Standing still, breathing hard, and dazed, Samson shot me a piercing gaze. It was the look a criminal would give a cop after a foot chase and subsequent capture. If looks could kill, I would have been down on the spot.
Samson’s hard gaze spoke to me. Now why’d you have to go and do that? You know how I feel about my head and face.
That I did. The fact was that Samson was so neck protective, so head and face shy, that I could have waited weeks, if not months, for the same result. His reactions were now and had long since been rote and reflexive. In much the same fashion that you or I kick a leg out when given a reflex test at the doctor’s office, Samson turned to impulsive, automatic blows when anyone ventured near his neck, face, or head.
And thus, under my student’s watchful gaze, I returned my hand to the spot that angered Samson most and, yet again, gently rubbed his head.
I repeated the process from the opposite side, and to no surprise, violence ensued. Once Samson bilaterally abstained from attempting to crush my skull, I released him. Twenty minutes later, I returned to the pasture and turned my focus to his face. Before I even made contact, Samson threw his weight back on his haunches and went ballistic.
Three hard tugs of the lead line on his neck and Samson’s forelegs were back on the ground. The fight, however, was just getting started. As every part of his body twisted, kicked, and objected, I rotated Samson in tight circles and, implored my stubborn brother, “Just try it.”
Several minutes passed before Samson eased back on the throttle. And then, with a gentle hand, I rubbed the wide, convex expanse—the characteristic Arabian forehead—between his eyes.
At first, Samson fought the new, warm sensations that suddenly enveloped him. His eyelids became heavy, started to buckle and close, but Samson jerked his head in both directions and shot to attention.
Fight it, he told himself. Never show weakness; never let your guard down.
It was too late. Like Mikey in the famous Life cereal television commercial from the 1970s, he had tried it and he liked it. And then, with his eyes half-shut, half-open, Samson seemed, for a brief moment, to be a horse at peace. Slowly, my hand moved up across his forehead toward his ears before I abruptly halted all forward progress. The combined expression in Samson’s eyes, his pinned ears, and the fact that he literally held his breath told me that for now his ears would remain off-limits.
I would only later learn the true depth of Samson’s ear-related issues.
His ears a no-trespass zone, my hand journeyed south, down Samson’s mildly concave face. My fingers then happened across Samson’s saddest, darkest attribute—the full face–sized scar left behind as he grew into and then out of a constrictive, fastened halter. Hair no longer grew where the unyielding and painful halter once sat, making Samson’s aged wound visible and apparent from a significant distance.
Samson’s previous life had left scars both seen and invisible.
I had to wonder who, in this instance, was the real monster. Was it Samson, the combative Mustang, who only sought to defend himself? Or was it those who induced and produced this torture? The answer, for me at least, was visibly apparent.
Under Samson’s unblinking observation and with his silent yet tacit approval, my fingers traveled across the wide, deep, and perfectly symmetrical lines—scars that bilaterally traversed Samson’s cheeks. Slowly, my hand moved across the bridge of Samson’s nose where I saw and then felt a dip—a permanent divot that forever instilled this horse with a unique profile. This was the spot where Samson’s halter grew most taut and restrictive. This was the spot where the halter ate through the soft tissue until nothing was left but nasal bone.
It was a spot that Samson guarded with his deepest fervor and maximum wrath. A wound years since closed that when touched still caused Samson to brace and stiffen as if it were still open, still bleeding, and still horribly painful. A wound forever exposed; a perpetual gaping reminder of man’s and life’s cruelties.
Just inches from his eye, I turned into Samson and spoke to his steady gaze, “I can see and feel why you act the way you do. I get it. I get every part of it. Those days are long since passed and they will never return. But you and I will both forever remain cognizant of those times, for those days have shaped and molded the horse which you are today.”
My fingers ventured down Samson’s long, narrowing muzzle to the very tip, just above his nostrils. There, for a brief moment, I felt Samson’s head drop as his eyes closed. I had found his special spot.
