Last Chance Mustang

by Mitchell Bornstein

  This probably could have been—should have been—Samson’s story. But he was a fighter and a survivor—a proud and true wild American Mustang. Whereas luck and fate shunned the young foal, both had granted Samson a reprieve. This unruly, cantankerous Mustang was destined for bigger and better things. Like the great biblical figure, Samson the combative, beaten-down wild horse was fated to deliver his kind from hardship, oppression, and tragedy.

  By midmonth, winter’s frigid chill held rural McHenry County in its vice-like grip. Samson and I pushed forward. On his good days, Samson was focused and engaged. But on his bad days, the still-wild-at-heart Mustang remained as unpredictable as Plains weather. Working with Samson was a process. A process that required patience, time, and a thorough understanding of this horse’s many ghosts and demons. Deciphering and distinguishing Samson the terrified victim from Samson the willful wild horse was taking my training skills to a whole new level.

  The objective for the month was to increase Samson’s maneuverability while figuratively tightening the reins on my challenging student. I could achieve the latter by managing and directing Samson’s forward, backward, and lateral movements. Once again, my ability to instruct Samson when and where to move was imperative and essential. The first advanced skills that my bipolar pupil needed to tackle were the turn on the forehand and the pivot on the hindquarters.

  A turn on the forehand requires that a horse’s hind legs arc around its forelegs—which remain more or less stationary. In order to complete the maneuver, the horse must first adduct, step one hind leg in front of the stationary opposite, and then abduct, reach outward and away from its body with the previously planted hind leg. Similar to the turn on the forehand, the pivot on the hindquarters directs the horse to move a foreleg out sideways away from its body and then continue the motion as the front legs arc around the hind legs, which are lifted and then planted down in place.

  In effect, during both maneuvers the horse is using two of its legs to walk a circle around the other two mostly stationary limbs. If turning on the forehand, the horse’s body is rotating around the forelegs. When pivoting on the haunches, it is circling around the two hind legs. In both instances, the horse’s learned ability to move away from the application of pressure initiates each lateral movement.

  Teaching Samson to rotate laterally required that he and I get up close and personal. Though horse and trainer were no doubt intimately acquainted by this point, this nevertheless remained a very hard pill for the ever-solitary Samson to swallow. If asking him to turn on the forehand, I was required to stand back by Samson’s rump—within his kick radius—and use my fist to gently apply pressure against his side until he rotated his hind end out and away. When directing a pivot on the hindquarters, I stood just off Samson’s shoulder—well within his head-butt zone—pressing against his neck and face until he yielded and rotated in the opposite direction.

  Having me in his personal space, applying pressure and making a mockery of his defensive perimeter, was simply a fact of life that Samson would have to accept. Though he was not happy about it, Samson’s abstention from violence indicated that he had begrudgingly accepted this reality. When, however, I stood back at a distance and gently tapped him with a long riding crop in lieu of my hand, Samson fiercely declared that he had seen and tolerated enough.

  Samson the warrior was primed for a return engagement.

  My time with Samson had already revealed that he had a long history with the riding crop. Perhaps it too closely resembled the cattle prod—an oft-used tool of BLM wranglers. Or maybe a riding crop had been employed in one of his many beat-downs. Either way, I had long since known that this horse had drawn a line in the pasture and, as far as he was concerned, no one or no thing was going to cross it. Like a torpedo snaking, veering, and jerking to find its target, his hind-leg strikes ensured that the crop would not come into contact with his body. With Samson consciously and deliberately protecting his ever-so-guarded hindquarters at one end and his head at the other, I simply could not win.

  Samson was once again defending himself from a long-despised enemy. The list only continued to grow: the helicopter, rope, halter, and now riding crop. This Mustang was truly battle tested.

