George's Entourage

George and Rose's friendship took six months from first meeting to the point where they could be together in the same space without Rose feeling fearful or George feeling the need to bite her. Then they went through a short phase when George broke the ice by acting all studdish and mounting her. And gradually from there they developed the beautiful relationship they have now, where George has nominated Rose as his mom, but he's still in charge. Rose's sweetness has been a balm to him, I think, and her presence has given him a safe place to relax and unwind. He has grown generous toward her and will stand by while she takes treats.

Rose is a nice napping partner.

George and Bridget's relationship, on the other hand, remained stormy and tense for much longer. For four years they couldn't occupy the same space. There was a certain curiosity between them, however, which they would sometimes try to satisfy by talking to each other over a fence, or even over a person. At home in PA, there are two adjoining fields with an open gate between, and I've observed them use that set-up to go one on each side of a fence in order to squeal at each other. 

Finally, this year there has been a rapprochement. They can stand fairly close together, and occasionally they'll touch noses or one will nose the other's flank without ensuing drama. I feel that their long journey to Texas together has helped their relationship.

As for Chloe - she has absolutely avoided George; no way was she ever going to allow herself to get anywhere near that dreadful ogre. And his behavior pretty much justified her fears, as if Chloe got in his vicinity, he'd usually offer to bite her. Even with a barrier between, the George-bites/Chloe-flees scenario remained.

Until.

Yesterday, I prevailed on Chloe to exit the field with me. She was very engaged in the process of getting through the gate and did not change her mind or want to quit when we had to run the George gauntlet. My strategy was basically to keep nicely reminding George that he was supposed to let us get out and to keep plying him with treats (not as rewards, but as morale boosters). He was in a high state of tension and clearly fighting with himself, but Chloe (a more acute George observer than I) did not falter. We dodged and sidestepped, and I kept swiveling to keep George in my sights, and we made it through the gate with no bites and no unauthorized escapees. 

Chloe then spent some time grazing, and (on account of she's a little angel) she let me clamber onto her back and sit there. When it was time to take her back, George stuck his head over the gate to greet us, and - lo and behold - he and Chloe touched noses FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME. Only for a micro-second to be sure, but they did it again, just to be sure I didn't think I'd imagined it. And then George nicely let us back into the field.

This photo makes it look like Chloe is huge and I am tiny,
whereas in fact, as everyone knows, the opposite is true.

George's Practice

Our new barn in Texas boasts a 60' Round Pen.

Now, a round pen is a useful accessory, and I'm glad to have it, but not nearly as glad as I once would have been. On account of, thanks to Ms. Spilker, my horses no longer really have to do anything they don't want. So, pretty much, those round-and-round-we-go-this-way-then-that-at-this-speed-then-that-stop-only-when-I-tell-you days are over.

What we do we instead, you might ask?

Well, here's something George has been working on, and the round pen was part of his equipment.

Our formerly aggressive horse, George, hates for you to stand by his shoulder and ask him to move it away from you. At one time, such a heinous suggestion might have elicited the threat of a bite. At the very least eyes would narrow, ears would pin back, head would snake - drama drama drama.

I've backed off more and more to the point where I'd be standing about two or more feet away, gently just point a little finger at his shoulder, and whisper, "Georgie pie, would you like to move over maybe just maybe?" Even this would cause the smoke to start coming out of his ears.

He'll move over if you ask him other ways, but that shoulder spot is super sensitive, and it just irks him no end.

Well, the other day we were in the round pen. Sometimes when we go in there, George'll go, "Oh yeah, I know what we do - I'll trot round this way, and then I'll trot round the other way once or twice, and --- that's enough now! What else shall we do?" And of course I don't make him go around any more.

So we might do a little shifting his quarters over, and maybe backing up a bit (all at liberty). We might visit other ways to ask him to move his shoulder, or we might just stand still together. The nice thing about a round pen is that the horse and human are contained within a limited safe space, both free to come together or separate as each desires.

The other day, in the round pen, after a few preliminaries, George came up on my right side and stopped with me in the BAD SPOT next to his shoulder. (Normally he likes to put me by his waist.) Then he reached around away from me and bit himself. After a moment, one of us moved away. But immediately he returned to the same position and did the same thing - tensed up and reached round to bite himself.

This continued several more times. I really didn't say anything - I just stood there and let George use me to probe his fears. He kept returning to the dreaded spot, biting himself each time.

Finally, after several tries, when George came up beside me, he sighed, settled, and dropped his head. Here he is. All his own work.

Later that day we were all out in the field together. When I headed back to the gate, the horses all came with me, and George walked beside me, shoulder to shoulder. He's a fast walker, and after a while I couldn't keep up with him and fell behind. I thought he'd keep going, but he stopped and turned back to look at me. When I caught up, he nudged me with his head, and we set off again together.

George's work is a witness to how seriously a horse can approach his life, his relationships, his fears. George seems aware of the conflict that sometimes exists between his own inner demons and an ideal peaceful world. He faces that disconnect and seeks ways of reconciliation.

I've been enjoying the educational author Alfie Kohn, who has written many interesting books, including one called Punished by Rewards. I believe it's obvious that using negative reinforcement to "train" George to give up his hostile ways would pre-empt and stymie his own dedication to self-improvement. But observing George practicing in the round pen really brought home to me (again) that to offer positive reinforcement is not necessarily benign; it can trivialize and distract from a person's accomplishments and efforts. If I were practicing a difficult piano piece and finally mastered it, how inappropriate and beside-the-point it would be for my teacher to say, "Good job! Now you can have a cookie!" Punishments and rewards are for work that others are making you do.

