My friend, Tim, suggested to me once that training a horse was like riding a roller coaster. There were ups and downs. You also needed to put up with the slow climb up so you could enjoy the fast, thrill-filled, ride down.
Well, that analogy had more meaning to me lately. After spending several sessions with Braveheart where we connected, I asked, he gave, we bonded, a session came that made me feel like I would be starting all over again. See, summer is almost over and with that comes the start of work. I am a college professor and have been in several meetings held prior to the beginning of classes next week. With those meetings come agendas and with agendas come timetables, due dates, and the inkling of stress. So I came from one of those meetings straight to the barn where I hoped to get in some time with Braveheart.
The arena was full with lessons so I headed for the pasture, feeling confident in my progress that I would be able to halter Braveheart and get him to the barn. Well, the "agenda" mindset had yet to leave my psyche, obviously, because when I got to Braveheart, I could rub him, but as I just thought about raising the halter, he would walk away. After about 15 minutes of pasture tag, with me always being IT, I realized that I had an agenda and he could read that. So, I just sat down, yep, right in the middle of the pasture. The horses looked at me as if to wonder, "what's that crazy predator doing?" I worked at releasing the agendas and went back to Braveheart, still with halter in hand but without haltering in mind. I rubbed him, scratched his chest and withers, and simply walked away. Because the indoor arena was occupied, I entered the barn from the side. When I got to a place where I could see the back entrance, there stood Braveheart watching for me. I looked in his direction, acknowledged him but simply went to the front porch to sit and process what had happened there in the pasture. What part of this was me, my attitude, and what part was his apprehension? See, it isn't all one or the other but, usually, a mix of the two. Certainly, the larger part of the whole belongs to the human. We get greedy and want it on our time. Horses feel that pressure and react, because of their prey nature, by fleeing. We need to assume the role of leader of the herd but also that of protector. They need to see us as on their side.
Lessons ended and I went back to the gate. There stood Braveheart, waiting for me. I opened the gate and in he walked. I haltered him, worked for about 10 minutes on our lessons, then walked him to the pasture. A few minutes later, after helping feed the herd, I left the barn, reflecting on what I had experienced while on the roller coaster. Yes, I endured the slow ride up, but I was rewarded with a brief moment of exhilaration as Braveheart and I were a team, our spirits had connected and we were able to lean on, and learn from, each other.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
My Evening Walk
A couple of nights ago, some barn friends were having a spur of the moment cook out at the barn. We had just finished our dinner and I, like many of us, had had one too many hot dogs. I thought I would take a short walk into the pasture where Braveheart was lazily munching on grass with his herd buddies. The herd was in the small pasture right behind the barn so the walk would not be too long. This was a good thing because even though the August heat had subsided some, the Kentucky humidity was holding its own.
I remembered enough from my earlier lessons to not make a bee line to the herd but, rather, walk in a wide arc as I approached them. Walking in a straight line gives off a predator vibe to the horses and I was not in predator mode. Yes, I wanted to get close to them but I was not "on the hunt." Anyway, I came to the herd in the right frame of mind and from the right direction because none of them raised their heads from their chosen patch of grass. To be fair, they all had an eye on me and knew I was there, but that's good. One of the horses, Slow Poke, raised his head and came to me, wanting a scratch on his face and withers. I obliged him and then moved on to Braveheart.
As I got closer to him, he raised his head as if to let me know thet he was ready for whatever I had in mind. He was on alert. I went to his side and rubbed his shoulder and neck but, even though I knew better, went for his head and face too quickly. He walked away, briskly, about five or six steps. I did not chase him because I knew that would trigger his "flight" response. I stood still until he stopped and turned back to me. I approached him again and, this time, took more care as to where I rubbed him. I began on his shoulder, then to his back and withers, dropped down to his girth area, back to his withers, then his neck and, finally, his head, face and poll.