  As in our previous encounters, Samson’s reactions were rote, responsive, defensive, and learned. Call his actions what you will—obstructive, unacceptable, or dilatory—but the one thing they were not was malicious. More important, these actions were not directed at me and accordingly could not be taken personally. In one moment, Samson would forcefully strike at the crop. Seconds later, he would stand idle as I pressed my fist into his flank and initiated a pivot. This horse’s list of enemies was no doubt lengthy, but unlike all those who had come before me, thankfully, my name was nowhere to be found. If I wanted to fix Samson’s issues, then I would have to employ a measured combination of both praise and punishment.

  * * *

  In instances such as this, the greatest error that owners make is their steadfast refusal to permit their horse to make mistakes. Horses learn by trial and error. As the alpha leader, an owner’s acceptance or rejection of a specific action in turn dictates a horse’s continued and subsequent behaviors. Time, patience, and instruction, on the one hand, will lead to a vast array of desired, appropriate responses. Yelling, hitting, and pain, on the other hand, will only shake to the core an animal who by its very nature is already doubting, insecure, herd oriented, and in need of constant reassurance and instruction.

  Punishment for Samson, like all of my horses, often took the form of physical exertion. Compliance meant rest and leisure; obstruction meant work and exercise. Tight circles at a trot is or rather was one such example of an excellent method of punishment until Samson and I crossed paths. With his body moving in circles and his eyes fixed on mine, this unabashedly direct Mustang frequently mocked this oft-applied mandated punishment. Each time I sent him off, I felt as if I could read his thoughts.

  Hey, buddy, seriously? Running me, for real? I’ve spent my life running. Have that friend of yours fit me with a good pair of running shoes and I could run the Boston Marathon. I would have thought you knew better!

  In order to properly execute both the turn on the forehand and the pivot on the hindquarters, Samson would have to accept the crop’s touch and yield to its pressure. Ever the difficult yet deductive student, one afternoon after he had completed a compulsory punitive time-out, Samson arrived at what he believed was a fair and equitable solution to both of our problems. As I started to raise the crop from my side, and with it still several feet from his body, Samson promptly shifted his weight, moved his legs, and first executed a turn on the forehand, followed by a pivot on the hindquarters. Both were perfect.

  Look at me, his smug look said. I can do this without that thing even touching me. Like a parent who hides a smile and laughter following a child’s hilarious yet inappropriate comment, I too masked my amusement.

  Eventually, Samson came to realize that despite his long and unfortunate history with the riding crop and cattle prod, in my hands no such instrument would bring him harm. It was once again a decision, a realization, premised upon our mutual trust and the bond first forged in a darkened, damp stall months earlier. Incidents such as this soon led me to the realization that over time I had come to respect and admire Samson’s proud and prideful ways. This was a courageous animal—a solitary figure willing to cast aside deep, scarring memories and start anew. Always true to himself and his ways, he didn’t snuggle up for treats, didn’t aim to please his two-legged captors, and didn’t feign interest or dedication. If you wanted Samson’s attention and respect, then you had to earn it.

  Horse and trainer were working together, and in Samson’s mind that was all that needed to be said to express his feelings.

  Samson’s ways had also kept this horse alive, and fed him hope when there was no hope to be found. After fifteen years, I was once again challenged and inspired. I was falling back in love with my first love. Yet
I was terrified of failing this horse and consumed with the potential consequences. And while Samson’s strong character and resolve were no doubt admirable, he was not the only one of his kind to possess these qualities.

  As Samson gazed out across the rural midwestern frozen tundra, the one thing that his gaze couldn’t detect, but the one thing that humane observers’ cameras could, was the life-or-death struggles of a similarly willful, proud, and prideful wild Mustang stallion. Determined resolve and the yearning for freedom and liberty, it turns out, were traits not remotely exclusive to my combative student. These were breed-wide traits and characteristics, and in the Calico Mountains Complex they were on full display.

  Out West, a descendant of Samson’s old Nevada herd decided he had had enough of his cramped BLM corral. With cameras rolling, the captured wild stallion, whom Mustang advocates dubbed “Freedom,” leapt the corral railing, burst through barbed wire, and galloped back to the Nevada mountains. Though contractors chased him with horses and dogs, the wounded stallion escaped.

