“Why do I get the impression that Samson isn’t the only one proud of his actions?” Amy declared from several feet behind as I watched Samson gallop through the pasture. “Do you mind telling me what you whispered into his ear?”
Without turning around I answered Amy, “I told him that I was proud of him. I told him that guy got everything he deserved and then some. I told him that he and I were good—there would be no lectures and no punishment today.”
This time, the defendant would not be punished for his crime. Both judge and jury ruled that the haunted Mustang’s infraction constituted justifiable self-defense.
Over a period of just a few brief days, two distinctively different horsemen had highlighted the difference between good and poor horsemanship. When Dan first saw Samson, he assessed the Mustang’s issues and needs and then tailored his actions and behaviors to fit these. Once he decided to approach Samson, he did so with a presence that spoke of quiet confidence and determination. While his mannerisms communicated that he was the boss, his slow, nonthreatening actions simultaneously indicated that he would be both patient and respectful.
The veterinarian’s assistant, however, took an entirely different approach. To him, it was just another day and Samson was just another horse. The totality of the assistant’s behaviors and mannerisms spoke of threat and intimidation—comply or I will make you. Patience and respect were foreign, if not unknown, concepts. Fear was also present and those who are fearful often overcompensate. And when the assistant flung open Samson’s stall door, it was obvious that he was more than prepared to dole out pain and punishment.
I saw it, felt it, and knew it, and so did Samson.
Handling and controlling an eleven-hundred-pound animal is no walk in the park. Dictate and manage a horse’s movements and actions, do so with a command and control presence, and you will have a horse who trusts and respects you. Abuse that trust and respect, and you will be left with an animal who will put you down and take you out without a moment’s hesitation.
Training horses is not unlike constructing a building. Create a strong foundation, and you can build up vertically, one floor on top of the next. Fail to properly complete one floor, and each subsequent and earlier level will come crashing down. Heading into the final days of 2009, Samson’s foundational elements—the basic skills required to permit him to move on to more advanced training—were now complete. When Samson first accepted his blanket, he implicitly came to understand that items such as a pad, saddle, and rider would be placed upon his back. Once he yielded and released to pressure, he assented to my control—by bit and otherwise—over his forward, backward, and lateral movements. And when he permitted me to pick up and handle his legs, Samson evinced my dominion and control over his very being.
As winter promptly enveloped the Midwest, I arrived at Amy’s farm on December’s last Sunday prepared to advance Samson’s training. In other words, it was time to build vertically; it was time to construct our building. Weeks prior, I had introduced Samson to my bareback riding pad. Considerably lighter than my forty-five-pound saddle, once affixed with a cinch the pad provided a less threatening, intermediary, and preparatory step to ultimately saddling Samson. Similarly, once Samson had stopped fighting the lead line I introduced a longer twenty-five-foot lounge line.
Needless to say, at both the first and subsequent encounters Samson was less than interested in making new friends. Violence and Samson’s rule of three soon followed. Now weeks later, the time had come to fuse together these two core training components: my ability to handle and control Samson from a distance and his ability to move and maintain composure while carrying a saddle-like object atop his back.
With the pad on his back and the cinch tightened, I played the lounge line out several feet and pushed Samson into small circles at a walk. After several minutes, I let out more line and put greater distance between Samson and myself. Though nervous and afraid, Samson kept his violent, explosive twin at bay. Minutes later, I pushed Samson into a slow, prancing trot. He was able to maintain his composure right up until the moment that a gust of wind came off the adjacent barren cornfield and swept between his legs.
With the volatile Mustang now frightened and attached to a longer version of one of his most despised foes—the rope—all bets were off.
Rearing, twisting, and turning in midair like a prized PBR (Professional Bull Riders) bull, Samson was on autopilot—determined to get the pad and cinch off his body or die trying. As he rotated clockwise around my position, concurrently galloping and bucking through the tight confines of the roadside pasture, it was only a matter of time before he ran out of room. I could have sent a ripple wave through or yanked hard on the line, but given Samson’s personality either act would have only sent him into the red zone.
