When I first met the couple who took Sky in, it was patently obvious that both husband and wife were mortally terrified of their imposing, powerful horse. With Sky anxious and standoffish from months of abuse and neglect, this was the last thing that she needed and she promptly fed off their fear. Further compounding the problem, Sky’s owners threw caution and patience to the wind and forced compliance and acceptance upon a horse who was not yet ready to comply or accept. While the farmer had attempted to sprint through the training process, Sky’s new owners had sought to bypass the natural bonding process that would have permitted them, in short order, to establish a trusting and healthy relationship with their horse.
Both practices were fatally flawed and certain to fail.
Where haste and impatience take the place of time and patience, steps in the natural order of instruction, learning, and bonding are invariably passed over, if not entirely omitted. Sky’s confrontation with her owner demonstrates that impatience not only breeds failure but can just as easily lead to rash decisions and careless actions. When you are working around horses, there are no do-overs. There are no second chances. Imprudent behavior can maim, injure, or kill. Having witnessed countless accidents and injuries over the years caused by impatient owners looking for instant results, I can state with absolute certainty that there are no shortcuts when working and training horses.
Sky’s short saga did in fact conclude in a happy ending. With my two subsequent visits and a newfound understanding of their animal, Sky’s owners came to realize the critical role that fear and patience can play when forging a meaningful and lasting bond between horse and human. In turn, and in mere days, Sky came to accept her new owners on her terms and under her own volition. Together thereafter, Sky and her owners enjoyed a contented and lasting relationship.
My continued hope was that the same would be true for Samson and Amy. Nevertheless, if Amy could not learn to look past Samson’s previous misdeeds, if she could not cast aside her fears and learn to take baby steps, then this Mustang’s future would remain cast in doubt.
As January’s cold, dark days dwindled, thousands of miles away the BLM made a surprising announcement. After receiving thousands of protest e-mails from Mustang advocates, the BLM decided to postpone the roundup of two hundred wild horses living on 225,000 acres in Utah’s Confusion Mountains. The proposed roundup would have left fewer than one hundred horses—a population far below the required minimum threshold to ensure biological diversity and sustain the herd’s continued viability. The Utah horses had received a suspended sentence; there would be no such reprieve for the Calico Mustangs.
Low-flying helicopters were strafing and chasing the Calico herd and Mustangs were dying. And as the month came to a close, disturbing news leaked from the BLM Nevada holding facilities: captured adult horses were dying in large numbers; in utero Mustang foals were being stillborn. In just a matter of days, the numbers would tell two chilling stories. The first would be of formerly wild and free Mustangs taking their last breaths caged and penned. The second, even more disturbing story would be that an entire generation of Mustangs would never have the opportunity to take their first breaths.
High in the Nevada mountains, roundup observers reported a strange sight: a lone, lame Mustang stallion stalking and observing a BLM trap site and its caged prisoners. It was Freedom, the combative escaped Mustang stallion searching for his herd. Injured, he was now an easy target for his many two- and four-legged predators. His future was most certainly in doubt.
On the wintry Illinois dairy farm, Samson stood at the edge of his pasture, staring, as he always did, west. The solitary Mustang still sought his herd, still saw himself as an unwilling captive, and still longed for a home. Samson and his wild Mustang cousin now shared another commonality: their futures, their fates, remained uncertain.
{10}
THE ENEMY AT THE GATE
If three people say you are an ass, put on a bridle.
—SPANISH PROVERB
As the fated Calico winter roundup entered its second month, a flurry of disturbing new reports quickly awoke the American public’s ire. Under intense public scrutiny and criticism, Department of the Interior chief Ken Salazar turned to the Los Angeles Times to justify and explain the BLM’s actions. Writing as a guest columnist, Salazar declared that Mustang lands were sensitive and sparse, that wild horses had damaged ecosystems, and that the herds were at risk of starvation. It was a tale repeated many times over many years.