  Samson and Freedom, his stallion compatriot thousands of miles away, had two things in common: they were both proud and determined, and they were both separated from their kind—they were both alone.

  Despite all of our progress, Samson and Amy remained estranged. So the following week, I decided to take the initiative and force the issue—urging Amy to lift and pick out Samson’s hooves. But after she lifted and picked just one hoof, Amy announced, “No more.” When she was asked to brush Samson’s back, she completed one stroke and promptly departed. Notwithstanding her indifference, Amy continued to insist that we advance Samson’s training. While her fear of the once-lawless Mustang was certainly justified, it was now clear that Amy would not play an active role in Samson’s rehabilitation. He was, for her, a symbol more than a project.

  Having observed Samson at his worst, and fully aware that his anger could reach its flash point in mere seconds, Amy was scared to death of Samson. The last place that she wanted to be was underneath Samson; the last place he wanted to be was anywhere near Amy. And though she didn’t recognize it at the time and while it was by no means deliberate or conscious, Amy’s fear had already doomed her relationship with Samson.

  As a species of prey and flight, horses are governed by an overriding concern for safety and security. If equines had a motto, it would be “live to run another day.” When a horse detects a threat or senses fear in a nearby animal or human, it is going to do whatever it can to get away, and get away fast. And while some level of apprehension will always be present when working with large animals, the introduction of a terrified handler to a horse who by its nature is already prone to flight would be analogous to pouring gasoline on a raging fire.

  Once it is sensed by horses, fear is like a cancer. It grows, spreads, and dominates the equine mind. Horses are, in my estimation, walking, breathing fear detectors. They sense it, smell it, hear it, and react to it.

  It is the one certain impediment to harmonious relations between horse and horseman.

  Fear is the single most determinative factor that explains why a horse will act calm and compliant with one handler and moments later, with another, turn skittish and combative. Group-oriented by virtue of nature and nurture, horses crave the safety and security provided by the herd. As such, they are followers—not individuals. A horse will follow and submit to a strong herd leader who exudes authority, strength, and confidence. If led by a weak, indecisive alpha, that very same horse will lose its sense of security, confidence, and overall sense of direction. Doubt soon evolves into fear, which in short order gives rise to insecurity. Once consumed by fear and insecurity, a horse becomes an eleven-hundred-pound mass of unchecked emotions, reverts to instinct, and takes to immediate flight.

  Like fear, an absence of patience can be equally destructive to the horse–human relationship. Time and patience are with little doubt the most significant yet most overlooked factors when properly training any horse. With both, you can cure nearly any vice, any evil. Without either, you can just as easily ruin a good horse as push a troubled one over the edge.

  Required when both initially bonding with a horse and then again once skills are introduced and taught, time and patience are required at all times, with all horses. Fail to properly take the time to establish a relationship with your horse and you will never reach the skills development phase. Establish the proper bond with your horse but fail to initially break down skills to the most basic components and you will have a mount lacking in both ability and execution.

  Combined, these tenets form my first rule of horsemanship: fear begets insecurity; impatience breeds failure. Just as a herd-bound horse looks to a lead stallion or alpha mare for strength and security, a domesticated horse expects its handler to be both strong and confident. If strength and confidence are absent, then a willing horse promptly turns unwilling, afraid, and insecure. If fearful, a handler must slow down the process and compartmentalize his or her actions. With time and patience, fear will decrease and confidence will increase. Act like you’re in charge, behave like you know what you are doing, and a horse will follow your lead. Alternatively, let fear govern and control your actions, fail to take baby steps, and a calm horse turns punchy; an amped-up horse turns to fear-driven flight or fight.

  Fear, it turns out, begets insecurity in both humans and horses.

