Last Chance Mustang Read online

  Or so I thought.

  The only required equipment for the day’s training session was my fifteen-foot training lead line. While I possessed no intention to clip on to Samson, coiled in my hands the lead would provide a useful tool to visually stimulate movement and present a deterrent should Samson charge. But when Samson caught sight of the lead line, he pinned his ears, violently tossed his head, and fled in an all-out, wild, disjointed gallop. As he pounded his legs into the grass, he released a good dozen bucks. Each buck spoke to his dire enemy.

  With the lead line closely resembling a bullwhip and with scars covering his body, it wasn’t hard to read his thoughts. It was an easy decision. On this day, I would be working without my lead line.

  With twenty-five yards separating horse and horseman, I took one step forward.

  Samson abruptly rotated his head, locked on my position, cocked his neck, and bolted away with the speed of a pinball shot off a bumper. Through plumes of low-hanging, lingering, and choking dust clouds, my eyes scanned for and then located Samson. He stood along the fence line panting heavily, camouflaged among the trees and brush.

  As a free-roaming Mustang, Samson had been all wild horse. Thrust into the domestic horse market, he became first a brutalized victim and then a mutual combatant. Locked away in a stall, he evolved into a caged beast that communicated threat with little more than a hard look. And now he was a horse determined to keep his newfound freedom and his autonomy.

  Samson the lawless Mustang had identified his spot, and now it was time to assert myself and apply some herd psychology. Like an alpha horse repositioning submissive herd members, I needed to relocate him to a location of my choosing. I opted for the grass ramp that led up to the barn’s second story. Yes, I would be surrendering the higher ground. But the safety and security of the ramp would only help to calm Samson’s off-the-charts panic response.

  Once again, I took one step forward.

  My approach from across the pasture sent Samson into a galloping frenzy. He raced alongside the perimeter fence and violently tossed his head in frustration as he considered crashing the razor-sharp barbs that prevented his escape. We were thirty yards apart and Samson was willing to risk life and limb to get away. The barbed-wire fence could bring serious harm, but in Samson’s eyes the same could be said for my close proximity.

  He had to make a decision. Was he going to vault the fence, stand and fight, charge, or yield to my pressure?

  Samson drifted off the fence line and darted toward the center of the pasture concurrently galloping and bucking. I took two steps backward, releasing my mild pressure and rewarding his movement away from the fence. He in turn slammed on the brakes and came to a sliding stop as a dust cloud engulfed his position.

  Several minutes elapsed and I again moved forward. Samson in turn bounded for the fence line. This time I followed in hot pursuit.

  “No,” I yelled, “the fence line is off-limits!”

  Angered and threatened by my pursuit, Samson, while at a full gallop, unloaded a double hind-leg barrage on an innocent oak tree. The tree splintered and I was officially on notice that this Mustang meant business. Head down and pounding his forelegs into the ground, Samson crisscrossed the pasture leaving deep hoof-sized indentations in his wake.

  Our ritualistic battle continued for sixty minutes. Samson relied upon his tremendous speed and strength to make it to the fence line. I employed pressure, angles, and swift diagonal movements to cut off each of his attempts. It was a choreographed ballet of sorts, a beautiful thing to see and experience. Man versus beast, rational thought pitted against primal instinct. There could be, in my opinion, only one victor.

  As the minutes ticked by and his disposition eased ever so slightly, so did Samson’s gait. He was no longer pounding his hooves into the ground, no longer running for his life. His weight now properly centered back on his hindquarters, his head raised to the vertical position, Samson’s all-out dash was now a graceful, gliding canter. I was amazed by his elegance and gripped by his grace. Samson was floating on air. There was little doubt; this was the highly coveted Arabian gait.

  Samson was truly a blend of breeds, the rightful heir of his wild ancestors.

  With respirations akin to a horse who had just galloped twelve furlongs, Samson finally found his way to the ramp. Nearly instantly I averted my gaze, softened my posture, stepped backward, and turned away from my panting, wheezing student. This retreat and the subsequent rest break was Samson’s reward. He had yielded to my cues and followed my direction.

  This was textbook pressure/release of pressure training. Since horses lack the ability to learn through deductive thought and logic, most trainers rely upon this tried-and-true training method. It is a technique premised upon the horse’s ability to learn from the release of mild pressure and the trainer’s ability to instantly recognize and reward compliance. When employed properly and appropriately, it is a method that works.

  I allowed Samson several minutes to digest what he had learned and then it was time to get back to work. Only in this instance, Samson was not going to wait for my approach. After shooting me a steely gaze, he bolted down the ramp and headed toward the fence line. Samson was making his statement; he was letting me know that I was not his boss. Where others had punished him for being stubborn and willful, I had nothing but respect for this prideful beast. With a slight grin on my face, I took off in pursuit.

  Thirty minutes later, Samson begrudgingly ran up the ramp and parked out. I backed off. He had returned to my place of choosing, but now I wanted him to remain there. Several minutes passed, and I once again initiated my approach. In the wild, predators travel in a straight line toward their prey. So in this instance, I moved slowly, meandering diagonally toward Samson as he lowered his head and, like a sundial, tracked my every move.