Instead, it was time for both horse and trainer to fall back on their many weeks of training. “Easy, eeeeaaasy,” I yelled out, “aaaand to a walk!” While many horsemen scoff at the use of verbal commands, I train my horses to recognize and respond to multiple spoken cues. Samson completed one additional complete circle, slowed, and came to a halt.
“Good boy, you are such a good boy,” I told my fatigued student as he fought to catch his breath.
“Help me out here, Mitch,” Amy blurted out, standing safely behind a huge oak tree. “Last week you gave me a whole safety lecture after I inadvertently coiled Studs’ lead line around my hand. I just sat here and watched as you purposely wrapped that lounge line around your right hand while Samson rampaged through the pasture.”
Busted, I was totally busted. Amy’s observations were correct. I had violated my own rule and deliberately connected Samson and me at the one time when I shouldn’t have. As Samson had galloped circles around my position, I noticed that with each rotation he had picked up speed and angled for the perimeter fence’s lowest point—the exact spot, in fact, that he had tried to vault after his confrontation with Frank. So after uncovering Samson’s escape plan, I did in fact coil the lounge line around my hand. The way I saw it, if Samson was taking off then this time I was going along for the ride.
If a client had deliberately attached him- or herself to an out-of-control horse, I’m sure that I would have blown a gasket raining down criticism. And if some other trainer were to question my actions, then I would no doubt have to agree with the condemnation. But in my mind, the overriding concern was Samson’s safety and in this case the ends justified the means. I had attached the lunge line to Samson, pushed him to a walk and then a trot, and placed him in harm’s way. Samson had his way of doing things, his code, and I had my own—take responsibility where there was responsibility to be had.
When I coiled the lunge line around my hand, I had no way of knowing whether Samson would vault from the farm with me in tow or respond to my commands and slow to a halt. But I trusted in him and made a leap of faith just as he had with me on many prior occasions. Reckless or not, stupid, or careless, I knew that something about my relationship with Samson was special and I was willing to bet my life on it.
Once Samson appeared less frazzled, I had him complete a clockwise and then counterclockwise circle at a trot. We had to finish the lesson on a positive note and Samson had to learn that violent objection would not release him from his training obligations. I then unclipped the lunge line and headed off to the barn to retrieve an apple. Though the lesson didn’t go as planned, I was extremely pleased with the way Samson followed my instruction and recovered from his nearly total meltdown. The day’s events had also highlighted the one cardinal rule that every trainer has committed to heart: no matter how much you plan and prepare, “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”
In other words, there are no certainties when working with animals.
I entered the barn from a side door as Samson made his way across the pasture. With head up and his walk animated, his body language spoke volumes. Oh yes, today I earned my apple. He seemed content and at ease, and I was able to breathe a sigh of re
lief inasmuch as the day could have ended on a considerably darker note. But then, just as I had let my guard down, I peered down the barn aisle and saw a sight that instantly sent me into panic mode.
Samson was standing by the stalls, his head down, eating hay off the aisle floor. With the outer barn door always left open so that Samson could escape the elements, it wasn’t the fact that he was standing in the aisle that raised concern. It was the fact that his head was hanging just below the oversized sharp metal bracket that protruded from the front of his stall—a component of the perimeter defense system that had previously kept the caged Mustang confined. If Samson raised his head, the results would be catastrophic.
I made my way down the aisle to try to ward off the unthinkable. But then, just as I neared the stalls, it happened.
“Oh no,” I yelled out, “oh crap!”
The first sound, the result of impact between bone and metal, froze me in my tracks. The second sound, the thud of nearly one thousand pounds crashing down onto the concrete floor, forced me to close my eyes and turned my stomach. I ran down the aisle but could see little through the plumes of hay dust that engulfed the stall area. Before I could get to him, Samson stood up and galloped from the barn.