When my friend who gave us George first encountered him, he was an angry young horse called Buddy. I feel that back in his early, early days, before whatever happened that turned him fearful and mad, there must have been something about him which made the person who named him think of him as a "buddy."  I changed his name, because I call every male animal and every little boy "buddy," but I hope he is re-discovering his original self, which does indeed seem to be a true friend.

George and his sweet friend Rose

George's Delicate Bubble

George has not been speaking to me lately. I assume it's partly because I haven't been doing much of anything with him for a while, and also partly because he has been very annoyed about the lack of spring grass this late in the year. He has only had one thing to say to me for the past couple of months: "What the heck? Get me some grass!"

A few days ago, I took him out for a grazing walk. After I returned him to the "pasture," he was very gentlemanly in allowing the mares to each have a turn to come out as well. However, once everyone was back in with him, he stood by the gate and stared his most meaningful stare at the pasture across the driveway, where the grass had attained an inch or two more in height than in his current abode. I'd been intending to wait a few more days, and possibly until it had rained again, before moving the horses. But really, it's too hard to make them wait - they need that green grass now that spring is on its way, and they can see it staring at them on the other side of the fence. So I moved them over.

George approved. When I went in this evening to play with Bridget, George came over, shooed Bridged away, pressed his side up against me, and stood peacefully. After a bit, he moved forward so I was positioned next to his tail, where we stood for a while longer.

George has been looking rather beatific lately - even despite the lack of grass (for which I personally am entirely to blame, so he has had no particular need to look annoyed except when talking to me). In general he's just been looking a little more radiant or sunshiney or something.

When I took him out for the grazing walk, we played the Bored Game first. Then I asked him to back up, which he's gotten more philosophical about than in the past; then I suggested he move his hindquarters over, which he did - that's not much of a problem for him. Next, I asked him to move his shoulders over, and them's fighting words for George. I was very careful not to touch him. I simply pointed at his shoulder and said, "Scoot" in a friendly voice. George pinned his ears and grumbled and wanted to chew my clothes. I persevered, so he turned his head away, whereupon I gave him much encouragement in the way of intermediate bridges (thanks, Maire, and more on this later) and then he finally moved his little tootsies over and away from me. No difficulty in making him understand what I wanted - just a finger pointing from several inches away - but so difficult for him to bring himself to comply with my request.

Today, when we were relaxing together, I felt - is it my imagination? - that George might be growing a thin bubble. In the past, I've always felt that he had no bubble at all and that that is why he is so uneasy around the other horses. He's ok with Rose, who has a fairly thin bubble herself, and who doesn't pose a challenge to him. But the presence of Bridget, whose bubble is the size of Texas and who has a very forceful character, causes him to become tense and defensive. He feels exposed. But today - again, is it my imagination? - I felt a kind of warmth or aura around him,  just a tiny, tiny bit (microns only!) larger than his actual body.

I don't want to intrude into his precious personal space and make him feel more exposed than he already does. I like the new feeling of warmth coming from him, and I'd like to encourage him to cultivate it. So this evening, instead of asking him to do anything, I thought maybe we could do a little bit of "Name and Explain" (thanks again, Maire, and more later maybe). I started with his knee - I touched it and said "This is your knee." No problem. Then I touched his elbow, saying "This is your elbow." This triggered the stink eye and pinned ears. So I thought we'd better name first and touch after. So I said, "I'm going to touch your knee" and did so. Then, "I'm going to touch your elbow," and did so. This time he didn't react. But the third time I touched his elbow, he just up and left. Which is ok.

The unfolding of George has been and continues to be a mysterious process. When I first knew him, he was very bold and in-your-face. He liked to keep you in front of him, in the crosshairs. He was still liable, on occasion, to bouts of aggressive behavior. He seemed outgoing and would approach people confidently, but I've come to learn that George's head is his shield rather than an organ of communication (as it is with Bridget), and that it is when he puts you by his tail that he is letting you in. Bridget is all in her eyes - they beam out through her charming screen of forelock to make contact with you. George is somewhere deep within himself. His eyes can signal menace or anger, but when he looks happy, his eyes are innocent, his look diffuse.

The next day, I was sitting on the kitchen step drinking my tea, and a warm breeze was blowing. I closed my eyes and felt the wind on my face and listened to the birds singing in the trees and the geese calling in the distance.  I have been becoming a little jaded about the visible world around me. It has been failing to enchant me. I realized, as I sat, that I rely on my sight to connect me to the world around me, and that there is a whole tangible world of perception that is not experienced through the eyes.

Perhaps I have been coming at George head-on, eyes-first. I must learn to be more diffuse like him, to approach him obliquely, to listen and feel rather than watch. A bubble can be a fragile thing - perhaps even from a distance a pointed finger is too sharp.

Finding a Balance

Sometimes it's hard to find a middle point between the two extremes of being confrontational and being a milktoast.

There are certain horses whom I find particularly challenging in this respect. Ahem, did I say "appaloosas"? Surely I wouldn't say something as racist as that?

Today, however, the challenging horse was not in fact an Appie but a buckskin Quarter Horse mare, about seven years old.

The owner has four horses and a donkey. She saved the buckskin mare for last, after the other equids had proven themselves to be gracious and cooperative. I was warned me that the buckskin was occasionally aggressive and often not cooperative and that I shouldn't worry if I couldn't get much done.