Near fifty years earlier, when the BLM tried to remove the historically significant Pryor Mountains Mustangs—the blue roans, red roans, duns, grullos, and palominos—the story was nearly identical. An untouched, untainted direct link to the Spanish Mustang and the Conquistador horse, Montana’s Pryor horses were allegedly starving, dying, and destroying the terrain. When television news correspondent and journalist Hope Ryden aired her documentary on July 11, 1968, images of healthy, well-adjusted horses were beamed into living rooms across the country. The cat was out of the bag. The horse had escaped the barn. The undernourished, starving Mustang was nowhere to be seen.
Now decades later, images captured in the Calico Mountains told the very same story. While many years had passed, the horse that had discovered, built, and symbiotically survived on the western frontier was still the enemy.
February’s first days were dark, frigid, and wet. Most owners stopped working their horses during the cold months, so winter was the one time of the year when I could work on and refine my riding skills. This season, however, Samson’s schooling needs changed all of that. As both humans and animals alike battled winter’s doldrums, with the aid of a sidepull and a patient instructor, Samson the quick study started to flex at the poll, bend at the neck, and yield to pressure applied via the reins. Closely resembling a rope halter, the sidepull—with stainless-steel rein rings attached to both the left and right cheek—reinforces the concept of the yield to pressure. It provides a way to teach a horse to yield to eventual bit pressure without having to actually engage a bit and harm the horse’s mouth. Initially fixed and rigid, a horse who flexes and bends becomes responsive, fluid, mobile, and at one with the rider’s hands.
Slowly but surely, Samson’s previously strung-out posture—his outline—took on a new appearance. With longitudinal flexion he brought his hind legs under his body, rounded his back, and extended his neck higher and straighter. Physics and anatomy were now working in Samson’s favor; his power and strength were harnessed, and like a compressed spring he was ready to launch. When he ever so slightly turned his head to the side and released to the rein’s pull, Samson simultaneously flexed at the poll, back, and lumbar spine. Lateral flexion was taking over and this horse was learning how to bend.
Samson the once wild, undisciplined, disjointed, and uncollected Mustang was starting to look like a supple horse.
A supple horse freely and easily shifts its balance between forward, backward, and lateral motion. With Samson’s movements now appearing fluid, the time was ripe for him to learn how to back up. In nature, horses seldom move in reverse. For this reason, many horsemen consider the rein-back an unnatural and difficult gait—refusing to teach it on account of their horses’ strong initial adverse reactions. Still others teach the rein-back, only to subsequently employ it solely as punishment for a horse’s ill behaviors. I, however, have always subscribed to the belief that when directed to do so a horse should freely and effortlessly move in reverse. If introduced and taught properly, the rein-back should be natural, fluid, and nonstressful.
Just as a car that won’t travel in reverse is missing 50 percent of its capabilities, a horse who won’t back up is stuck in gear.
When the time came to teach Samson the rein-back, he seemingly lost all faith and confidence in my abilities. For the first time, the student doubted his teacher. No, Samson’s expression would say, I really don’t think you want me to do that—I just think you’re confused right now. Backing up exposed Samson to danger, and whi
le he could no doubt inflict grave injury with his hind legs and hindquarters, he preferred to face all known threats head-on. There he could employ the rear, head-butt, and foreleg strikes and skin-shredding bites that were the tools of his trade. In Samson’s mind, moving in reverse both exposed him to unknown threats and neutralized his potent weapons arsenal. Needless to say, throughout the course of his rein-back schooling Samson the warrior remained steadfast in his belief that I was a teacher working off a faulty lesson plan.
Days later, after watching one of our sessions, Lisa made some observations that were spot-on: “Wow, that’s a great rein-back, but I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a horse quite that pissed off about having to do it.” In the absence of a kick, bite, or head butt, Samson’s hard stare and irritated facial expression communicated all that he wanted said. Disgruntled or not, Samson had executed as he was taught, and that was enough for me.