I spent about 10 minutes just rubbing him and letting him know I was there to be with him but not to capture him. I began to walk away but, after about four steps, I stopped. I kept my back to him, hoping he would hook on and come to me. The two minutes it took for him to get to me seemed like two hours, but his nose touched my elbow and his warm breath felt like kindness as it enveloped my arm. I slowly turned to him and saw the softness in his eyes. If you have never seen a horse's eye soften, its like that feeling you have when you let out a big sigh. Calmness floods over you as the air and tension are released. That's the only way I know of to describe what it looks like to see a horse's eye soften. I spent some more time just thanking him for that moment of trust and kindness before I headed back to the barn.
When I returned, those who had remained in the barn had watched my trek and commnted to me that Braveheart had positioned himself, as I walked away, so he could watch me all the way to the barn. I turned back to see the herd still grazing and to see Braveheart standing, head high, looking at me as if to say, "When you come back, I'll be here."
I remembered enough from my earlier lessons to not make a bee line to the herd but, rather, walk in a wide arc as I approached them. Walking in a straight line gives off a predator vibe to the horses and I was not in predator mode. Yes, I wanted to get close to them but I was not "on the hunt." Anyway, I came to the herd in the right frame of mind and from the right direction because none of them raised their heads from their chosen patch of grass. To be fair, they all had an eye on me and knew I was there, but that's good. One of the horses, Slow Poke, raised his head and came to me, wanting a scratch on his face and withers. I obliged him and then moved on to Braveheart.
As I got closer to him, he raised his head as if to let me know thet he was ready for whatever I had in mind. He was on alert. I went to his side and rubbed his shoulder and neck but, even though I knew better, went for his head and face too quickly. He walked away, briskly, about five or six steps. I did not chase him because I knew that would trigger his "flight" response. I stood still until he stopped and turned back to me. I approached him again and, this time, took more care as to where I rubbed him. I began on his shoulder, then to his back and withers, dropped down to his girth area, back to his withers, then his neck and, finally, his head, face and poll.
I spent about 10 minutes just rubbing him and letting him know I was there to be with him but not to capture him. I began to walk away but, after about four steps, I stopped. I kept my back to him, hoping he would hook on and come to me. The two minutes it took for him to get to me seemed like two hours, but his nose touched my elbow and his warm breath felt like kindness as it enveloped my arm. I slowly turned to him and saw the softness in his eyes. If you have never seen a horse's eye soften, its like that feeling you have when you let out a big sigh. Calmness floods over you as the air and tension are released. That's the only way I know of to describe what it looks like to see a horse's eye soften. I spent some more time just thanking him for that moment of trust and kindness before I headed back to the barn.
When I returned, those who had remained in the barn had watched my trek and commnted to me that Braveheart had positioned himself, as I walked away, so he could watch me all the way to the barn. I turned back to see the herd still grazing and to see Braveheart standing, head high, looking at me as if to say, "When you come back, I'll be here."
Monday, August 4, 2008
The Tears Flowed
There are many stories I could tell about Braveheart and me, some good, some not so good, some downright awful. But I want to share this story that is, for now in our life together, near on to perfect.
Several days ago, or weeks, (one thing you learn about working with horses in a natural way is that time means nothing; it happens, it doesn't happen, it worked, it didn't work, maybe tomorrow, not today, Oh my goodness, he's got it!) I was watching a trainer, who is helping me with Braveheart, introduce him to new stuff. Wait, though, before I get to this, I should give you some background. See, Braveheart was almost five years old when we began to start him. Starting a colt usually begins when they are weaned (haltered and lead) and then again as two year olds, so Braveheart was getting a painfully late start. Imagine having a child who for five years could do what they wanted, when they wanted, with whom they wanted and then you try to introduce them to manners and rules. OK, so you get the picture.