The owner was really nice to work with, because she knows all her horses very well and has a good relationship with each one, as well as helpful insight into both their character and their physical condition. It was no different with the "difficult" mare. The owner really loves her in spite of/because of  her strong-willed nature and was able to help me with her, rather than just standing there randomly saying "Whoa! Steady!" and apologizing for the horse - which is what some people do.

I think it was because of the very good relationship this mare has with her human (who understands and appreciates her character, while at the same time insisting on certain improvements in the behavior resulting from that character) that the horse was able to help me figure out how to "deal with" her.

It seemed that the following were good approaches to adopt:

1. not to be bossy or confrontational;

2.  not to be intimidated;

3.  to allow the mare to express a certain imperiousness - e.g. allowing her to snatch her leg away; but at the same time

4.  to keep asking for more help and cooperation;

5.  to ask and expect her to give me her leg of her own accord; and

6.  to remind her - if she forgot and became too engrossed with her haynet - that I was standing there waiting for her to pick up her foot.

By the time I was working on the hind legs, she was picking up her foot freely and leaving it on the stand.

The owner was relieved, as there have been some tussles in the past with this mare and the farrier.

As I drove away, I reflected that I felt it really was the horse who had been the instructor somehow, that she had firmly and kindly shown me how she wanted things done, and had rewarded me when I figured it out.

Buck Pt. 2

As you may have noticed, I've found the stallion episode in the movie Buck to be a source of much reflection.

I may be going out on a limb here, but I believe there's a place in our dealings with horses for righteous anger. These creatures are not cause-and-effect Pavlovian automata who ineluctably respond in such and such a way because of their treatment and training.

We live in a world where the creative principle is a preference for good over evil, order over chaos, life over death, health over disease, cooperation over conflict, love over hate. Every living being knows this, and although all are caught in a web of necessity where death and destruction must be tolerated or even meted out, none are satisfied with this condition. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in travail until now. (Romans 8:22)

There is a community of morality (as it were) which subsists, not only among humans, but among all creatures, and especially among creatures who live together ostensibly in friendship, such as humans and horses.

When a horse steps radically outside of that community, one can treat him like a passive conglomeration of species-specific characteristics, shaped by experiences, and powerless to direct his own life. "This horse is this way because he has never been taught respect, etc."

Or one can say, "Damn it, you bastard, I hate you, what did I ever do to you? So what if you're all so instinctive and quick, I can't help it if I'm a measly pathetic human and stupid as well, and I don't care what anyone did to you in the past, that doesn't give you the right to turn around and terrify others." And then you can throw things at him and shout a lot. Which is not in the least tiny bit like the 2x4 treatment.

No one got angry at the colt when he attacked the cowboy. It was all, "Well, no wonder, there you go, that's what happens when you have a horse like that." Say you were a criminal who had been orphaned and then raised by a gang on the streets and taught that aggression was a virtue and retribution a duty - what if you then murdered a boy because he was wearing the wrong colors and looked at you wrong. Who's telling more truth - the person who says, "Well, there's no way he could do any better, he's a dud because of his background - it would be kinder to execute him"? Or the person who rages, "How could you? How could you kill my son who never harmed you? Would you like it if I killed you? You have destroyed my life!"?

I'm making the claim that horses understand righteous anger. And maybe they understand an angry person a lot better than they do people who seem to go randomly from calm to predatory, from fearful to  hostile, from passive to controlling. We are not angry with our prey, only with our fellows.

I'm saying that, for all their terrifying strangeness, horses occupy the same moral sphere as we do. And by "moral," I don't mean a set of rules - I mean our shared inheritance of a world fallen from paradise, and a shared desire to in some way, as much as possible, return there.

I absolutely don't blame anyone for not taking on responsibility for the horse in the movie. I would not be willing to do so. But it's an eye-opener to me to see how profoundly that horse was treated as a mere product of its circumstances - how there was no expectation that an appeal could be made to something inside the horse, something which has nothing to do with training or usefulness. If that horse had to be destroyed, as it did unless someone was willing to make it a huge priority in their life, then please don't let him go down as a "good little horse" manqué, but as a brilliant, misguided, desperate criminal who could have been a contender.

That horse got me rattled about George again. I was out feeding last night, and George - who gets very bent out of shape about food when it's cold and wet - was crowding me. I didn't like the way he was acting and told him so. I may have stamped my foot. I said, "Why don't you go vent your frustration by chasing the mares like usual?" So he did. And I was given space and peace to put his food in his bucket.

Circumstances prevented that horse from amounting to much in his life, but through the movie, he'll reach many more people than if his life had gone smoothly. Perhaps he'll end up fulfilling his potential in this way.

One thing I've learned is that we're klutzy and clumsy and slow-witted, and that if horses give us a break, it's not because we've learned to be smart, it's that they've decided to be kind.

Buck

Ok, hands up everyone who's seen the movie Buck Brannaman. Cos I'd really like to know what y'all think of it.

Thanks to my internet having been fixed (fingers crossed), so that the download speed is now like 2.65 megawotsits instead of only 0.14, I was at last able to view the movie all the way through.

Buck is a documentary about Buck Brannaman, a real-life "horse whisperer," who helped Robert Redford with Redford's role in the eponymous movie.

Buck Brannaman is a real likeable guy who has some fine things to say about horses. For example: Don't be critical - Don't discourage them or they'll shut down. There's some other cool stuff in the movie, such as the lady who works cows with her dressage horses, as she says it brings "meaning and purpose" into the dressage training because the horses know it helps them with their cattle work, which they love.

