Each visit I attempted to engage Katherine in conversation, asking her questions about her life and telling her about mine and Beau’s. No response. I grew more and more frustrated with Katherine, not content with just “being” with her. Yet here was Beau, meditative dog-monk, teaching me how to “be” and love quietly, assuming “the position” for the fifteen minutes we sat at each visit.
On our fourth visit, I was ready to bypass Katherine’s room, figuring we didn’t really make a difference, so why bother, but Beau had other plans. He pulled me into Katherine’s room and took his familiar pose on her left side, head on lap. I acquiesced, but since I had a business meeting later in the afternoon with which I was preoccupied, I decided to cut short our usual fifteen minutes with Katherine to five. Instead of talking, I remained quiet, focusing inwardly on my upcoming meeting. Surely she’d never notice or care. As I stood up to walk out and began to pull Beau away, he wouldn’t budge.
And then the most miraculous thing happened. Katherine’s hand went up to the top of Beau’s head and rested there. No other movement, just her hand. Instead of Beau’s customary response of nose nuzzling and increased body wagging, he continued to stand like a statue, never moving from his spot.
I sat back down in silent shock, and for the next ten precious minutes, reveled in the stream of life flowing between Katherine’s hand and Beau’s head. As the clock chimed half-past two, marking the end of our fifteen minutes, Katherine’s hand gently slid back into her lap, and Beau turned to walk out the door.
It’s been ten years since that visit and eight years since Beau died in my arms from a stroke. Love has many ways of showing its face. Each time I am ready to walk away from a person on whom I’ve given up, I am reminded of the power of Beau’s loving persistence with Katherine and with me. If Beau can give an extra ten minutes, surely I can too.
Mary Marcdante
4
CELEBRATING
THE BOND
You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
The Language of Horses
My father, a traditional horseman, was a tough authoritarian. He used intimidation and brutality to “break” horses to his will. Unfortunately, he used the same methods on me. At eight years old, after witnessing a particularly vicious example of my father’s methods, I vowed that my life would be different. I would use communication, not violence, to enlist the cooperation of the horses I trained. I was sure that horses had a language, and if I could speak that language, I could train horses in a new and entirely different way. So it was at the age of eight that I set a life goal for myself—to be able to communicate fluently with horses.
My father thought this idea was nonsense, so I had to pursue my goal without his help. My mother supported me, but secretly, for she also feared my father’s anger. We lived on a horse facility in Salinas, California, at the time, and I spent every waking hour trying to communicate with the untamed domestic horses on the facility.
The summer I was thirteen, I went to Nevada for three weeks for a job. I had been hired to capture wild mustangs. This was the first opportunity I’d had to work with totally wild horses. Determined to make the best use of my time, I rose early each day and rode a long way into the desert, where I used binoculars to study the habits of the mustang herds that lived there.
I was utterly spellbound by these horses. I would sit for hours and hours, watching those beautiful animals as they ran, grazed and played in the wide spaces of the desert.
What astonished me most was how the wild horses communicated with each other. They rarely used sounds; instead, they used a complex language of motion. The position of their bodies, and the speed and direction of their travel were the key elements of their language. And by varying the degree of rigidity or relaxation in the eyes, ears, neck, head and position of the spine, a horse could signal anything it needed to communicate.
As I watched, I thought: Could I convince a wild horse to let me get close enough to touch him without him running away?
For easy spotting, I picked a horse with unique markings, and tried to herd him away from the others. For many days I tried every way I could think of to get near him, but he always sensed me and he was off before I was even close. One day, I got lucky and came up behind him in a small canyon. At last, I had his full attention. Then, using only my body to convey the signals I’d seen the horses use with each other, I persuaded the wary stallion to stand still. He watched me silently as I moved closer and closer. He was watchful, but he wasn’t afraid. Not breathing, I took the step that brought me within an arm’s reach of him. I avoided his eyes as I stretched my hand toward him and laid it softly on his neck. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough. I watched him gallop away, my chest exploding with joy. I had communicated with a horse!
When I returned home, I was bursting with excitement and told my mother what had happened in the desert with the mustang. While I could see that she was happy for me, all she said was that I must never speak of it to my father or anyone else, or I would get in trouble. I felt let down, but I knew she was right. My desire to learn to communicate with horses became a deep inner passion that I fiercely hid from the rest of the world.
Unable to share what was most important to me with anyone, I was almost always alone, except for the horses. The only thing that mattered to me was my life’s dream.
Every summer, I returned to Nevada for three weeks to work, continuing my research in the desert. Four years later, when I was seventeen, I progressed so far that I not only touched a wild mustang, I saddled, bridled and rode one without once using any pain or intimidation to do so. Proudly, I rode the wild horse back to the ranch. The ranch hands who saw me ride in called me a liar when I told them what I’d done. They ridiculed me and insisted the horse I rode must once have been a domesticated horse who had run away and ended up with the mustangs. Deeply hurt, I realized the futility of my dreams. With no one to believe in me, it was my spirit that was broken.
