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About the Author
Copyright Page
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TO MY PARENTS, who instilled in me the virtues of patience, acceptance, compassion, and understanding that I have carried with me through each of my sessions with Samson and through life. Your lifelong, unwavering devotion to each of your five children has taught me the true meaning of love and commitment.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing Samson’s story proved to be one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. But all of that changed when the manuscript was completed and I entered the swamp of the literary world. Some claimed that I needed to be a world-famous horse trainer to get a publishing contract. Others advised that Samson’s story was far too powerful to be left to an unpublished author wannabe like myself. After untold hours with Samson and years at the keyboard drafting his yarn, I was left deflated and dejected.
All of that changed when I spoke with Stephany Evans, agent at FinePrint Literary Management. When I questioned whether I was the proper person to write Samson’s story, she responded that there was no one better. When I inquired if I needed to be a world-famous trainer to sell this book, she answered that all that was required was a good story and the desire to tell it. From that point forward, everything fell into place. Just days after the proposal was sent out, Samson’s story had a publisher and a home. So it is with my gratitude and appreciation that I say thank you to Stephany, for taking a gamble on a no-name unpublished author and a lost, last chance Mustang, and making a dream come true.
When the proposal for this story went to St. Martin’s Press on a Friday, I was convinced that it would get lost in someone’s in-box and never get reviewed. But when Daniela Rapp, editor at St. Martin’s, called Monday morning and said that she had read the proposal and wanted to talk with the author, my gut told me that Samson’s story had landed where it belonged. The following day, Daniela and I spoke and I conveyed to her my one and only concern: that Samson’s tale not be fictionalized, that the book had to stay true to Samson’s saga, the plight of the wild horse, and the terrible predicament of any unwanted, abused animal. And when Daniela assured me that Last Chance Mustang would tell the real story of Samson’s journey, the voice in my head told me that she meant it.
Dating back to that first conversation, Daniela, as promised, never strayed from her assurances to do justice to Samson’s story. Through each step of taking this book to print, she kept alive my vision of what this book should be and guided this neophyte author through the long, arduous process. And thanks to Daniela’s efforts, readers everywhere now have the opportunity to learn of Samson’s strength, resilience, tenacity, and perseverance. Horse and animal lovers alike will, I hope, learn about the plight of our great wild herds and come to understand that every living thing, no matter how hated and despised, has value and worth.
Thanks to Daniela’s belief in this author and this story, Samson’s tale was brought to life. For that, I will always be in her debt.
My thanks to Barbara Wild and Lisa Davis for all of their hard work and effort in moving this book through the production phase.
* * *
When I first started training horses nearly two decades ago, I unfortunately lacked the guidance of a seasoned mentor. So, I learned the hard way—through watching and learning the ways of the horse and through patience. I also served as a human piñata, being bitten, bucked, and kicked more times than I care to remember. Back then, without the resources of the Internet and search engines, many in the horse world were in the dark when it came to the proper methods to manage their unruly, obstructive, and damaged horses. Problem horses owned by well-intentioned owners were often excessively bratty; other steeds owned by unsavory characters were downright aggressive, violent, and terribly dangerous.
And so it was that many of my hardest cases came when I was just a fledgling in the horse world. It was trial by fire. And I survived, learned, and grew from each of these experiences. Many of these horses were downright nasty; all charged a premium to be my teachers. Though I lack warmhearted memories of much of their antics, I do look back with fondness for each and every horse who could have pulled the trigger on me but didn’t. Back then, there were unquestionably many instances in which any number of horses could have put me down and finished me off. And yet they didn’t. Perhaps they recognized that I had goodness in my heart; maybe they understood that I was only trying to help. Either way, they didn’t go down that road even though they could have.
And so, it is with admiration and respect that I look back on and remember each and every horse who got me—still in one piece—to where I am today.
* * *
In the interest of full disclosure, Samson’s tale wouldn’t have made it to print without Alison, the hunter/jumper to my cowboy ways. Through the long, winding course of writing this book, she read every sentence, of every paragraph, of every page, of every chapter—time and time again without complaint. Her edits were dead-on; her input, invaluable. And through it all, she remained resolute in her conviction that Samson’s story would find a publisher and steadfast in her belief in me. Samson knew a good apple when he saw one, and fortunately, so did I.
* * *
And last, I wouldn’t have had a book to write without Samson, the true last chance Mustang. Since our very first meeting in that dark, dank stall to this very day, it has always seemed like that horse and this horseman were meant to be. From unchecked anger and unrestrained violence to unyielding loyalty and unencumbered emotion, our relationship has covered the spectrum. We have shared our highs and wallowed in our lows, and through it all this headstrong Mustang has remained my student, teacher, friend, and compatriot. In the end, my Samson Experience has enhanced my skills, enriched my life, shown me the power of hope, and taught me the true meaning of friendship. Samson the lost, troubled, wayward Mustang has touched me in a way that will never be equaled.