There's a sad incident, however, involving a three-year old orphan stud colt, who had been bottle raised and then, when his owner had a bad accident when he was three months old, had been left to his own devices for the next three years. After his difficult birth, he had lain without breathing for some time until he was revived, and there was some thought that this oxygen deprivation had left him mentally impaired.

This youngster was extremely aggressive, to the point where he would attack vehicles and charge fences to bite people on the other side.

Nothing daunted, Buck brings him into the round pen to see what can be done. From his horse, Buck ropes the colt's ankle and starts to be able to control his movements. From there, Buck's cowboy assistant is able to go up to the colt, sack him out, saddle, mount, and ride him. So far so good.

But on the ground, the horse continues to be a menace. Buck blames the owner, for allowing the horse's behavior to escalate to this point, and for not having had him gelded sooner. Buck says orphan horses are the worst, because they're spoiled and not taught respect as they would be if they were with their mothers. He's in a pen with the colt and has to continually fend off his aggressive charges by flapping sticks at him.

Later, they bring him back to the round pen. The colt has a halter and rope on, and the cowboy is holding the rope in one hand and a blanket in the other. It's not clear whether he's using the blanket as a kind of goad to make the horse move forward or whether he's trying to sack him out some more. They move around the pen a little, the cowboy apparently having a little success in getting the horse to move forward on command.

Then - seemingly out of the blue - the colt leaps forward, bites the cowboy's head, knocks him to the ground, and leaves the scene to go over to the other side of the pen.

The cowboy is bloodied and needs stitches in his head. The owner is distraught and realizes her only option is to have the horse destroyed. Buck doesn't disagree. Someone - sooner or later - is going to get killed.

The horse's death sentence is sealed, and he is hauled off in a truck. The next day, Buck talks to the other participants in the clinic about what happened. He says that human beings let the horse down. He says that perhaps the horse was a little retarded after being deprived of oxygen, but that this doesn't mean he had to end so badly. With the proper training, he could have been a good little horse, quietly "packing" someone around, leading a life which would have been of use to himself and to others.

Life doesn't have the option of instant replay, but Netflix streaming does, and so I replayed these scenes over and over until I got a sense of what really happened.

First of all: Buck in the pen with the colt. He has driven the colt off to the far side of the pen, using his flag-ended stick. As Buck talks to the owner, the colt sidles up behind him, chewing and licking. Buck senses his approach out of the corner of his eye and instead of engaging the colt and acknowledging his pacific intent, immediately turns round and starts aggressively flailing the air with the stick to drive the colt away. The colt instantly reacts by returning the aggression, rearing, striking, and trying to get at Buck.

Later: in the pen with the cowboy. The young horse repeatedly gives the cowboy a chance. He turns to face him, stands his ground, expresses his displeasure at the blanket onslaught. Finally, the cowboy approaches him directly. The horse takes a step backwards and stops, looking at the cowboy (who incidentally is wearing dark glasses). The cowboy ignores the horse's gesture of retreat, as well as his intentionality to connect, and moves in closer in an unmistakeably predatory manner, holding the blanket like a weapon.

Faster than you can blink, the horse leaps forward, mouth open and lunges toward the cowboy's head.

The humans present at the clinic, observing the terrifying attacks, presumably saw what I saw on my first watch-through of the scenes - chaos and fury being unleashed with no prior warning. It took me many re-plays until I could see more clearly what was going on. I imagine horses are able to see at that speed all the time. 

The first thing that comes to mind is that you can see the limitations of technique here. Any one method is going to come up against a situation where it is not the best method. This young horse was clearly far too dangerous to work with in a confined space, never mind at the end of a short rope. John Lyons would have fared better with his liberty work in a 60' round pen, working the horse from a safe distance. Mark Rashid's "Old Man" would have done even better with his technique of leaving the horse - for weeks if necessary - alone in a large pasture, visiting him twice a day only to feed him and dictate the terms under which he may eat. And where is it written that you must go from three-years-with-no-handling to sacked-out-and-under-saddle in one weekend clinic?

Secondly, far from being weak-brained, this horse is clearly extremely intelligent, extremely proud, and extremely courageous. Many times he expresses his willingness to work with Buck or the cowboy. But he has zero tolerance for any show of aggression on their part, meting out retribution with lightning speed. He tolerates the cowboy saddling and riding him on their first encounter, because the cowboy's behavior is very different when he knows that Buck controls the horse by means of the ankle rope. Because the cowboy is reassured that someone has control of the horse, aggression is absent from his demeanor.

Thirdly, I don't buy the orphan horse theory, which I have heard before. Here's my theory, or rather my working hypothesis: the problem with orphan foals is not that they are spoiled and fail to learn respect from their mothers. The problem is that they learn fear-aggression from being turned out with older horses without the protection of their mother. The two dozen nurse mare foals at Twelve Oaks in Mississippi were mollycoddled and coochycooed like you wouldn't believe, but they all turned out mild-mannered and pleasant, without anyone having to "sort them out." And here - according to my hypothesis - is why: they were all babies together, with no mean old grownups to chase them or steal their food.

The colt in the movie fit the bill - he had been turned out at the age of three months in a field with a bunch of adults and left to fend for himself. He could have become a wretched doormat, but because of his strong personality, instead he became a spitfire. If Buck or the cowboy had acknowledged his pride and his sense of self, I think they could have ended up working with him. 

