enough to keep me going.
{6}
A GAME CHANGER
A stubborn horse walks behind you, an impatient horse walks in front of you, but a noble companion walks beside you.
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN
In 1961, Hollywood cast its bright lights on the plight of the wild Mustang with the feature film The Misfits. Starring Clark Gable, Montgomery Clift, Eli Wallach, and Marilyn Monroe, the film followed a trio of aging cowboys as they hunted their one last chance at fortune—a band of Mustangs that lived high in the Nevada desert. With the aid of an airplane, the Mustangers first chased the wild horses from their mountainous home and then pursued the horses by truck across the dry, arid Nevada wastelands. Startled and sickened to learn that the captured horses would be slaughtered and processed into pet food, the character played by Marilyn Monroe eventually convinced the trio of broken men to release the detained Mustangs. Free once again, the wild horses galloped off into the Nevada highlands.
While Hollywood’s fictionalized Mustangs received a reprieve, in the many years since The Misfits there has been no such happy ending for the real wild horses who roam Nevada’s vast open spaces. Notwithstanding decreasing numbers and ever-shrinking lands, the Mustang is still blamed for range degradation, still allegedly overpopulating the frontier, and still being culled, captured, and relocated.
By our second month of training, and despite his untold and countless demons, Samson had allowed my approach and accepted my touch. He had permitted my entry into his dark, lonely, and solitary world. With each encounter, Samson had checked his instinctive desire to strike first and ask questions later; only Samson wouldn’t have asked questions later. It seemed incomprehensible that up to this point Samson had not met his fate at what I termed a “quad b end”—a bullet backyard backhoe burial. The only thing that had kept Samson alive was that he was a stallion and could produce valuable Mustang offspring. But this was no longer the case. Samson’s violent ways and antisocial tendencies would no longer be overlooked.
In the days following my resignation from the therapeutic riding center, various organizations sought me out. I first started working with children my junior year in college when I spent time in a high school special needs classroom. Since then, I had worked with pediatric cancer and burn patients, Special Olympics, and hippotherapy and therapeutic riding clients. I would miss working with the kids, but in order for me to do this right Samson would have to be my one and only focus.
As the last signs of summer faded and fall’s leaves fell, November’s first sessions brought change, success, and violence. Samson’s feedings were increased from two to a more evenly spread out three feedings per day. His sweet feed ration was changed to a small amount of nutritionally balanced, commercially prepared concentrate. When it came time to handle his mouth and prepare him for deworming and later the bit, Samson balked. With the help of a syringe filled with applesauce, he relented. The once perpetually melancholic Mustang could have been the poster horse for a CLIO-awarded Mott’s advertising campaign.
It would be nice to say that Samson was settling down and had dropped his explosive and violent ways. But this perfect ending was not to be
. His demons permeated him to the core and he remained as tightly coiled and unpredictable as a jack-in-the-box toy primed to explode. The question was not if Samson was going to detonate but when.
As the days turned shorter and winter’s chill grew closer, Samson struggled to stay warm. While his body produced sebum—oil that would help warm him—and though he could, similar to cats and dogs, fluff his coat and trap air required for insulation, he was waging a losing battle. The time had come to start socializing Samson to his winter blanket.
For weeks, the bright blue insulated blanket had been sitting on the fence during each of our sessions. It started at thirty feet away and was now within five feet of the four-legged sentry. With its noisy nylon, puffy insulation, and ever-threatening leg straps, this was a code red, and Samson was mobilized for action. The first two times that it was placed atop his back, he had squirmed, danced, and wiggled his way out from under it. But for some reason, he didn’t detonate.
A week later, however, Samson’s “rule of three” kicked in and he bucked wildly until the blanket waved the white flag, slid to the ground, and was trampled to its near demise. Samson’s rule of three was premised upon the concept that each time a new task or tack item was introduced Samson would object, but not excessively, for the first two encounters. He would take in and digest all that he could observe and then by the third encounter he would strike violently, pointedly, and determinedly. And he would continue his barrage until the particular item was no longer on his body and the particular task was no longer a threat.
This was without fail Samson’s rule of three and he engaged it with the lead line, the halter, the bridle and bit, the saddle pads, when his hooves and mouth were handled, and of course when the saddle was introduced. It was frustrating, it was aggravating, but it was simply Samson. Take him or leave him.
Among horse professionals, countless opinions exist as to what act truly signifies and communicates a horse’s complete submission. Some believe that a horse has fully submitted once it accepts the saddle. Conversely, others assert that a horse has acquiesced to human control only after it has allowed a rider atop its back. In both instances, the animal has exposed itself and diminished its ability to seek unhindered flight. The last thing that any prey animal wants is a predator seated atop its back or a heavy object slowing its escape.
Yes, a horse’s acceptance of a saddle and then subsequently a rider should each be considered monumental and ever important. But in allowing a saddle or rider on its back, and though it has relinquished control, the horse has yet to make a sacrifice. If the horse wants the saddle or rider gone, then it can buck each off. If it wants to flee, it can certainly do so with rider in tow.
In contrast, when a prey animal such as the horse lifts and places its leg in your hand it is making both a huge leap of faith and a tremendous sacrifice. Instantly its sole means of flight are disabled and one of its very limited methods of defense is left immobilized. With a leg up in the air, a horse has indeed surrendered its very lifeline. For a horse on four legs is a spectacle of speed, strength, and agility; a horse on three legs is easy prey.
Samson must have agreed with my rationale. When his forelegs were lifted for the first time, he—like the Texans at the Alamo—made quite the last stand. And once he had complied and was offered his peppermint reward, he lowered his head, inhaled its aroma, turned his head hard to the right, and rejected the overture. What? his narrowed gaze seemed to say. You really think that little sphere of compressed sugar is a proportional reward for giving up my legs? As he was always a character, this was certainly not the last time that Samson, ever proud and prideful, would defiantly reject a reward.