I located Samson in the roadside pasture’s far corner—trembling, violently tossing his head, and kicking at the ground. He was injured and clearly in pain. His body language and posturing were identical to what I had previously observed in the moments following his Frank encounter. Only this time, his message seemed even more emphatic: Stay the hell away. As I stopped to look him over, I observed that something else was wrong—gravely wrong. Samson’s muscles were bulging out from his neck, saliva was running from his nose, and he was coughing, gagging, and making repeated attempts to swallow.
Samson was in serious distress.
Experience told that I was witnessing an episode of choke—a condition that occurs when food becomes stuck in the esophagus, muscles spasm and tighten, and the horse is unable to clear the obstruction. In this case, I could see the bulge in Samson’s neck that identified the spot where the hay sat lodged in his esophagus. While many choke episodes require veterinarian intervention and can be fatal, most horses are able to successfully clear the esophageal obstruction within ten to fifteen minutes. Either way, with daylight fading I knew that I needed to return Samson to the barn and assess his injuries. I also knew that I would be in for a fight.
For his first twelve years, Samson had persevered through everything that life had thrown his way. He had been a fighter and a survivor and a horse who needed no one. Now injured and in distress, Samson needed someone. But needing help and accepting it are two entirely different concepts and this meant that we had a serious problem. Just five days earlier, I had received a 6:00 a.m. emergency call that a horse was down in his stall with signs of colic. Alexandros was his name and he was a big, beautiful, athletic specimen who was also aggressive, stubborn, and at times a bully. Like Samson, he was one of my problem students and, though it had taken a while, he had slowly come to understand that I was the alpha.
When a horse needs to get up, it will rock to get momentum, roll over to get its legs underneath and right itself, throw its weight back on its hind legs, and then use its forelegs to slowly push away from the ground and rise up. “Cast” in his stall—stuck against the wall and unable to stand up—Alexandros could do none of these. He was scared, in pain, and kicking violently at those trying to save him. So after an hour of fighting to get their horse up, his owners called for my help. When I arrived at the barn, I walked into the stall, worked a line under his down side, folded it across his exposed side, and pulled him away from the wall. I then shouted, “Get up; get up now!” Mustering what little reserves he had left, Alexandros instinctively complied.
That was the nature of my relationship with Alexandros; I did not have this with Samson. The habituation, redundancy, and training benchmarks—none of it mattered now. What would happen in the next several minutes would be the true test of my progress with Samson.
Determined not to return to the scene of his injury, Samson locked his knees and hocks and went rigid. Recognizing that we could not afford an hour-long standoff, I instantly announced my intentions, “You and I are going into that barn under civil terms or with you kicking and screaming. Either way, we’re going.”
Back in the barn, under the glare of the overhead lighting, I first examined and then, in the hope of dislodging the impacted material, massaged the area of Samson’s neck that held the tennis ball–sized clump of hay. Throughout this process, Samson continued to cough, sneeze, and violently shake his head. The head tossing told me that I needed to redirect my attention back to his head.
Peering at her injured Mustang from several feet away, and in a tone that curdled my blood, Amy screamed, “Oh my god, he scalped himself—there’s blood everywhere!”
Due to the fading daylight outside and the choke episode, I had yet to even look upon Samson’s forehead. Shockingly, Amy’s observation was correct—a large section of Samson’s forehead, just above the right eye, was gone. It was a bloody wound, a considerable trauma, and an injury that needed immediate attention. Over the years, I have seen and treated dozens of traumatic, often critical, injuries and illnesses, but what I saw right then hit me in a way I was not accustomed to.
I tried to brush Samson’s forelock aside to examine the wound, but several attempted head butts and foreleg strikes said, Don’t even think about it. Up until this moment, I thought I had seen and experienced the best, or worst, of Samson’s anger, violence, and defense. I was wrong. Weakened, vulnerable, and exposed, Samson was battling pain and discomfort from two different sources, and the last thing he wanted was me in his face. As his behavior turned increasingly threatening and he slowly started to implode, his fear, pain, and distrust seemed to fuse together.