So Braveheart is being introduced to some new stuff. We had him where we could halter him, lead him, and get him to work on the lead to go in a general direction by asking and rewarding. We were working on this, with me holding the lead, when the trainer asked to take Braveheart for a minute to show me some fine tuning. Well, one thing lead to another and Braveheart allowed the trainer to drape the lead over his back, use the lead as a psuedo-girth strap and even gently flip the lead around his front and rear legs (up to this day, he freaked when his legs were touched). The trainer just kept asking of him and he kept giving. She wrapped the lead around his front foot and asked, by gently pulling, for a step. HE GAVE IT, and another and another. She switched to his other front leg and he gave and gave.
The trainer had her back to me as she faced Braveheart. They had paused in the training. She took the lead and proceeded to head toward me as if to hand him off to me. I had tried to contain my tears of joy. A few had leaked out but I could pass those off as having come from my irritated eyes (arena dust and contact lenses don't always mix). But when I saw the tears streaming down the face of the trainer, the look of pride in my horse's eyes, well, I lost it. Fifty-one year old college professor, wanna-be cowboy, sobbing uncontrolably with pride because his horse had just done well, . . .No, I am not ashamed. I was proud. Proud like when your child takes her first steps, plays in their first music recital, walks down the aisle at their wedding.
Braveheart had given so much because we had made it comfortable for him to give. One of the things about natural horsemanship is to make the right thing easy and the wrong thing difficult. By making the arena a safe place for him, he knew we were not there to prey on him but to be with him, to support him, to ask and not force him. The right thing was easy.
Since that day, we have had other ups and downs, just like everyone does. But I revel in the good things we do now and quickly leave the not-so-good behind because I know that, more often than not, the not-so-good was a result of what I did wrong or he responded to a rudeness I exhibited to him. Horses simply react to what they are presented with. If I show respect, he will, too.
Several days ago, or weeks, (one thing you learn about working with horses in a natural way is that time means nothing; it happens, it doesn't happen, it worked, it didn't work, maybe tomorrow, not today, Oh my goodness, he's got it!) I was watching a trainer, who is helping me with Braveheart, introduce him to new stuff. Wait, though, before I get to this, I should give you some background. See, Braveheart was almost five years old when we began to start him. Starting a colt usually begins when they are weaned (haltered and lead) and then again as two year olds, so Braveheart was getting a painfully late start. Imagine having a child who for five years could do what they wanted, when they wanted, with whom they wanted and then you try to introduce them to manners and rules. OK, so you get the picture.
So Braveheart is being introduced to some new stuff. We had him where we could halter him, lead him, and get him to work on the lead to go in a general direction by asking and rewarding. We were working on this, with me holding the lead, when the trainer asked to take Braveheart for a minute to show me some fine tuning. Well, one thing lead to another and Braveheart allowed the trainer to drape the lead over his back, use the lead as a psuedo-girth strap and even gently flip the lead around his front and rear legs (up to this day, he freaked when his legs were touched). The trainer just kept asking of him and he kept giving. She wrapped the lead around his front foot and asked, by gently pulling, for a step. HE GAVE IT, and another and another. She switched to his other front leg and he gave and gave.
The trainer had her back to me as she faced Braveheart. They had paused in the training. She took the lead and proceeded to head toward me as if to hand him off to me. I had tried to contain my tears of joy. A few had leaked out but I could pass those off as having come from my irritated eyes (arena dust and contact lenses don't always mix). But when I saw the tears streaming down the face of the trainer, the look of pride in my horse's eyes, well, I lost it. Fifty-one year old college professor, wanna-be cowboy, sobbing uncontrolably with pride because his horse had just done well, . . .No, I am not ashamed. I was proud. Proud like when your child takes her first steps, plays in their first music recital, walks down the aisle at their wedding.
Braveheart had given so much because we had made it comfortable for him to give. One of the things about natural horsemanship is to make the right thing easy and the wrong thing difficult. By making the arena a safe place for him, he knew we were not there to prey on him but to be with him, to support him, to ask and not force him. The right thing was easy.
