But Amy was not finished.
Standing strategically behind her younger sister, Amy continued, “Though you would never care to admit it, you are more similar than dissimilar to Samson. I can see why you two are getting along so famously.”
The tone of Amy’s voice combined with a quick glimpse over my shoulder at her facial expression told me that her words were not intended in jest. An undercurrent of resentment had rippled through her statements and the impeaching tone had not escaped me. This wasn’t the first time that my ability to bond with a client’s horse had caused problems. But this was my job; I had nearly twenty years of experience that had instructed what and what not to do.
If I had met Samson at the beginning of my career, I wouldn’t have survived the encounter. Years of experience from working hardcase horses had kept me safe, and through no fault of her own Amy lacked this knowledge. Still, none of that mattered now. Where Amy had failed to bond with Samson, I had succeeded. It was now clear that Amy’s combined growing frustration over Samson’s slow progress and her inability to bond with him had infected our relationship. She was becoming increasingly impatient and she wanted to see her Mustang mounted and ridden.
Amy needed to know that some good had come out of a life—her life—that had been turned on its head. This was as much about Amy as it was about Samson.
Driving home via the twisting, fog-enveloped rural roads, I mulled over Amy’s comments. Long since comfortable in my own skin, at forty years old I knew who and what I was. I was an educated, honest, and hardworking adult—most certainly not a disappointment to anyone. While true love and a lifetime partner had to date escaped my grasp, I still believed that both were out there waiting for me.
Dedicated to my clients’ interests, I was a zealous and sincere legal advocate. Perhaps I could have been or should have been a more successful attorney. With many battles fought and won, however, I had my share of victories that brought pride and accomplishment. Yet my true source of pride, my one constant source of happiness, was the dozens upon dozens of horses I had saved from a bullet backyard backhoe burial. My work with troubled horses had made a difference; my efforts had saved lives.
My first equine encounter occurred at the ripe age of seven years old. Horses had been trucked into my summer day camp and all campers were to receive rides. By day’s end, the only children who had yet to ride were the youngest and they were loud, wound up, and wild. They were also incessantly teasing and picking on a sole, solitary horse who stood tied in the pen’s far corner. His name was Comanche, a name and a horse that I will never forget. Comanche was an old, ragged horse—he had seen better days and he had more than paid his dues. Disregarding warnings to stay clear of the cantankerous senior citizen, I discreetly shuffled down to where the lone horse stood, stuck my hand into the pen, and gently petted Comanche’s face.
“You must know something that the other kids don’t,” the wrangler declared from inside the pen, “because everyone else thinks he’s a grumpy and sour old fella.”
“No,” I responded, “he just doesn’t like being made fun of and laughed at. He’s just misunderstood.”
I was the only camper who rode Comanche that afternoon. For that retirement-ready horse, I was nothing more than one of the many bratty little kids who had been thrown atop his aged and worn-out back. For me, the encounter was pivotal and the lesson learned formative. Though young and naïve, I looked at and then through Comanche. I didn’t see what others saw; I saw a horse with feelings, emotions, and a soul. I discovered that appearances can be deceiving and I learned to stop, look, and observe rather than assume.
Comanche was truly the first of the many similarly misunderstood horses I have encountered since. To this very day, the teachings of that summer afternoon still resonate when I tell young riders, “Never assume and never presume: never assume a horse is bad; never presume a horse won’t hurt you.” It is a golden rule that reminds riders to both show respect and exercise caution around horses. A rule borne out of a random encounter between a horse who had seen a great deal and a future horseman who had yet to see anything.
It was a rule I carried with me through each and every of my dealings with Samson.
With thirty minutes of driving down and an additional thirty to go until I reached my new home in Chicago’s northwest suburbs, I considered Amy’s statement that Samson and I were more similar than dissimilar. This was a horse who had first endured the harsh realities of the wild only to subsequently suffer through the cold brutality of the domestic world. A strong personality and willful ways had helped him persevere where others had fallen. Samson knew how to fight and he knew how to survive. He also knew how to forgive and forget. This Mustang had more than proven his mettle.