Ever under Samson’s acute and unwavering surveillance, this was the first instance in which I observed Samson closing his eyes and shutting down his perimeter defenses. For a brief moment, I was no longer a threat. For a brief moment, the outside world was no longer one big overwhelming, menacing hazard. Fully aware that he was vulnerable and altogether exposed, Samson abruptly opened his eyes, returned his head to the vertical position, and reassumed his now-characteristic defensive posture.
“I think you just found his G-spot!” Amy called out from her position in the spectator gallery. “Can men have a G-spot? Do horses? Because I definitely think you just found his!”
Six years, more than half of his life in the human world, and Samson had finally experienced, for the very first time, the sensations associated with being thought well of and cared for.
Samson greeted my arrival the following afternoon with the eagerness of a pupil ready to learn and an athlete ready to start practice. Having spent the last several months terrorizing and doing battle with Studs, Ike, and Star, Samson had been endowed with a wide buffer zone compliments of his three cousins. My newfound attention, my schooling, was now providing purpose to this otherwise apathetic and withdrawn Mustang. As he was a quizzical, intelligent animal, Samson’s brain had started to decay and slow from a dearth of proper stimulation.
But now, together, we were both challenged and stimulated.
I pushed forward and for the first time successfully rubbed Samson’s hind end and haunches—the loin, croup, pelvis, and hip. Under his cautionary gaze, my hand traveled south past the thigh as Samson checked his pressing desire to strike. Once my hand moved across the stifle and headed toward the gaskin—the upper hind leg and the tibia bone—the safeties that Samson had put in place that curbed his anger, whatever they were, instantly failed.
I had both violated Samson’s space and touched a hind leg. Either act alone would have amounted to a minor misdemeanor. Both acts together equaled a felonious assault.
“Noooottttt!” I sternly yelled out as Samson repeatedly kicked at my tibia and fibula. “That is unacceptable behavior!” The kicks were vicious; if he had made contact, the fractures would have been severe.
If forced to address Samson’s violent tendencies, I was not going to beat, lip/nose-chain, twitch to submission, hobble, or whip him. These were not my methods and this was not my style. Any use of physical force was to be strictly responsive, immediate, swift, and instantly concluded. There was no room and no place for hard feelings, grudges, or escalating tempers. Samson had to first learn my rules and expectations before I could expect, demand, his voluntary compliance. Up to this point, the verbal reprimands and tight circles at a trot had failed to deter his violent behavior. In much the same fashion that a herd lead horse or alpha instantly and violently corrects unacceptable behavior, 99 percent of the time a quick, single blow will arrest a horse’s testing, probing, and challenging behavior. This of course was the goal, to emulate and employ that which was known and familiar to a herd-oriented horse such as Samson.
I was smart enough to avoid getting sucked into prolonged fisticuffs with a one-thousand-pound animal. Both the battle and the message would be lost in any and every such instance. When applied appropriately and sparingly, corporal punishment can be an instrument of deterrence and punishment. It should never, however, be thought of as a tool or means to create an alpha-submissive relationship. Before you impose discipline upon a horse, you must have the horse’s respect. A s
trike when appropriate and warranted reinforces respect; it does not create it. Strike a horse prior to earning its respect and you are guaranteed a visit to the nearest emergency room.
Respect must be gradually taught and reinforced through one’s presence, through one’s command and control of the horse’s movement, actions, and behaviors. Respect is a two-way street; if you desire respect, you must in turn give respect.
Horses like Samson present a real challenge to the use of corporal punishment. At our first and then subsequent encounters, Samson had sadly anticipated and expected immediate and unprovoked physical abuse. When it was not delivered, he had ever so gradually dropped his guard. But our work together had demonstrated the immediacy with which he turned to instinctive, involuntary, and extreme violence.