Now, that's not to say I'd ever be willing to work with such a horse, or that it would have been safe for his owner to take him home. But, as Buck himself said in his post-incident talk to the clinic, your horse is a mirror of yourself - and Buck, for all his kindness, is unable to see something in the horse, perhaps because he can't see it in himself. 

This renegade colt was close to my heart as, of course, Bridget is an orphan foal, and George was/is fear-aggressive and studdish. I believe that given a large paddock, a lot of time, and a willingness to stand down, someone (not me, thanks!) could ultimately have turned that horse into a super star.

I turned to Youtube to see Hempfling at work with aggressive stallions, to compare that with what I'd seen on the movie. Two things stick out - Hempfling's willingness to stand down and back off, and his laser-like awareness of the horse as a unique individual in that moment. Compare that to Buck's cowboy's approach to the horse as a dangerous object.

Finally, I think, it all gets down to still - despite the kindler, gentler ways - treating the horse as an object of use to be controlled. When you look at the faces of the horses in the movie, you don't observe the stress, the anxiety, the pain, the sorrow that are so often seen in horses who are supposedly doing magnificent things. But neither do you see anything in the way of sparkly-eyed engagement.

(OK, yes, Buck's horses can canter side-passes, and I can get on my horse, period. Thanks for pointing that out.)

A Challenge

Well, just in case we were getting all too complacent and comfy around here, we had a good old shake-up today. Did I say, "If that means half an hour has gone by and nobody has their shots yet, and [the vet] has to leave and come back another day, then that's ok"? What I obviously meant was "an hour and a half."

As reported in my last entry, I invited the vet to come to my place to discuss the possibility with the horses of their receiving shots. I told him in advance that we were going to be willing to relinquish any and all tangible accomplishments of a veterinary nature.
This morning, I had the horses confined to the yard, and had Bridget ready with her halter and leadrope. The vet arrived, introduced his nice new young assistant, and produced cookies for the horses. Bridget was quite willing to be swabbed, and to have her temperature taken and her heart listened to. Foolishly, I then let the vet prepare three shots for her - rabies, eastern/western/tetanus, and potomac. Foolishly, because I should have said to get only one ready, and we'd see.
Bridget was positively, no way, don't even think about it, totally not willing to be stuck in the neck. I was very careful that we gave her space, paused, left the rope loose, etc. But when she felt that needle, she was pissed off. The vet got the rabies stuck into her, but then she pulled away, and hopped about until she shook it loose. We backed off and then worked on familiarizing Bridget with the capped hypodermic. Her curiosity kept bringing her back to see what the vet was holding in his hand, and she finally allowed the vet to touch the syringe to the scary spot on her neck. At this point (which, I might add, took quite a long time to get to), George hove into view. I decided to take this as notification that we should quit while we were ahead with Bridget, cut her loose, and start with George.
I think at this point, I was losing my focus (or hadn't found it yet) - after a brief introduction, we started right in with the vet tech swabbing George's neck, which - sorry to say - lead to George reaching round and biting the poor girl's arm. Without waiting to see the damage, I got really mad at George, and whacked him several times with the lead rope. I'm sorry, I just want George to be quite clear that serious bites will cause me to attempt equicide. Maybe it's not fair, but that's the way it is. Actually, I whacked him precisely the right number of times, plus one. Because he stood there and let me whack him, until the last time, when he said, "Nope, that's enough, you made your point," and sortof bucked. So I stopped, and he calmed right down and came back to me, physically and mentally.
Fortunately, the vet tech had on long sleeves and a sweatshirt and so was unharmed. She's a horsewoman and remained cheerful and unfazed. I must say George's outburst brought us to a more focussed place, which was needed. Up to this point, I really wasn't very specific about what I wanted the vet to do, and all of a sudden there was a lot more clarity to the situation.
First of all, we started discussing George's past, and his personality. I had not originally wanted to bring any of this up, as I don't think it's fair to throw a horse's past in his face if he's moved on. However, George is obviously still very, very protective of his body, and I felt we really needed to talk about it. We talked about how sensitive he is, how his aggression is based in fear and defensiveness. I told the vet how far George has come, how it's taken him a year to let the mares into his space, and how he's only recently taken to enjoying being scratched, etc., etc. I said I thought he had been weaned too early and turned out at a young, defenseless age with larger, meaner horses.
Then we started working in earnest. We stood with George, and the vet asked him if he could listen to his heart. The vet's first approach was to raise his arm with the stethoscope and hold it out towards George and wait for his pinned-ears/stinkeye look to subside - a sortof desensitization approach. But I asked him to try something different - namely to look for the "no" and retreat immediately upon seeing it. So he raised his arm and then retracted it as soon as George looked askance. Pause, ask again. Retreat, pause, ask again. In this way, the vet was able to listen to a few seconds' of George's heartbeat. Importantly, in the process the vet became very tuned in to George. Again, we quit while we're ahead - the vet could hear all he needed in a very short space of time.
Then George did something quite remarkable. He swung around and turned his rear end to face the vet and began grazing. For George to do that shows a lot of trust. I told the vet that all George's aggression is at the front - for George, it's all about the crosshairs and the head-on offensive, whereas Bridget will stake her claim with her hindlegs too - for George to turn his back on someone shows he is comfortable with them. I began scratching George's tummy, and he began to stretch out his neck and do the happy nose-waggle, and I told the vet he could scratch George too. Lo and behold, George did the happy nose-waggle for him too. After a while, the vet leaned on George's back and remarked that sometimes he hated to gain the horse's trust and then "betray" it by jabbing him in the neck with a needle. I said, Let's just quit for the day, and we cut George loose.
We talked some more. The vet was interested to hear about Imke Spilker and wants to check out her website. He had quite a brilliant idea for George - some dogs are greatly helped with anxiety issues by the "thunder vest" - a sort of swaddling jacket, which hugs them tight and enables them to deal emotionally with thunderstorms and other slings and arrows of that sort. The vet said that there's this post-colic surgery band which is wrapped around a horse's torso to protect the incision, and that maybe it could function like a horse thunder vest.
I tried to explain my approach. I said it is an approach, not a technique or a method but that it might help to say the main tenets are "the horse is allowed to say no" and "ask, don't tell." I said I used to be into natural horsemanship and John Lyons and stuff, but that the mantra of natural horsemanship - "Make the right thing easy and the wrong thing hard" was not something I followed any more. My intention is to win the full, free cooperation of the horse simply by asking. I told him one or two anecdotes to suggest that this is possible.
I told him that George had really opened up to him at the end, and he agreed that he'd really felt that.
Here are some other points of note:
1) I was actually nervous when the vet first arrived.
2) When we were intially working with George, Bridget was getting in the way, so I put her through a gate into the field. Chloe and Rose were out of sight around the house, and Bridget started going crazy. When she slipped and fell, I decided I'd better go let her join the others, but as the vet was holding George, I didn't want to just open the gate and let her charge through. So I went in with a halter to fetch her out. She refused to let me catch her - which has never happened before - to the point of starting to rear up or strike at me when I attempted. So in the end I did just open the gate, and charge she did. However, it didn't rattle George. There must have been a Strange Disturbance in the Force for Bridget to act like this.
3) I found myself able, as we went along, to become more articulate and more authoritative toward the vet, which helped him understand the situation.
4) When we started working with the vet and the stethoscope, George several times "nipped" my arm - but not really a nip, more like just a little tug or something. Each time, I just said "No, I really don't like that." But it was a gesture of communication, not aggression.
5)  Despite our differences, Bridget and George stayed engaged with us and did not attempt to leave.
6)  Afterwards, I kept finding myself tempted to say to the horses, "Well now, you got off lightly today, but next time he comes, you'd better behave ...." Nuh uh, not the point of the exercise.
7) This has made me realize how deep in this I am. I don't even know how to explain this.
8) I am $220 out and no shots. This could happen again, and again, and .......
9)  When George bites, the universe unfolds.