Regardless of how Amy had intended her comments, she couldn’t have paid me a higher compliment.
Hearing what I believed to be a reference to wild horses on the radio, I turned up the volume and listened intently: between the gather sight and holding facilities, a total of thirty-seven culled Calico Mustangs had perished. Shockingly, an additional thirty mares had miscarried and thirty unborn foals had forever been lost. Outraged by the tragic loss of life, Wayne Pacelle, president and CEO of the Humane Society of the United States, lambasted the BLM, “It’s shameful. It’s totally inconsistent with the proper and humane management of these populations, and it’s happening at a time when the program is so severely broken, and they’ve lost the trust of the American people in handling their responsibilities.”28
Whether well-intentioned or motivated by politics and profit, the Calico roundup had become a deadly debacle.
In the weeks that followed, more foals would be aborted and more detained Mustangs would fall. There was little I could do to stop the carnage in Nevada, but there was a great deal I could do for my misunderstood Mustang pupil. As winter’s chill retreated, Samson’s training advanced. Slowly, he learned to be steered and controlled from the ground. When he walked, halted, and turned in response to my cues, he was as one with the bit, bridle, and reins. When he reacted to my verbal direction, he was a swaggering student.
But when Ike the miniature horse snuck under a downed fence board, through a partially ajar gate, and into Samson’s pasture to feast on his grass, he was judge, jury, and executioner. Borders had been crossed, territories violated, and forage stores consumed. Goldilocks merely had to face three bears; poor Ike had to face an enraged, authoritarian dictator. The fight was over before it even started.
With Ike’s mane detached from his neck, Samson the Indian warrior warhorse had quite literally scalped the considerably smaller interloper. Amy was enraged, and she wanted Samson gone. The Mustang’s only defense was that he knew no better; it was his way, the way of the wild. Fortunately for the accused, he had a seasoned litigator who argued his case.
“You can’t blame him,” I declared in summation. “He saw a threat to his territory, to his authority, and he dealt with it the only way he knew how.”
While the injury would no doubt freeze a passerby in her tracks, the actual wound was mostly superficial—it looked worse than it was. With no other bite or kick wounds, this had been Ike’s lucky day. As I cleaned and treated the wound, Samson the sentry stood at the gate guarding against a repeat incursion. His hard, unflinching gaze remained fixed and focused on Ike. There was no air of victory, no sign of remorse. Rules had been broken and punishment was exacted. For Samson, it was that cut-and-dry.
Frazzled and dazed, Ike refused to glance back at the stoic Mustang.
As I discarded my blood-laden surgical gloves into a plastic bag, my mind drifted to the day’s news: pursued across the rocky Nevada terrain days earlier, a second Calico foal had sloughed its hooves and been put down. I looked back over to my little friend and spoke, “You got lucky today, Ikey—you’re alive. With Samson, there are no second chances, so let’s not have a repeat of this incident.” And with that in mind, I grabbed a hammer and nails and went to work on the fence that
separated the enforcer from the enforced.
Days later, with Dan back at the farm, we were just about to finish trimming the last hoof when Samson erupted.
“Holy Jesus!” Dan exclaimed as he ran toward the fence. “What the hell was that?”
Realizing that I had failed to educate Dan on the overflying airborne threat, I kept my explanation short and sweet: “Basically, if you’re near Samson and a helicopter flies overhead again, just get as far away as fast as you can.”
So much and yet so little had changed for this terminally haunted horse.
Now in our fifth month of training, with lead line in hand I had managed, controlled, and taught my pupil the ways and skills of a domesticated horse. We were now just days away from working with the saddle pad and saddle, which in turn meant that I would require the use of both hands. In other words, I needed Samson to stand tied. He had already learned to hold his stand and yield to pressure, so theoretically this shouldn’t have been a problem. But this was Samson—nothing ever came easy or simple with this horse.
This was the one lesson I had pretty much dreaded.