First he reared up. Then his rearing turned to bucking; bucking turned into kicking. In just seconds, we had hurricane and tropical depression Samson. There was little I could do but try to hold him still and talk him down. And then, after a couple of minutes, Samson’s meltdown suddenly stopped with the immediacy with which it began. Once again, he had that dazed, blank, PTSD look that said that he had been gone for a while and had just returned. As he slowly came back, he stared into my eyes with a look that said, I get it; I need your help with this one.
It was my signal to get to work.
When I put the surgical gloves on, like Superman with kryptonite, Samson shook and shuddered. Standing in front of the injured Mustang, I held a syringe filled with Betadine in one hand and a large gauze pad in the other. Irrigating the wound with my right hand while covering his eye with my left would leave me totally exposed to a head butt, bite, or anything else Samson could throw my way.
There was little I could do to protect myself but remind him of our agreement, “You and I still have a binding contract. I trust you, and you trust me. I have yet to lead you astray and today will be no different.”
Once the look in Samson’s eyes signaled recognition, I gave the “lower” command. The Mustang dropped his head to my waist and I started irrigating the wound. Next came the numbing antibiotic ointment that would protect the wound and promote healing. Stitches weren’t really necessary, so Mother Nature would be left to run her course while I monitored for signs of infection and other complications.
With gravity, saliva, and a gentle massage having dislodged the ball of hay from his esophagus, I tried to walk Samson back to his stall, but he simply wouldn’t budge. He was staring into my eyes, looking for my attention, determined not to move. Once I acknowledged his gaze, Samson ever so slowly closed and then opened his eyelids. For most, this minor act wouldn’t have said much; for Samson, it said everything. For me, it meant the world.
Thank you.
“Yes,” I told him, “you are welcome, old boy.”
Patient and doctor retired for the evening. The day had seen a tragic accident and a true exhibitio
n of trust. Horse and horseman had cast aside their fears, doubts, and reservations and each believed in the other. It was a day that I, and I hope Samson, will never forget. In the months that followed, not a week passed without Samson suffering some form of injury. When he charged the three crazed dogs who teased him from the safe side of the fence, he lacerated his chest. When he chased the chickens, ducks, and geese from his pasture, the barbed-wire fence sliced and diced. Plainly put, this was Samson. He would not be mocked and he would not be chided. Nonetheless, this battle-scarred gladiator slept easy, for he knew that he had his own on-call, 24/7 trauma nurse.
I returned the following day, Monday, the twenty-eighth day of December, to find wound and patient doing fine. Seconds after my arrival, Amy got right up in my face. “You said back in October that we would assess things by the end of the year. I need to know that Samson is going to be mounted and ridden in order for him to stay. I want him to be like a normal horse—something good has to come out of this crazy life of mine.”
In that instant, I understood the true nature of the relationship between Samson and Amy. I recognized that Amy did indeed have a vested interest in her Mustang’s successes and failures. After her recent bout with illness, the failed relationship, the change of career, her move to the country, and all the ensuing chaos, Amy was left questioning her life and her fate. Samson’s mounting could right Amy’s derailed train, validate her life-changing decisions, and make it all worth it. Whether or not I liked it, Amy’s and Samson’s fates were inextricably intertwined.
Up until that moment, there had been no manual that instructed that I continue Samson’s training. In just a few short months, Samson had made great strides. He had given and received trust and respect and somewhat consensually assented to my control, care, and custody. Nonetheless, violent outbursts were weekly, if not daily. At times, Samson’s lapses were the result of his untold demons, ghosts, and his engrained fear of man. In other instances, his fits were the actions of a twelve-year-old horse rebuffing and rejecting my ever-increasing control.
Last Chance Mustang Page 15