In much the same fashion that Samson fought when I lifted his forelegs, he flew into a jarring rage when I handled his ears. He bucked, reared, and flung his forelegs out like he was Rocky Balboa pounding cow carcasses. He pitched his head from left to right and back again looking for a target. While Samson guarded both ears with a crazed fervor, it was the right one that truly set him off.
Standing along his right side, I spoke to my pupil, “This just gets worse by the week, doesn’t it? They ear-twitched you, didn’t they? You have truly seen it all and then some, my friend.”
Employed when handling overly excited, difficult, or unruly equines, twitching is a process that when utilized properly allows a handler to manage an otherwise-unruly horse. With pressure applied to parts of the horse’s anatomy by either hand or a tool called a twitch, the ensuing endorphin release calms the animated and unmanageable animal. When they think of this process, most horse people envision nose twitching applied via the upper lip. In these instances, a loop of rope or chain is placed on to and then slowly tightened around the horse’s upper lip until the animal turns compliant. Ear twitching, on the other hand, thankfully remains mostly unknown.
Those horse owners who still resort to the ear twitch as a method of restraint do so by grabbing the horse’s ear in their hand, tightly squeezing, and then twisting it until the animal is subdued. These days, most in the horse world reject this method of control since it often leads to head- and ear-shy horses. Yet even old-school horsemen—those who manually ear-twitch—reject the application of a mechanical chain or rope twitch to the sensitive tissue of the equine ear. When a rope or chain is affixed to and tightened around a horse’s ear, it is a procedure that is almost always applied incorrectly and more likely than not results in permanent nerve and cartilage damage. Ultimately, a horse who has been ear-twitched with a chain or rope ends up physically and emotionally scarred and combative to any who venture near its head.
As I stood next to Samson and gazed upon his outer ear—the pinna—cartilage damage was plainly visible. I suddenly understood why Samson acted as he did, and thus withheld punishment.
One step forward, two steps back.
Looking into his right eye while whispering into his right ear, I spoke to the victim, “We’ll get through this, Samson. Slowly but surely, we’ll get through this.”
Now that Samson and I were working up close and personal, it was time to clip on to his halter and teach him the release and yield to pressure. If correctly taught and properly learned, the yield to pressure is arguably the single most significant skill in a horse’s vast training repertoire. A horse who yields to pressure will follow under lead, submit to the bit, and respond to and move out from leg pressure. The horse who doesn’t will drag a handler, violently fight the bit, refuse leg cues, and ultimately take its rider for the ride of his or her life.
The plan was simple—clip on to the halter, put some distance between us, and then apply intermittent pressure to the lead line until Samson yielded, released, and moved forward toward me. After the lead line was attached to Samson’s halter, I slowly walked backward. I had fifteen feet of lead line to play with but never had the chance to use nearly any of it. Having been roped, yanked, and dragged his entire life, Samson instantly knew the game plan and understood what needed to be done.
With the slightest hint of pressure applied to the lead line, he lifted his head, straightened his neck, and leaned back against the halter. I wasn’t concerned—this was a standard response for any and every unschooled horse. Nevertheless, I had no intention of engaging in a tug-of-war with a one-thousand-pound horse where the outcome was certain. I resituated Samson so that his rump abutted the barn’s west wall and his head faced the open pasture. If Samson was going to shoot back in reverse, which he no doubt was, then he had nowhere to go. This horse was tough, but not tough enough to emerge victorious against the barn’s concrete foundation wall.
Samson turned his head to the left and shot me a hard look. You suck!
I had removed his best defense to the pull and control of the lead line, but that didn’t mean Samson was going to wave the white flag. This was a horse who was well versed in how to fight and resist the pull of the rope. Yet this time, there was no unrelenting pressure, no hard jerks, and no constriction of his airway. There was only alternatin
g pressure and a denied back-door escape. I played out the lead line and increased the distance between teacher and student.
And then something strange happened.
Already simmering and nearing his boiling point, Samson turned nervous and unsure. He seemed afraid. Without warning, he took several abrupt, hurried steps forward and parked out alongside my right shoulder. And to my surprise, that was all it took.
Needless to say, I was ecstatic and praised him accordingly. Aware that he had displayed what he believed amounted to a show of weakness, Samson stood chisel faced and indifferent to my commendation.
That afternoon, I didn’t take the fight away from Samson. That afternoon, Samson chose not to fight. Left standing alone, attached to his greatest foe, the rope, Samson was overcome with an emotion that was not anger, contempt, or disdain. He was overcome with fear. Though he hadn’t realized it at the time, Samson had slowly come to rely on me for his safety and his security. And when he timidly stepped forward to me, he found the very safety and security that he had sought. The process had started. Samson was showing the first signs of voluntarily seeking out my protection.
He had, ever so slightly, started to trust in me.
While Samson’s actions were monumental, they were, nonetheless, borne out of panic. If our progress was to continue, Samson’s decisions would have to be fueled by something more than fear. It was time for Samson to decide whether or not he needed my guidance and direction. It was time for Samson to decide whether or not he needed, wanted, his first friend.
As Samson and I spent more time together, his inventory of learned skills increased, as did my list of permissible actions. Each new skill meant more of my time, more of my investment. In order to ensure Samson’s survival, I needed to prove that he could change. But as our bond was strengthening, the Mustang continued to shun all others. Though Samson held a glimmer of hope that I could be different, he had made his mind up about all the rest. He needed only me. No one else could stand him; no one else would even go near him.
Last Chance Mustang Page 10