Training horses to stand tied and not fight is a service I have provided untold times to countless clients. When taught properly, it is a skill that reinforces patience, obedience, and respect. If it is taught improperly, the results can be catastrophic for both horse and handler. As I devised a lesson plan, my concern remained focused on Samson’s tendency to patiently wait several sessions before he violently rejected any new stimulus. Nearly half a year working with this problem Mustang, and Samson’s rule of three lived on. It was a game, a strategy, and disobedience all rolled into one. But a tantrum while being held by lead line was one thing; an explosion while tied was an entirely different story.
In this instance, the source of my trepidation was the reality that I had nothing to tie Samson to. No hitching post, no large tree, and no fence post secure enough. I was left with no option but to tie Samson to an old, rusted, ramshackle iron farm gate, which was part of the pasture perimeter fence.
The skies darkened, the lightning and thunder started up, and the horsemanship gods turned over in their graves; I was about to violate a cardinal rule and tie a horse to a large, movable object.
During our first stand-tied lessons, I simply looped the rope around the gate’s crossbar, thus allowing Samson some latitude to move, wiggle, and figure things out. The concept was rudimentary: once he had learned that he could not pull away or get away, Samson would release to the rope’s mild pressure and stand tied. With a lengthy list of ways in which a stand-tied lesson can go bad, my knife was out, unfolded, and ready to sever the rope. But because I still held the lead line in my hand, Samson remained somewhat composed and fairly compliant.
This was, simply put, the hallmark of our relationship—for this doubting and combative horse, I was both a calming agent and authoritative figure. While Samson had yet to explode, the honeymoon between this stern, determined warrior and the unyielding gate that sought to limit and control his actions was about to come to a crashing end.
The following week, using a quick-release knot, I secured Samson to the gate and moved away. At first, he seemed unfazed. But as his gaze fixed on and then followed the twisting and snaking lead line to its very end, as he realized that I no longer held it in my hand, Samson’s mood promptly shifted. The planets realigned, his gaze hardened, and time slowed. Before my eyes, Samson metamorphosed. Only in this instance, he didn’t outright explode; calculating and deliberate, Samson had a plan.
Raising his head high, Samson gradually pulled at the rope. Slowly, he lowered his head in increments, gently tugging at each level before slightly dropping his head down to the next. He was probing for something. Like a woodpecker digging for a soft spot, Samson was searching for a flaw, a weakness. And then, with Samson’s head nearly down between his legs, the iron gate cried uncle and emitted an ever-so-faint creak.
Bingo. Samson had found that which he sought.
His eyes fixed on mine, his head static and unmoving, Samson’s gaze and body language spoke: I have achieved success and soon victory. Foolishly, I thought some admonishing words might deter the pending calamity, “Now listen, I am not amused by your—” I was too late; Samson had discovered leverage. Mustering all of his strength and power and with his head and neck locked and braced, Samson shot into reverse as the iron gate, like an accordion, collapsed in on itself. As if there had ever been any doubt, Samson was once again victorious.
Though not especially pleased with my pupil’s actions, I couldn’t help but admire his power, strength, and intelligence. My facial expression evidenced firm disapproval, while my eyes held a slight twinkle. As I looked upon Samson, in his eyes I noted that very same twinkle.
Having defeated yet another enemy, Samson had made his point and thereafter stood tied like a well-trained horse. Several months passed without incident. And then, one afternoon in late spring, I arrived at the farm, caught, and then tied Samson. Since our first stand-tied lessons, I had made a habit and practice of using a knotted lead line to secure the gate to the adjoining fence post. I had little trust in the gate’s chain, so the tied line provided a simple, safe, and secure backup system. Ten minutes into this lesson, however, I realized that I had forgotten the rope in my truck.
I’m only going to have Samson tied for a few minutes, I told myself. He’s a pro at this; there shouldn’t be a problem.
Call it laziness or call it complacency. Call it what you will, but by virtue of a truly unforeseen set of events it was a mistake that would cost me dearly.