February’s first Sunday brought what was to be a principal step in transforming this once-lawless Mustang into a saddle-broke horse. With the first signs of collection, flexion, and bending, Samson was ready for the bridle and bit. In light of his terribly sensitive ears, the choice of headstall—the western version of the English-style bridle—mandated great care, thought, and deliberation. Requiring that I push Samson’s damaged ear through a small, oval opening, the slot ear headstall was thus less than optimal. The browband headstall, on the other hand, would bring little interference to Samson’s ears and proved to be the tack of choice for this baggage-laden Mustang. Having worked with his ears for many weeks, I had anticipated that placing and removing the headstall would ignite Samson’s anger and defense. But since Samson had no such dark history with the bit, I hoped for a smooth and peaceful first encounter.
Despite my hopes, once again this horse’s strong dislike for being controlled by anyone or anything quickly trampled my desire for a combat-free introduction.
As expected, Samson flew into a rage when the headstall crossed over his ears. Once it was fitted to his head and the bit was in his mouth, Samson’s eyelids narrowed, his gaze turned cold, his respirations increased, and his spine turned rigid. He was primed for battle. He had searched and perused our contract, its many addendums, riders, and subsequent attachments, and found no reference to an unyielding stainless-steel mouthpiece and restrictive headstall and my total dominion over his movement and his very being. Samson wanted to renegotiate our agreement, but for this horse renegotiation did not include casual and friendly interaction and compromise.
Similar to many of my two-legged attorney counterparts, Samson sought to renegotiate with a mix of threat, force, and intimidation. He threw his head hard to the right and then the left, tossed it high in the air, and then down between his forelegs. He repeatedly and forcefully smashed his right foreleg into the hard soil and rocked back and forth like a mechanical bull. Whereas in our previous skirmishes Samson had waged war against a host of ghosts, demons, and painful memories, on this occasion he battled a new and foreign enemy.
Though the bit was unknown to him, a wealth of experience had taught this horse to assume it was a tool of domination. Samson’s abusive past wasn’t responsible for this impressive display of defiance—this was Samson the willful, domineering wild Mustang. This was the aging warrior warhorse who refused to be controlled.
Deciphering when Samson’s violent reactions were borne out of his dark formative experiences and when they derived from a set-in-his-ways alpha horse continued to be a constant and ever-evolving challenge. Reacting to and showing the proper level of restraint and knowing when to apply the appropriate amount of discipline was both frustrating and complicated. And as we figured it all out, I became a more adept horseman and Samson became a more controlled and less of a controlling horse.
The following week Samson took his fight to a whole new level. He pitched, rocked, and violently tossed his head like a dog with a new chew toy. The fury and the sheer power of his struggles sent Samson’s body crashing down to the ground, coming to rest on its right side. No matter how hard he tried, Samson could not dislodge the bit and the headstall. Defeat was inevitable. Vanquished in battle but not in spirit, from that moment forward Samson grudgingly accepted both the bit and headstall. Nevertheless, more than a year would pass before this emotionally scarred horse would comfortably accept the headstall’s placement and removal and the corresponding contact with his damaged ears.
In more ways than one, it was a special occasion. Samson’s first encounter with the bit and bridle had passed without injury to horse or trainer. He deserved a special reward, and because it was my fortieth birthday he was to receive quite the treat. Since I had no way of knowing the actual day that he was born, I had already decided that the two of us would share my birthday. Apples, maple syrup, and peppermints were had by all. And though the last thing that Samson needed was a sugar high, I took great pleasure in watching this once perpetually stoic horse devour his birthday surprise.
As Samson relished his hyperglycemic treat, the Calico Mustangs likewise received a gift of sorts. Just outside of Gerlach, Nevada, the BLM declared an end to its Calico Mountains Complex gather. Contractors had removed 1,922 horses—fewer than the 2,700 predicted and targeted— and claims that the ubiquitous wild Mustang had overpopulated the Calico range were cast in doubt. Concurrent with the Calico gather’s conclusion, the BLM also announced the postponement of the Eagle Herd Management Area roundup.