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THE BEAST IN THE STALL
A woman needs two animals—the horse of her dreams and a jackass to pay for it.
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN
When Amy asked me to look at the Mustang she said had torn apart her farm and ruined her life, I asked if he was a refugee from the recent neighboring barn fire.
“Refugee?” she snorted as she averted her gaze and picked at her fingernails. “His name is Samson, and he probably started the fire.”
For months I had heard the stories, how a wintertime tragedy was averted when several horses managed to survive a horrific barn fire. Though the sources were different, the stories were all the same. Each focused on the crazed actions of one horse in particular. One version told that this horse had charged through the barn and in a matter of seconds obliterated the sliding exterior wood door into little more than toothpick splinters. Rumor had it that this Mustang was a flesh-eating, fire-breathing monster.
By the summer of 2009, the story had weaved through the local equestrian community and the horse had become a legend. I had no way of differentiat
ing truth from myth, but based upon what I was hearing on this day, it all seemed plausible.
A caring neighbor, Amy, had taken in several of the displaced fire refugees. As a board member for a local therapeutic riding center for children and adults with special needs and as a volunteer in charge of procuring and training horses, I had traveled out to rural McHenry County, Illinois, to evaluate one of the animals. Also a volunteer at the center, Amy believed that one of the horses would be perfect for the program, but my gut told me that she had something more in mind for me.
Approaching my fortieth birthday, I was single and by trade an attorney. But with fifteen years working with neglected, abused, and difficult-to-train horses, I had built a reputation rehabilitating horses who don’t play well with others. Amy had mentioned that she had a second horse who more than fit the bill: a crazed and caged formerly wild Mustang who hated everyone and everything—the now-legendary barn fire horse.
The morning-heavy air held the smells of horse country—hay, manure, and livestock—close to the ground as the early July sun started to dry the prior evening’s mist. Amy led me into the decommissioned dairy barn, down the dark barn aisle, past discarded, rusty mower blades, fan blades, a broken pitchfork, and rotting coils of rope. A scattering of a dozen or so very aged, rusted farm implements obstructed the path to the barn’s prisoner retention section.
Picture a NASCAR twelve-car pileup on a rainy day; parts and chassis were everywhere. One machine looked like a MacGyvered motorized pitchfork. Another, with its long conveyor belt and sharp protruding blades, resembled a medieval torture device. If Freddy Krueger had a garage or machine shop, this was it.
The dark, dank, musty barn chilled the perspiration on the back of my neck. My Justin work boots sloshed through pools of rainwater unable to dry atop the damp concrete floor as shards of sunlight poked through holes in the exterior walls and spoke to the water’s point of entry. Upon closer examination, the holes appeared hoof sized and the pockmarked walls resembled a shooting range backstop.
I stepped over a discarded metal bucket stomped on enough times that it now resembled a piece of sheet metal. A fractured wooden plank tattooed with hoof impressions leaned up against what little remained of a crimson-stained partition wall, the stains now dry and brown. This wasn’t a barn; this was a war zone.
From down the aisle, the sounds of a hyperventilating animal caught and then monopolized my attention.
As we peered to the darkened milking stations now serving as makeshift stalls, Amy explained that she had rescued three horses from the fire: Studs, a large lumbering paint gelding whom I was there to evaluate, a two-year-old stallion, and the combative Mustang stallion. Over the years, I’d had nearly every client portray their uncooperative horse as the next Moby-Dick, only to have the animal turn around quickly for me. Amy would be no different.
She told me how one winter morning, before she locked him in a stall Samson had escaped his pasture and chased her back into her house as she tried to leave for work. He squealed high-pitched wails as if part pig and stomped his front legs on the porch steps, steam shooting out of his nostrils like a crazed dragon. When he ran up and down the length of the porch, blocking her exit, daring her to get by, she threw a shovel at him. Samson merely held his ground. When she tried to crawl out a bedroom window, he bit her on the ass and sent her tumbling back in onto the bedroom floor.
Amy stuttered her words and her rosy cheeks turned ashen. The mere thought of this Mustang had her stricken with fear. Yet it wasn’t just fear that I observed. As Amy clenched her fists and paced around the barn, she seemed anxious, nervous, and jittery—as though she had just chugged a six-pack of Mountain Dew. If she was making me this nervous, I could only imagine what the caged Mustang must have felt. My assurances that Samson’s actions were born out of a lack of familiarity were summarily dismissed.
Instead, Amy countered that though Samson and Studs had lived together for many months prior to their arrival, the significantly larger paint gelding bore the daily brunt of the Mustang’s violent and contemptuous fits. Pointing outside to a thirty-foot stretch of wooden fence resting mangled on the ground like a pile of pick-up sticks, Amy told how Samson had galloped through the repeatedly rebuilt fence and into the adjoining pasture nearly three dozen times just so that he could pummel Studs with his hind-end barrages and sink his teeth into the paint’s meaty, muscled neck.