George Deals with his Frustration

I was up giving water to the horses today, and George was standing with his head over the fence. I stood on the other side of the fence next to him. I really wanted to give him a big hug, but with George it's best to hang back a little. He was wearing his put-upon face - not the same as his cranky face, more like he's inwardly shaking his head and sighing. We stood. Finally he reached over and nuzzled my hair a couple of times, before resuming his martyred expression.

Ok, George, I get it. I come back with the halter, George waiting for me at the fence.

Yes, we had 5" of snow on Monday night.

We exited the field, and all that snow meant there wasn't much to be found in the way of  food. George set off ahead of me to see what was out there.

He found one or two interesting items to explore.

This is more like it.

He scraped off some snow to uncover the grass, but only once. I had to stop him from eating the box hedge. (Is box poisonous?)

Then I decided it was time to practice some maneuvers. George and I seem to be progressing in an odd direction these days. Part of it is that he's allowed to express his frustration. Which takes the form of grabbing bits of me or my clothing with his mouth. This is not biting. If it starts to feel like biting, I get crabby. He understands this. 

So - for example - we're standing there, and I'm saying: "George, just chill for a moment, relax your neck, and then take a step forward. It's good for you." And he wants to go off and do his own thing maybe. Or maybe he doesn't like the feeling of being controlled. So he gets hold of my sleeve and holds it. I don't get mad. Maybe I wait a little and ask again, or maybe I rub his ears really hard and tell him he's a silly billy. Or maybe I snort and shake my head, because that's what he does sometimes when he just feels that pent-up frustration but doesn't want to do anything rude.

All this feels in some ways like we're moving backwards. I can't help thinking back to our round pen days, when George would move forward, and turn and stop and speed up and slow down, all on command. But in those days, he was much more of a cipher to me. Occasionally I would see little flashes of resentment, like tips of an iceberg, without really knowing what was under the surface.

Now when he is frustrated or resentful, it's out in the open, laid out on the table and part of the negotiations. I know many people would be horrified at the way I let him use his mouth and would say that I'm opening the door for him to press the advantage and become more and more aggressive. But he's already bitten me, and when he did, it was not the culmination of a process of ever greater liberty-taking - it was more or less out of the blue.

I would rather be with him in the moment, and have him present his feelings to me- I'm having a hard time with this. And then I can respond - It's ok, we can work this out together.

I do have doubts. I think that when you allow humans to continually express frustration, sometimes it can breed more frustration and lead to an inability to focus. On the other hand, supporting a fellow human through the frustration block does not necessitate becoming punitive. Sometimes you may say, "Come on, just get on with it." But that is a different thing from saying, "Shut up, you bad person" - which is what hitting a horse amounts to.

I always used to say it takes two years to get to know a horse. Although I first met George more than two years ago, I've only really known him for a year and a half. We have a ways to go yet, and I'm sure the situation is further complicated by baggage from the past - both his and mine. If I had to characterize the difference between our old way of working and the new, I'd say that before I was working outside George's bubble. In some ways it was a safe place to be for both of us. Neither of us really had to deal with the other - it was all remote control. Nowadays, I'm inside the bubble with George. It was he who let me in initially. When I'm in that close, I have to allow him to wriggle and fuss and complain - anything else would be like having him in a stranglehold.