Bent over and picking out his left hind hoof, I felt Samson’s muscles contract and his limbs stiffen. A jerk, ripple, and then shock wave traveled from horse to handler. Something was very wrong. Looking back between my legs, I observed a shocking and disturbing sight. With only her bottom half-visible and standing upright on her hind legs, Asbestos was directly underneath Samson. An easy target for his spine-shattering foreleg strikes and flesh-lacerating bites, she was in Samson’s kill zone.
Since the day that she first jumped into my jacket, Asbestos and I had enjoyed a blossoming friendship. Each week, she would come outside, lie down, and observe every session without fail. If I meowed three times, she meowed three times; if I responded with seven, she answered in kind. With him tied and involuntarily subject to each and every conversation, Mr. Intolerant’s eyes darted back and forth from feline to trainer.
Samson’s expression said it all: My god! Will you two just shut up already!
Apparently under the belief that it was time to let bygones be bygones, on this day Asbestos had extended an olive branch to her mutually detesting equine neighbor. Given Samson’s strong dislike of every animal who roamed the farm, when I first peered through my legs and saw the feline upright I was certain that the carnivorous Mustang held Asbestos’ tiny head in his mouth. Mortified and horrified, upon second glance I quickly realized that Asbestos was kneading and licking Samson’s chest.
A touching and moving scene, it was nonetheless a critical misjudgment of a horse who knew little of peace offerings, friendship, and intimacy.
Nearly instantly the chain and all hell broke loose. Moving as one, where Samson went the gate followed. Impact was inevitable. Hopelessly and haplessly stuck in an inverted v–like space where the gate’s opposite end sat hinged to the fence, I helplessly watched as the two-hundred-pound iron predator swung around and closed in on its prey. Just moments before the collision, I observed Samson’s right hind leg kicked out, braced, and primed to take the brunt of the impact.
My mind raced, calculated, and then considered the options. With an unhealed separated left shoulder incurred months earlier when a wash rack water hose blew, sending a thirteen-hundred-pound elephant-sized horse barreling into my torso, intervention on my part would no doubt prove costly. If I didn’t intervene, a fractured equid cannon bone, splint bone, long or short pastern, or any combination thereof was a certainty. There would be n
o tomorrow for my Mustang pupil.
Moments before impact between gate and horse, like a swimmer leaving the starting block I shot forward into nothing but air. Calling upon my experiences years earlier as a running back, I tucked my chin into my chest, pulled my right shoulder in, kicked my waist out to the left, and led with my left shoulder. I was going to throw the block of my life.
Everything went to black.
I regained consciousness to Samson’s moist muzzle in my face and his deep, dark eyes staring down at me. The gate had completely swung back on itself, and now horse and horseman were trapped in this inverted v–like space. Though my brain was just rebooting, the minimal cognitive abilities I possessed told me that I was in grave danger. Looking up upon Samson, I was now the one within his kill zone.
This was the one place I knew never to venture—a blind spot where Samson’s innate and instinctive defensive systems would kick in and he would trample and shred any and all trespassers.
The left side of my body not responding and with nowhere to crawl, I looked up at the bug-eyed, panting Mustang. To my surprise, Samson stared back at me with a calming, relaxed gaze. No worries! Take your time; catch your breath; get your wits about you. I owe you this one. For sure, Samson and Asbestos both owed me. Weeks would pass before Samson would again comfortably stand tied, but with Asbestos, the troubled Mustang, and me each owning a portion of the blame, we, like every other time, worked through it.
As February’s days dwindled, Samson and I were nearly ready to enter our next phase of training. In preparation, I placed my saddle atop a stand in the corncrib pasture’s far corner. Once I had caught Samson in the south pasture, I walked him through the gate that led into the crib pasture as he performed his ritualized, mandatory visual security sweep for predators, dangers, and abnormalities. Within seconds, his posture tightened, his head raised, his neck cocked, and his nostrils flared. At thirty yards’ distance, Samson had zeroed in on an intruder, anomaly, and threat to his well-being.
Last Chance Mustang Page 19