“This horse hates anything and everything on two or four legs!” she shouted.
I glanced over to Amy, who at forty-something looked younger than her years. Recently relocated from the hustle and bustle of the Eastern Seaboard, Amy had sought out the refuge and serenity of McHenry County’s quaint farms, rolling hills, and glacial valleys. Taxis, traffic jams, and power lunches were now remnants of her past life. Hordes of humanity moving on the sidewalks, like ants in an ant farm, had been supplanted by columns of cornstalks, which swayed beautifully, in unison, when fueled by the daily breezes. In this world, the closest thing to stress was inclement weather and a resultant poor crop season. The closest thing to gridlock: a slow-moving bright green John Deere combine.
Leaving the security of a metropolitan power center and her high stress job was Amy’s change-of-life epiphany. Moving to the country was her Eat, Pray, Love moment—the farm was her Garden of Eden and walled fortress all in one.
Though Amy had pleaded with me to come out to the farm, from the moment that I arrived I had felt like an intruder. “I don’t like people coming out here,” she repeated several times. “I just prefer to be left alone.”
Wind whistled in through a window frame in the east wall, the missing plastic pane evidencing numerous failed jailbreaks. I eyed the raised concrete flooring in all the empty stalls, a typical setup for a milking barn. Horses don’t thrive on concrete, but Amy said that she had nowhere else to put him. After his daily cross-pasture attacks on Studs, Amy called Frank, Samson’s owner, and with several men, ropes, intimidation, and brute force the unwilling Mustang had been forced into a stall.
Disgusted by the incident, and after learning that Frank intended to sell the horses at auction after which they would most likely end up on a truck headed to a slaughterhouse in Mexico or Canada, Amy had requested and was given title to the three fire refugee horses. From that point forward, the combative Mustang was officially her problem child. Concerned that Samson would be isolated and alone, she’d purchased two miniature horses. Ike, an older, abused mini, and Star, a plump and fresh youngster.
Samson would have neither as a neighbor.
With tears welling in her eyes, Amy recounted how nearly instantly Samson had crashed the wall separating the two stalls and punted each mini from their new abode. When Amy replaced the two minis with a mother-daughter pair of goats, the duo met the same unfortunate end, only this time Samson used his mouth, tossing each clear across the barn aisle.
Since that day, no horse—save the two-year-old stallion fire refugee—no mini, and no goat had entered or lived in Samson’s barn.
At the last door toward the end of the aisle, the acrid stench of months-old manure and horse urine slammed me in the face testifying to one simple fact: no soul was brave or foolish enough to enter or muck this stall. Unlike the other stall doors, Samson’s was buttressed with two heavy planks snugged down into metal brackets on each side and a bloody two-by-four vertically wedged down to the concrete floor.
This wasn’t a stall door; it was the Siegfried or the Maginot Line, or the Great Wall of China. This was a last line of defense. Amy had effectively created a maximum-security prison to barricade Samson the beast inside.
For this Mustang, and thousands like him, Nevada’s crisp sunrise and picture-perfect sunsets, craggy mountainside slopes, and borderless sagebrush valleys had given way to Midwest flatlands. His herd’s mares, foals, and bachelor stallions—his family—were now nothing more than a distant memory’s flicker, which with each passing day had lost its radiance. Freedom was now measured in feet and
inches: a small opening in his stall front through which he could peer across the aisle to horseless stalls and the aged dairy barn’s long since decommissioned milking stations.
Samson’s way of life, his entire existence, had been lost. This was now his prison.
From above the stall door, a muzzle tip appeared, then quickly retracted. The sound of deep, rapid breathing echoed off the walls and floors like the reverberating bass in a nightclub at 2:00 a.m. I thought Samson had just been running around outside, but this wasn’t the sound of an animal exhausted from exercise. This was the sound of an animal in fear for his life. My mere presence had started Samson the time bomb ticking.
“Has he been gelded?” I wondered aloud. Like all animals, stallions are driven by two innate forces: the will to survive, and the desire to procreate. Round the clock, testosterone fuels a stallion’s never-ending libido. This hormonally fed drive to reproduce induces dictatorial traits and violent behaviors that ward off potential competitors and enemies alike. These same aggressive traits and violent behaviors aid the stallion when it comes time to capture and retain—as a member of his harem—a mare in estrus.
A stallion’s high-pitched screams will announce his presence, his bites will shred a competitor’s skin and muscle, and his foreleg strikes can down a victim in a single blow. An instrument of warfare and an engine of reproduction, the stallion is a force like no other. With the earliest known reference to gelding dating back to 350 BC and Aristotle’s History of Animals, for centuries since humans have gelded horses to remove these traits deemed harmful to herd or human safety.
“Yes,” Amy answered, “he was gelded just prior to being locked away, but the process only made him meaner and left me deeply scarred.”
From what I could gather, the vet bill, the chaos of the scene, the fact that gelding had done little to gentle her crazed horse had pushed Amy near the edge.
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