My thoughts and words on this subject are abstract. I can only describe what I think is going on in impressionistic brush strokes. The way forward is not clear (although I have ideas), but despite our ostentatious lack of achievement (what? no riding? no lunging? no "training"?), I feel ok about where we are.

Adversarial

Yesterday, my horse friend came over to help me trim Rose. She was cheerfully optimistic that good trimming will be able to correct Rose's dropped pasterns, aka coon-footedness.

It is always thought-provoking when my friend is here. As I have documented before, her approach to the horses is slightly different from mine.

We had Rose tied up at the fence inside the field. Bridget and George immediately left their piles of hay and came over to investigate what we were up to, trying to insert themselves in the middle of things.

My friend said that it was a dominance thing and that George was put out because we had taken "his" mare. I think George was saying the following:

a) this is where the action is, so I'd better be over here;
b) sometimes Rose lets me say hello when she has a halter and leadrope on - maybe she'll let me speak to her; and
c) but why do you have the halter on Rose anyway? You ought to put it on me - I'd like to draw your attention to some long grass over the fence there which looks like it might still be edible.

Bridget kept sneaking over and trying to interfere with Rose. When I wouldn't let her get into our bubble, she proceeded to charge around the field, looking very glamorous with her tail high. My friend said again it was a dominance thing and that Bridget was like a toddler having a tantrum. Whereas to my mind, she was just letting off steam because she got a little frustrated. After she'd had her fun, she walked over and stood quietly a couple of horse-lengths away.

When my friend wants a horse to get out of her space, she acts aggressive and drives them out. My approach is more to make contact with the horse and make my desires clear. My friend can make George and Bridget leave completely. For me, they will respect my desire to keep out of my bubble, but they'll keep hovering and looking at me, like "Are you sure? Can we talk about this some more maybe please?" My way is not as immediately effective a way of clearing the area, but it works for me, as I'm willing to wait for us all to learn and agree on behavioral etiquette - like waiting for George to cede the gate to allow the mares to enter.

When my friend spoke about George and Bridget, I found myself getting anxious, starting to feel that old emotion of fear, as if the horse were an adversary to be overcome. I had to remind myself: "No, this is Bridget - she is not trying to dominate me, I can trust her. And I don't need to dominate her either." Refusing to be a doormat is a very different thing from becoming a pair of boots.

And once again, I must remind everyone that my friend's horses are outgoing, confident, friendly, charming, and communicative. So what she is doing can't be bad. It works for her. I have to be willing to learn, but at the same time not be swayed from what experience tells me works for my horses and me.

Work

In the last few days I've been over to my friend's house twice to trim hoofs. While I was there both times, a third friend, of suitably diminutive stature, came over to work with a pony brood mare, the idea being to polish her up into a riding pony to keep her from the fate of returning to her less-than-ideal prior living situation. She was supposed to be "broke," but it's not clear that she ever was.

So, from upside down underneath a horse's belly, I observed Chicky being worked with on two consecutive occasions. She was lead, lunged, saddled, and mounted on both days.

The first day, you could see she was thinking that it was all rather unprecedented and random - being pulled and pushed (gently, mind you) all over the place, and then having this person sit on you. She looked stiff and confused. The second day, her expression was different - softer, more inward looking, more tuned in, more thoughtful. A light seemed to be glimmering in her face, as if she was becoming aware - "Oh, there's actually something meaningful going on here."

Lately, I've started training our two dogs. They know how to sit and be polite and all that, but I want them to know a little more. I think it's good for them. My previous experience with dog training was in Chicago, where our friendly neighbourhood dog trainer was of the Koehler school, a teutonic and draconian method, which delivers remarkable results. I am using a much watered down version of this with Malcolm and Lucy.

The first few days I took them out, they were like Chicky on the first day. They had no clue something meaningful was occurring, although they submitted to my strange behaviour as best they could. Then something clicked. Their eyes became brighter and more focussed, their responses sharpened, and they became eager to participate.

This got me thinking. There is being with horses, and there is working with horses. The two can overlap; but while the horses know all about the former, only I know about the latter. And I think it's an activity that can be fruitful for both horse and human. How are they going to find out about it if I'm always being apologetic and never present it to them as a thing but only tiptoe around the subject?

With this in mind, I took George out of the field today and said, "Before we graze, we're going to do some practicing for, hmm, let's see - fifteen minutes - well, no, maybe ten."

For starters, he was very distracted and alert about Something Going On on the far hillside. I was confused as to whether I should just let him look as long as he wanted or ask him to pay attention to me. I pretty much opted for the former. (I had the disloyal thought: "Hmm, I bet once you start grazing, you lose interest in what's going on over there." But, in fact, while he was grazing later, he kept stopping to look up at the hillside.)

Despite the distraction, we got in some practice backing, moving hindquarters, and relaxing the head down on request. This all went rather smoothly. Next we turned to the prickly topic of turning towards me while releasing the shoulder away. After the second successful attempt, I decided he could graze. Six minutes is long enough to practice, right?

Again, whilst grazing, I periodically asked George to return to me and relax for a moment. He does it quite nicely now. Not that he says, "Oh what a great idea, June - I feel it will be so good for me to centre myself for a moment!" No, he says, "Ok, here we go again, I get it, this is what you want, right?"