I certainly sought to avoid, with all my efforts, becoming the two-legged predator that Samson so innately feared. Yet, as I had gradually imposed rules, discipline, and restraint upon my pupil, periodically his anger and temper had flared uncontrollably. At times, his reactions were knee-jerk and borne out of his dark past. In other instances, his aggression was a reaction to my ever-increasing control. Either way, the violence had to stop, preferably before I was seriously injured.
I had given this subject much thought and was conflicted. So conflicted and doubting that I hesitated in the moments following his hind-leg strikes. Within seconds, the opportunity to act was lost.
Was I letting Samson off too easy? Did I need to strike him to put an end to the violence? Frustration quickly set in as I questioned whether I was the right trainer for this horse.
Once I was able to successfully touch both of Samson’s hind legs, I released him. After a twenty-minute breather, I reentered the pasture and, to my complete surprise, Samson, for the first time, permitted my approach and his capture from the left side. This was nothing short of groundbreaking. It was an act that indicated that Samson’s trust was growing, a sign that our bond was strengthening.
Mere weeks with Samson had already established that this horse viewed anything and everything as a dire threat. My hat perched upon a fence post was undoubtedly hiding a sinister danger. The jacket draped across the fence was an enemy waiting to spring and attack. But now my problem child was dropping his guard; I couldn’t let this pass. I seized the moment and grabbed the body brush.
Samson reacted as if it were an instrument of death. But then, after the third stroke down his neck and across his back, he warmed to the sensation. He wasn’t going to overtly acknowledge and evince his pleasure, but did this horse ever relish his first brushing. Instantly grooming jumped to the number one spot on Samson’s top ten list.
Halter breaking was next on the agenda and it was destined to be a jarring experience. My ultimate goal for the afternoon was to minimize and control Samson’s fear and his fight. The first step in the process was to remove Samson’s halter and do so without mortal injury to myself. In light of his patently obvious issues, I decided to release the poll strap—the part of the halter that sat behind the ears—rather than pull the halter over Samson’s forehead. This would permit the halter to fall to the sides of Samson’s neck and bypass his sensitive and guarded ears.
Getting things started, I gently handled Samson’s throatlatch, cheeks, face, and forehead. Hundreds of burrs fused together the black hairs of his mane and forelock. Not just unsightly, these burrs could be terribly dangerous to Samson’s eyes—causing inflammation and ulceration to the cornea and ultimately potential blindness. A smart person would have left this problem to a pair of scissors and another day.
I saw an opportunity.
Samson’s newfound adoration for the brush and grooming gave me the idea that he might enjoy having his mane and forelock cleaned up. Removal of the burrs could both calm him and help to socialize this otherwise terribly head-shy horse. Once I introduced Samson to my red-handled hoof pick, I tried, unsuccessfully, to insert the pick’s pointed edge into a strand—any strand of hair that wasn’t endlessly and hopelessly balled and matted.
Beads of sweat fell from my forehead like water droplets from a leaky faucet—me and my great ideas. Eventually, I made progress and slowly but surely removed countless tennis ball–sized burr clumps.
As Samson stood motionless and transfixed, I observed, to my surprise, that he was both content and at ease. Seemingly transported to a far-off place, a happy place, Samson had, for the second time of this day, discovered a newfound pleasure. His first beauty salon appointment was a rousing success. This agonizingly slow process of removing the hundreds of burrs that inundated Samson’s mane, forelock, and, later, his tail instantly developed into a ritualized, mandated component of our weekly training sessions.
To my amazement, burr removal duty, as I came to call it, did more to foster, enhance, and strengthen my bond with Samson than any other single event or training activity.
With Samson calm and somewhat relaxed, it was time to remove his halter. The fence provided an excellent inanimate object to block any forward flight efforts and hinder any attempts to rear. Parked in front of the fence, Samson, forever conscious of his space and surroundings and ever the thinker, quickly realized things were amiss. Not wanting to waste any time and provide my astute pupil an opportunity to figure things out, I moved my right hand up the left side of his face to the halter’s buckle while my left hand, tucked under the throat, secured the ends of the lead looped over Samson’s neck.