I eventually got over the pain of that devastating humiliation and decided to continue my training methods, but I vowed I would never again tell anyone what I did.
And so I became a horse trainer. I used my experiences with every horse I worked with to learn more and more about the language of horses. It was a slow but satisfying education.
Once, when I was about twenty-five, a family hired me to tackle the problem of their mare, My Blue Heaven. She was a beautiful horse, intelligent and extremely talented. But during her training, a previous owner had inadvertently mishandled her and she had developed a serious problem: She wouldn’t stop. She would blast away like a rocket and refuse to be halted—crashing through fences, and slipping and sliding as she made dangerously sharp turns. She was diabolically treacherous. A short time earlier, the mare had almost killed the present owner’s daughter. The family was going on vacation and they asked me to sell the horse for them for whatever I could get for her. They had heard I was good with difficult horses and they knew in order to sell her, someone would have to be able to bring her to a stop from a run. No one else was willing to try.
She was the most dangerous horse I had ever seen, but I used everything I had absorbed over the years to help her. Moving slowly and keeping my communication with her to just the basics, I earned her trust. Building on that trust, I continued to communicate with her, and soon she melted. Our progress was swift and remarkable from that point on. It had seemed impossible, but within a few days, she was transformed.
While the owners were still away, I showed her in a competition and she took first place. I brought her prize, a very expensive saddle, to the home of the family who still owned her. I wrote them a note, explaining that she had improved enough to win this saddle and under the circumstances, I felt that they should reconsider selling her. I pinned the note to the saddle and left it in the dining room for them to find upon their return.
They were ecstatic about the change in My Blue H
eaven and were thrilled to be able to keep her. My Blue Heaven went on to become a world-class champion. And her owners found in her a new willingness and sweet temper that made her presence in their family even more precious than her show value.
My Blue Heaven was one of my first public triumphs. But this same story repeated itself over and over during the next thirty years. Hopeless cases were referred to me, and using the simple tools of gentleness, respect and communication, I managed to turn them around.
By then, it was hard to keep my work secret. Even though I still met with some skepticism and scorn, I found many more who were open to, and enthusiastic about, what I was doing.
I was particularly well received in England. In fact, in 1989, I was astounded to find myself, the son of an American horse trainer, being presented to Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth II, queen of England. It had been a long and often painful road from the high deserts of Nevada to the splendor of Windsor Castle.
That was the turning point of my career. The queen then endorsed my methods and provided me with her private car to tour England and demonstrate my techniques all over the country. Today, it is even possible to study my methods of horse training at West Oxfordshire College in England.
I have achieved what I set out to do when I was a boy of eight. But I feel that I am just a scout, marking the trail for all who will follow me. I watch the young people who are studying my work, and I know they will carry it forward to achieve communication with horses I can’t even begin to imagine.
In a certain way, I have my father to thank for setting my life on this course. Out of his work with horses, my passion for them began. And from his violence, my dream was born—that all horses be spared the needless pain and suffering of being “broken.”
Monty Roberts
As told to Carol Kline
The Rescue
I wish people would realize that animals are totally dependent, helpless, like children; a trust that is put upon us.
James Herriot
In July 1994, the Emergency Animal Rescue Service set up a shelter in Bainbridge, Georgia, in response to the floods generated by Hurricane Alberto. The animal rescue volunteers arrived in this small Southern town, located on the Flint River, before the floodwaters had spread to the neighborhoods bordering the river.
While out looking for animals that had been left behind, a team of volunteers met a man who had two dogs, which he had no intention of taking with him when he finally evacuated. When the volunteers offered to shelter the man’s two dogs, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Hey, it makes no difference to me.”
When asked where the dogs were, he moved toward the elevated front porch of his tiny home and bent down. A minute later, he dragged a large black-and-white dog out from under the rundown house. The man gathered the dog in his arms, walked toward one of our trucks, and deposited him in an airline crate. Then he turned and walked away, not bothering to even say good-bye.
Amy, one of the volunteers, asked the man some questions as she completed the animal-intake form. When she asked what the dog’s name was, he replied, “He doesn’t have one.”
Unable to locate the man’s other dog, the volunteers returned to the animal disaster relief center with just the nameless dog. When Amy went to the back of the truck and opened the door of the airline crate, the dog sat still, staring at the floor of his cage. No matter how much Amy coaxed, the dog would not budge. Concerned that maybe the dog was frightened by the height, Amy closed the crate door and had another volunteer help her lower it to the ground.
But another attempt at coaxing the dog out of the crate met with the same response. The dog just stared at the bottom of its cage, displaying absolutely no reaction to the volunteer and not once showing any signs of aggression.
It was time to try something else.
Amy clipped a leash to the dog’s collar, and then with the help of another volunteer lifted the back end of the crate so that the dog would slide out. When he landed on the ground, he just lay there.
“What’s wrong with this dog?” the volunteer asked Amy as they both stared at the dog lying at their feet.
“I’m not sure, but my guess is he’s been abused.”