In none of this is there a sense of George awakening to a realization that we are engaged in an interesting project. But I'm hoping that will happen eventually. (Um, maybe if we actually do something he considers interesting .... !)

He is such a prickly character. It would be so easy to work him in a round pen, at a safe distance. I'm sure he'd do great. I know he would, as I've worked him in the round pen before. And maybe, eventually, he'd soften and become trusting. Maybe I'm doing things backwards - I'm starting at a soft position and trying to build up something dynamic. But, backwards or not, this is the trajectory I'm committed to.

I also feel that to some extent, I'm making myself more vulnerable by working close to George. I mean, look, I got bitten already. Sometimes, when I'm next to him, I can almost feel electricity coming off him, like you could get a shock just by getting too close. It's not that he "misbehaves" - for example, he behaves well with my daughter. I've been wondering about that, and I think it's because she's very business-like, and he can maintain his armor undisturbed when she works with him. And if I'm in a hurry and just want him to get on and do something, it's not a problem - but in that situation, he also can preserve his protective shell.

However, he knows that I know his weakness. I can put my finger right on the nerve. He trusts me, but is still very reactive and self-protective, and we're working around an acute awareness of that exposed nerve. Do I even know what I'm talking about? Good question.

George gets on with the important business of the afternoon.

George is Still Worried About Food

Today, I took George out to graze again.

He is once more giving off an aura of raw vulnerability. I really don't feel I can approach and touch him except on his head. His defensiveness has returned, brought on, I believe, by the onset of winter weather and a fear of starvation.

My husband was out with us, chatting with me. At one point he was heading towards George's hindquarters, about eight feet off - not actually intending to go towards George, but going in that direction by happenstance. George stiffened and pinned his ears. Oh my!

As I did yesterday, I practiced occasionally  asking George to stop eating, raise his head, and be quiet beside me. The first couple of times he was pissed off. He really wanted to nip me. Then he turned his head away and tried to walk into me with his shoulder. I avoided getting annoyed, and persisted. He quieted fairly quickly.

The third time, I thought I would really just ask and not tell. I kissed to him as usual, and tugged gently on the lead rope, but waited for him to respond when he chose. It took a few moments, but he did stop grazing, and quite kindly brought his head towards me.

The fourth time took longer and was a little grudging, but he didn't get angry, and he stood quietly in a resigned sort of a way for a moment, until I invited him to eat again.

I don't understand what's going on with the horses' eating habits. The grass is down to bare bones, but they're not finishing their hay. It's the same hay they've been getting all along, and they start out eating enthusiastically when it first appears, but they soon lose interest and wander off to pick at the meagre grass. A couple of weeks ago, they were inhaling three bales a day between them. I wonder if the new feed I'm giving them is actually filling them up quite well. I've gone from giving pelleted feed to a much larger portion of non-molasses beet pulp and chopped forage. We switched a couple of weeks ago at least, but I wonder if it's taken this long for the extra nutrition to really make itself felt ... ?

With George in this don't-touch-me mood, I was happy to hear that while I was out, my daughter had taken him out, saddled him up, put one of her friends on him for a walk around the fields, and that he had comported himself in a gentlemanly manner throughout. Go figure.

Communication

When I went in to see the horses today, I was expecting a phone call which might call me away; so I didn't want to take George out to graze, only to have to return him a few minutes later.

He badgered me about going out, tugging on my jacket, and nudging me. It was a bit aggressive. So I said, "I don't really want to be with you when you're like this." He walked off in a bit of a huff. Bridget came over, and George shooed her away.

She soon returned, and we played together. She got the hang of pulling my jacket zipper up and down with great gusto.

Eventually, George came over, and Bridget left. George planted himself beside me, somewhat grumpily, as if to say, "Well, ok, I'm still your friend, but I'm not in a good mood." We stood; I scratched him a bit. Finally, he pawed the ground and snatched with his teeth at the paltry bits of grass still growing: "Do you expect me to eat this???"

It was clear and communicative, and reasonably polite, so off I went to get the halter and rope. We got some grazing in before the expected phone call.

In the late afternoon, after I'd fed them dinner, I went back and took George out. Every so often, I asked him to stop and be still for a moment before resuming his eating. At one point, he reached out in frustration and nipped at me. Without thinking I whacked his nose, and was surprised at how almost instantaneously calm returned to me. George was not offended.

I felt a certain clarity about what I was trying to do. During one grazing pause, George pawed the ground. I said, "I know what you want, and you're going to get it, but I want something too, and it's something I want from you." I want him to be able to let go of whatever it is that's bothering him - in this case the desire to eat, which is a great anxiety producer for George. He is very afraid of being denied access to food. I wonder if perhaps he was weaned too early or had to fight for his share of food as a youngster.

George himself has shown me a place of peace and calm. And now I, in turn, need him to trust me and come to that place when I ask him. For another horse, asking them to do things might work better to distract them from their worry and help them center themselves. But with George, I feel we need to turn down the volume on all fronts and bring ourselves back to stillness before moving forward. It's too easy to lose the connection; busyness pulls it apart, whereas quietness re-establishes it.

It was cold, and the mares were careening around the field in response to some obscure commotion on the distant slope of the mountain, and George was distracted. But I felt he was beginning to be more accepting of what I was asking. With George, it's generally three steps forward, two steps back--so I'm not looking for straightforward linear progress. But, with his help, I feel I've identified a way to work together. I don't think he fully understood the real import of what we were working on, but I think he could feel it a little bit.

 He wasn't in a great mood today, but we managed to have a conversation nonetheless.