Similarly wishing to avoid delay, Samson dismissed with all formalities, turned his head inward and hard left, and executed a nearly perfect head butt with no advance posturing or warning. It was a catastrophic blow that should have broken or dislocated my shoulder.
Mr. T would have been proud.
When stallions engage in warfare, they will often lock heads in the moments before all hell breaks loose. Perhaps Samson was doing what came naturally. Or maybe he was seizing the opportunity to take me out before I could inflict any harm or injury to his all-too-oft-targeted head. While I understood his motivations and did not take his aggression personally, enough was enough.
During his dark years, Samson had been forced to defend himself against the unwarranted abuse that frequently rained down upon him. The head butt and head tossing, leg strikes, rearing, blind galloping charges, and body checks were defensive tools gifted to this wild creature by way of both nature and nurture. As for those who beat down this horse, I can only hope that they experienced his true skill in wielding these God-given defensive tools. For once his fight started, Samson was like the Energizer bunny—he kept going, and going, and going. But now was the time for Samson to retire his tools of the trade. He was in a good place and a good home. While he had yet to realize it, pain and abuse were now realities of his past, not his present and not his future. Several weeks of warmth, compassion, and patience had failed to teach this haunted horse that violence was no longer necessary and no longer appropriate. The time had come to push the reset button and teach this horse right from wrong, acceptable from unacceptable behavior.
This time I didn’t hesitate.
I drove the flat part of my right palm directly into Samson’s freeze mark. For a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, Samson did nothing but stare at me out of the corner of his left eye. Et tu, Brute? You! You are no different than all the others who came before. Our contract is null and void. I am out of here.
It was a decision that I had agonized over and an act that would haunt me.
Unable to go forward, Samson in a strategically adept move lunged to his left, pushing me out of my centered stance. Still secured by the lead line draped over his neck, he jumped into what I have affectionately called the teeter-totter. He rocked back and forth throwing a good dozen violent and purposeful bucks. Samson, unbeknownst to me, was a true specialist, a third-degree black belt buck master.
Little did I know at the time, or perhaps I did know, that months later I would experience the sheer power and wrath of this professional bucking horse.
I spun Samson around in tight circles using his momentum and my control over his neck to guide his force and movement. Standing face-first in front of the fence, Samson braced for what he believed would be an inevitable and calamitous beating.
“You took your shot; I took mine. We’re done.” I told the combative Mustang as his pupils bulged from the sockets and he fought to catch his breath. “I’m not looking to have my face rebuilt or my skull caved in, so get your act together.”
Reading Samson the proverbial riot act, I stood close enough to provide him with the opportunity to take a second shot, if he so desired. Only Samson didn’t take a second shot. And that, simply put, is the way in which I handle violence and threat: Find out what a horse is capable of, what it can do. Let the pupil put it all out there and then address it appropriately, promptly, and sparingly.
Samson braced for impact as my hand neared. Gently, I rubbed his neck and his freeze mark. I spoke to him as if he were a defendant standing before a judge for sentencing, “Now, my determined little student, you are fully versed in the simplicities of our legal system. There will be no beat-downs, no devices of torture, employed here. Punishment or praise, you get to decide which it is. If you need time with something, you are welcome to all the time in the world. Just don’t object with violence and threaten my safety.”
Having read Samson his terms of probation, I moved in to unlatch the halter’s poll strap. The subsequent release of Samson’s halter went off without a hitch: no fight and no interference to his ever-sensitive ears. For several seconds, Samson stood completely motionless, seemingly shocked and doubting of what he had witnessed.
With the realization that I had indeed removed his halter, Samson launched himself toward the stars. While in midair he turned sideways toward the fence, pummeled it with several hind-leg strikes, and made a run for it. Lacking a boarding pass for this particular flight, I released my grip on one end of the lead line, and Samson was gone.
Last Chance Mustang Page 9