  Consumed with justified fear, Amy had found it difficult to look beyond Samson’s storied past deeds. As I deliberated on the problem, I was reminded of a horse who lived, ironically, just a few miles down the road from Amy’s farm. A three-year-old Thoroughbred racetrack reject, Sky’s first home following her retirement was with a farmer and his young daughter. No different from any other track-trained horse, Sky was large and aggressive and knew a great deal about “go” and very little about “whoa.” Since a child was involved, this story’s ending was a foregone conclusion. Children take to hobbies the way they grow in and out of their clothes. One month it’s a great fit; the next month it’s a hand-me-down.

  Horses, needless to say, are not hand-me-downs and are not easily discarded.

  After several failed attempts to teach Sky the most basic of skills, the farmer quickly realized that he had bitten off far more than he could chew. Even for a skilled trainer, a track horse can be quite the challenge. As the days turned to weeks, the family’s collective need for instant gratification—the need to have a horse who could be immediately saddled, mounted, and ridden—led to a chilling effect for this beautiful hot-blooded horse specimen. In no time, Sky went from a prized purchase to a mistake—a regret.

  Soon, Sky was relegated to a sad and solitary existence in a mud lot. Fed just enough to keep her alive, and with no exercise, she bore little resemblance to the shiny-coated, proud, and athletically gifted horse who had stepped from the trailer months before. At some point, the neighbors intervened and, after some convincing, Sky’s owners agreed to transfer her title to an interested couple.

  A proud and commanding horse, Sky had understandably grown resentful and standoffish. After several failed attempts to catch and load Sky for the trip to her new home, I was called out to get the job done. Once Sky was successfully delivered to her new owners, I walked her out to a large grass pasture, dropped two flakes of hay at her side, rubbed her neck, and exited the enclosure. I then urged Sky’s owners to move slowly and cautiously with their new horse; acceptance and interaction would come in time. Having observed that malnourishment had made Sky deeply food aggressive and protective, I implored both to throw Sky’s hay rations over the fence and avoid, at least for the time being, any approach with food in hand. I then said my good-byes and departed with a sense that Sky was off to a fresh start.

  Days later, I received a phone call advising that Sky was once again in need of a new home. When I inquired as to why, I was informed that Sky had allegedly attacked one of her owners. In the back of my mind, I already had a pretty good idea of what had transpired. The following weekend, I
made the two-hour drive out to Sky’s new home. Upon my arrival, I immediately jumped the fence, walked out to, and greeted Sky. She slowly advanced on my position and snugged up against my shoulder. There was no hint of malice, aggression, or threat and I was now certain of what had gone down days before.

  Moments later, the husband and wife duo appeared. For several minutes, I listened intently as they used terms such as “mean,” “crazed,” and “violent” to describe their recent four-legged acquisition. While their loaded adjectives painted a troubling picture, neither could provide a single fact that could account for their ill will toward Sky. I pressed harder and eventually the duo’s female half buckled. As she explained it, Sky had approached her husband, postured on him, and then attempted to grab two flakes of hay from him as he entered her pasture. When he dropped the hay and swung his arms at her, Sky responded with a halfhearted kick, which, by the wife’s own admission, was not intended to make contact.

  That was literally the entire story.

  I turned and looked at the husband and then waited for it. “It is totally ridiculous that we put ourselves out for this horse and I’m not even able to walk hay out there,” he angrily explained. “You spent two hours with her, dumped hay at her feet, petted her on the neck, and walked away without so much as a hiccup on her part. How long do I have to wait to receive that same treatment? I gave her food and shelter and so far I have nothing to show for it.”

  And there it was.

  Sky and Samson had much more in common than just their close geographic proximity. Both Thoroughbreds and Mustangs seem to generate a great deal of interest, excitement, and prestige when first rescued, adopted, or purchased. The fact that they suddenly own a Thoroughbred or Mustang seems to infuse some owners with an air of horsemanship excellence—a sense that they have taken on and conquered the toughest of breeds. But after the novelty gives way to fear, impatience, and eventual imprudence, more often than with other types of horses the Mustang and the Thoroughbred are back on the truck and headed for auction or, worse yet, slaughter.