Since that day, we have had other ups and downs, just like everyone does. But I revel in the good things we do now and quickly leave the not-so-good behind because I know that, more often than not, the not-so-good was a result of what I did wrong or he responded to a rudeness I exhibited to him. Horses simply react to what they are presented with. If I show respect, he will, too.
My Horse Story
When I was very little, I dreamed of having a horse. I had cowboy clothes, a hand-tooled holster with a life-sized Colt .45 (made for me by my grandfather but way to big to fit at the time, although I wore it as an over-the-shoulder holster), a felt hat with wire in the brim, a lasso, and an imagination that could not be outdone. But we lived in a small town on a small lot in a small house, so having a horse was not possible. At five, I had to undergo open heart surgery to repair an aortal defect. My surgeon at Children's Memorial Hospital in Chicago called me his "brave little heart patient." I spent two weeks in the hospital, still dreaming of being a cowboy. Someone even sent me a plastic model of a palomino stallion. At five, I didn't have the skill to put it together well, so my dad helped me. We painted the horse's stockings white, gave him a white blaze and carefully attache the "realistic hair" mane and tail. He was my steed.
Ok, so let's fast-forward to 2006. I had been volunteering at a small day camp in northwestern Pennsylvania, first in their archery program and then, to my joy, in their equestrian program. One horse in their herd, an American Bashkir Curly gelding named Braveheart, was sort of an outcast. He never grew more than a few inches of mane and tail hair (Curlies shed their winter coats and, often lose mane and tail hair as well. Most, however, grow it back.). He had not been started as a colt so he was behind in his training. I felt for him and could relate. Because of my physical issues as a youth, I was scrawny, weak, looked different and was ridiculed. Anyway, I mentioned to the owners that I would love to own Braveheart. To my surprise, they told me that if I could arrange for a place to keep him, I could have him. Now I had a real steed!
Fast-forward again. In my work as a college professor, in theatre arts, I am often looking for unusual items on the internet. Once, while looking for Scottish kilts, I happened upon the history of the clan tartan of my Scots/Irish ancestors. To my amazement, no, more like slapped me quiet shock, I discovered that one of my clan ancestors had fought alongside William Wallace, aka "Braveheart."
Isn't it interesting how the universe, or God (my choice), puts you in the right place at the right time? I went from being a dreamer to a brave little heart patient to a dreamer to owning a horse named Braveheart. You could say coincidence, but I believe otherwise. Those words were spoken to me in 1962 because it was all part of the plan.
Ok, so let's fast-forward to 2006. I had been volunteering at a small day camp in northwestern Pennsylvania, first in their archery program and then, to my joy, in their equestrian program. One horse in their herd, an American Bashkir Curly gelding named Braveheart, was sort of an outcast. He never grew more than a few inches of mane and tail hair (Curlies shed their winter coats and, often lose mane and tail hair as well. Most, however, grow it back.). He had not been started as a colt so he was behind in his training. I felt for him and could relate. Because of my physical issues as a youth, I was scrawny, weak, looked different and was ridiculed. Anyway, I mentioned to the owners that I would love to own Braveheart. To my surprise, they told me that if I could arrange for a place to keep him, I could have him. Now I had a real steed!
Fast-forward again. In my work as a college professor, in theatre arts, I am often looking for unusual items on the internet. Once, while looking for Scottish kilts, I happened upon the history of the clan tartan of my Scots/Irish ancestors. To my amazement, no, more like slapped me quiet shock, I discovered that one of my clan ancestors had fought alongside William Wallace, aka "Braveheart."
Isn't it interesting how the universe, or God (my choice), puts you in the right place at the right time? I went from being a dreamer to a brave little heart patient to a dreamer to owning a horse named Braveheart. You could say coincidence, but I believe otherwise. Those words were spoken to me in 1962 because it was all part of the plan.
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