Amy was right. The dog had been abused, but it was not physical abuse that had made him this way. It was neglect.
A lot of the rescue program volunteers have had to face animal abuse and neglect for the first time during disasters, and it’s never easy to accept the reality that not everyone treats animals the way they should.
The reality hit Amy hard, but she was determined to do something to help the nameless dog. The first thing she did was name him Albert.
For the next two days, Amy carried the sixty-pound dog around the compound, since he still refused to stand up or walk. One of Amy’s jobs was to feed the other dogs who were housed in runs that lined our perimeter fence. As Amy moved from one pen to the next, she’d pick up Albert and move him along with her. In spite of all the barking and commotion the other dogs created, Albert did not react. He just sat on the grass, staring at the ground.
In an effort to save her back, we borrowed a golf cart from the neighboring country club. As Amy made her feeding rounds, Albert then sat in the front seat of the cart, staring at the floorboard, still not responding to any of his surroundings.
At night, Albert lay next to Amy’s cot. When we ate, Albert sat next to Amy, refusing to accept any of the tidbits of human food she offered him. In the heat of the afternoon, Amy would find a shady spot and stretch out on the ground next to Albert. I remember, one of those afternoons, standing back and watching the two of them as Amy whispered something into Albert’s black, floppy ear. I could only imagine what she was saying to the dog that still refused to respond.
Albert had been with us for four days when we had a late-night birthday party for one of the volunteers. As director of the rescue program, I always came up with an excuse to have a party to relieve the tension and momentarily forget the pain and suffering present in disasters. Laughter and chocolate ice cream always do the trick. That is why we never travel into a disaster area without our ice cream scoop.
The volunteers were gathered under the tent loaned to us by Levy Funeral Home, each one wearing his own Barney birthday hat and acting like a five-year-old. There were outbursts of laughter, storytelling and lots of chocolate being consumed, and sitting in the middle of it all was Albert, still at Amy’s side.
“Look!” a volunteer suddenly shouted above the clamor, as he pointed in Albert’s direction.
The group immediately quieted down, unable to believe what it was seeing. Albert was still sitting in the same place, but the very tip of his long black-and-white tail appeared to wag. As we all stared in amazement, Albert’s entire tail started wagging. The next thing we knew, he stood up and his rear end was switching back and forth. Then he turned his head and his eyes started blinking, and his ears twitched. It was as if someone had suddenly pushed Albert’s “on” button. Albert came alive for probably the first time in his life.
After that evening, the once nameless dog never stopped moving. His whole purpose in life was to keep up with Amy. Wherever she went, you could count on Albert being no more than two steps behind her. As she fed the other dogs, Albert trotted along with her, responding to the other dogs as if to say, “I am finally happy.”
Amy and Albert were inseparable. Even when Amy walked to the nearby fire station to take a shower, Albert accompanied her. When Amy got into the shower, Albert hopped right in too, refusing to let Amy out of his sight.
I was beginning to notice, though, that Albert still did not have the energy of an eighteen-month-old dog. We decided it would probably be a good idea to have Albert pay a visit to Dr. Hight, the veterinarian in Bainbridge who was a great help to us. The vet confirmed our fear: Albert had heartworm. The good news was that because Albert was a young dog and the problem was not yet advanced, the doctor was willing to try to treat the frequently fatal illness.
; This gave me the excuse I’d been looking for to call Albert’s owner. When I explained to him that Albert had heartworm and that it would cost at least $300 to treat him, I expected he’d say, “I don’t have the money, so you keep the dog.”
But I was wrong. He wanted Albert back.
“You understand that if the dog isn’t immediately treated for the heartworm, he’ll die,” I told the man on the other end of the phone, still hoping I could convince him to release the dog to me.
“Yeah. I understand. That’s what happens to all my dogs, and when I lose this one, I’ll get myself another one,” the man replied, without the least bit of remorse in his voice. “Oh, yeah, my house didn’t flood, so I’ll be out shortly to pick up my dog.”
With that, the man hung up.
In the distance, I saw Amy and Albert playing tug-of-war with a towel. “How am I going to tell Amy we have to give Albert back?” I said half-aloud, as tears streamed down my cheeks. “It’ll kill them both.”
An hour later a dark blue Camaro pulled up to the front gate, and I immediately recognized the man who stepped out of the car. In his hand he carried a heavy chain. As he came through the gate, Amy spotted him too. I had just explained to her that Albert’s owner would be there soon to reclaim his dog. It was one of the most difficult things I’d ever had to do.
At that moment, I wished I were not the director of the rescue program. I wished more than anything that I could make one dog mysteriously disappear. Because of my responsibilities, I knew that I couldn’t. If we got the reputation of taking people’s animals and not giving them back because we didn’t like the way they were cared for, it could prevent us from helping animals in the future.
We have, during disasters, reported instances of animal abuse to local authorities, but as long as an owner is providing food, water and shelter and is not physically abusing the animal, the law protects the person from having his or her animal confiscated. Since emotional neglect is not considered abuse, Albert’s owner was within the law.
Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul Page 15