Covering more acreage than the state of Rhode Island and with twenty-seven hundred cattle grazing unhindered, the Eagle Herd Management Area and its wild horses had been in the crosshairs ever since the BLM announced its intention to drop the wild horse population to fewer than one hundred Mustangs. With Utah’s Confusion Mountains roundup similarly deferred one month prior, there was newfound hope that the BLM had discovered the error of its ways. Where Mustang welfare advocates should have been pleased, they were instead gravely concerned. Something had rattled the BLM’s cage.
In short order, animal welfare organizations would discover that shocking fatality statistics, and not their advocacy efforts, had stalled the winter roundups.
* * *
Processing my own sugar high, I cut through the barn on the way back to my truck. There I discovered Felicity—the feral, tail-less, human-hating resident barn cat. Like all of the farm’s four-legged inhabitants, she too was an unwanted societal outcast. Curled into a tight ball in her small nylon cat house, fast asleep atop a leftover sheet of fiberglass insulation, Felicity was oblivious and impervious to winter’s chill. Though Amy and Lisa possessed the best of intentions when they carpeted Felicity’s dwelling, the glass fiber reinforced insulation was terribly hazardous to the resident feline’s eyes and throat.
On the spot, I renamed the purring and contented cat. From that moment forward, she was Asbestos. Feeling like the Grinch who stole Christmas, I pulled Asbestos from her one-bedroom apartment and promptly discarded the sheet of insulation.
Staring up at me from her now-frigid abode, Asbestos’ eyes remained fixed on my torso. Having removed her one source of both warmth and contentment, I was certain she was mapping the best route to strike at and tear out my heart. In an instant, she sprang from the ground, flew past my insulated Carhartt jacket’s partially open zipper, snaked through my down vest, and came to rest between my insulated button-down shirt and my long underwear top. I had ravaged her home and Asbestos clearly believed that I owed her.
I was now Samson’s teacher, Cosmo’s best friend, and Asbestos’ furnace.
In that instant, months of prolonged predatory stares, guttural hisses, and fluffed tails were erased. Up until that moment, the tail-less cat had been the one farm animal who had rejected my overtures. She detested Samson and he despised her. By implication, I too was the enemy. But now all of that would change. For many weeks to follow and until spring’s first thaw, Asbestos the tail-less feral barn cat would make her weekly leap of faith—each time landing successfully between my warm and invi
ting winter layers.
Like Samson, Cosmo the standoffish black mutt, and me, Asbestos and I had forged an odd and strange relationship. In no time, she would come to be a loyal companion and my always present shadow. I had no way of knowing that in a few weeks Asbestos would attempt a similar armistice with Samson that would nearly cost me my life.
Entering the barn at the most inopportune of moments, Amy stopped dead in her tracks as she observed two pointy ears protruding from my many layers of clothing.
“What the hell is it with you and these animals?” she blurted out. “Next you’ll have the skunk that lives under the porch taking naps in your truck. Lisa is up in the house and we have a cake. You’re invited—that mangy fur ball is not.”
Many years ago, I learned that it was best to interact with my horse-owning clientele in the same fashion as my legal clients—keep things on a strictly professional basis. Go in, get the job done, and get out. Whenever I deviated from this model, clients would start treating me like a friend, ask for favors, or fail to pay for services rendered. This instance would be no different. Once I was inside Amy’s residence, the distanced business cordiality that had governed each of our prior dealings promptly flew out the aging home’s rickety front door.
“So,” Amy shouted out in a tone that indicated that a gut shot was on its way, “you’re forty years old and you’ve got nothing to show for yourself. No wife, no kids, no family. Don’t you think your mother is fairly disappointed in you? If you don’t get your act together, you are going to be all alone, just like Samson!”
When I was working as an attorney in a high-rise office, more often than not personal boundaries were respected and lines were not crossed. Yet whenever I entered the home of one of my horse-owning clients the opposite was almost always the case. I knew better than to follow Amy into the house, and though I assumed that she was simply poking fun, I was prepared to make a hasty retreat. I finished my piece of cake, thanked my hosts, and headed straight for the door.
Last Chance Mustang Page 18