  Twenty yards, fifteen yards, ten yards, and then in an instant he was gone. With mud and dust flying in his wake, Samson galloped across the pasture.

  When Samson slowed, I stepped forward and kept him moving. We had established rules and a system; he was now expected to follow both. Until he returned to the anointed spot, there would be no rest. He rounded the far corner and came about; I moved in closer and cut off his angle of retreat. The instant that he averted his eyes to the ramp and slowed his gait, I retreated. Back and forth we went, repeating our little tango over and over.

  Samson understood what I was asking for; he was just not willing to give it.

  Forty minutes later, Samson returned to his perch atop the ramp. I stood amazed by our progress and shocked that the Mustang had yet to exhibit the one true act of aggressive conduct that had become his calling card. He had yet to charge. I had already heard the countless stories. With curled upper lip, teeth fully exposed, lowered head, pinned ears, and a brakeless gallop, Samson’s charge would garner the attention of even the toughest cowboy.

  But on this day, I sensed that something was different.

  Samson was a horse who had never been shown compassion, let alone handled properly and humanely. At the ripe age of six years, his introduction to man came by way of low-flying pursuit helicopters, mounted cowboys with lassos, holding pens, and stock trucks. In the six years that followed, he had been roped and dragged, surely on repeated occasions, and forced to acquiesce under unremitting pain and certain injury. As he had been violently coerced to submit since his first moments with man, voluntary submission was an unknown and foreign concept.

  And now I was asking him for just that. But unlike those who had come before me, I was asking and not telling. I was requesting that he voluntarily acquiesce to my direction, my will, my authority. This October afternoon, Samson the formerly wild Mustang and his two-legged nemesis were engaged in a mutual and reciprocal battle of wills. On equal footing, Samson was finally able to challenge the predator who took him from his home and his family, the antagonist who mentally and physically had habitually beat him down and forever scarred his psyche.

  On this day, S
amson was afforded the respect he was due.

  As we repeated our little dance, Samson’s fear and anxiety soon gave way to minor intrigue and reserved interest. His decision not to charge communicated a message that Samson himself could not speak. Though he was terrified, a small part of Samson trusted in my approach and my intentions.

  As he had been alone and solitary for so many years, Samson’s decision not to charge was a sign. It was a green light to proceed. I threw caution to the wind and decided to expand the day’s lesson beyond what was planned.

  Samson’s willingness to accept my touch, hold his stand, and not flee would test both our bond of trust and his ability to keep his volatile emotions in check. Though I had the option to clip on to his halter and manage his movements, there would be no compulsory compliance during this exercise. Samson would not be forced and he would not be cornered. If he felt the need to run off and seek safety, he would have a direct avenue to do so.

  From twenty yards away, I angled toward Samson at an agonizingly slow, nearly idling amble. Each halting stride covered mere inches. At ten yards and closing, Samson, with ears pinned back, started to nervously dance in place. At five yards and closing, he engaged the Samson Experience and all corresponding defenses. Wide-eyed and breathing like a marathoner, he appeared nervous and anxious.

  While fear was present, it was not evident to the extent of our previous encounter. There was, I felt, a small degree of trust and curiosity.

  Just three feet off the point of Samson’s right shoulder, I came to an abrupt halt. I remained there, idle, facing him, as we each gazed at and then through the other. Slowly I raised my arm to a position perpendicular to his shoulder. Instantly and without hesitation Samson reared up. Standing upright on his hind legs, he deposited a right foreleg strike into open air and then bolted down the ramp.

  I now had full warning of Samson’s destructive capabilities.

  I retreated back to the center of the pasture as Samson returned to his mandated and prescribed perch. Again I angled toward him, this time with more speed. He knew the drill—there was no need to baby him. With outstretched arm I moved in and gently placed my hand atop his withers.

  Tremors surged through him as though he had stepped on an exposed electric line, but he held his ground. Our contract, our bond, forged months prior in that dark, dank stall, was still in full force and effect.

  We had contact.

  “Gooooood boy!” I spoke to him in an excited but hushed tone. “I just knew you had it in you. I’m sooooo proud of you!”

  I meant my words. I had asked Samson to belay his fears, hold back his violent responses, and he complied. I had asked him to believe and trust in me where trust was a new and foreign concept. I was truly proud of this old boy and I believed he sensed and knew it. As he had always been feared, oft despised and hated, this was a new emotion. It was a first sense of accomplishment for a horse deemed for far too many years hopeless, unwanted, and worthless.

  My hand slid across Samson’s lower neck, right shoulder, and even part of his chest. After a mere two minutes, anxiety got the best of him and he walked off. I had no objection. When he returned, we repeated the entire process, with Samson departing after roughly three minutes. Though he refused to show it, I was certain that Samson relished both the attention and the physical contact.

  Our lesson had lasted longer than planned and it was time to conclude the session. From ten yards away I made one final approach. I rubbed Samson’s withers, his neck, and then started to work my way up to his head. It was a mistake—an apparent huge mistake.

  Samson threw his weight back on his haunches, rocked forward onto his forelegs, tossed his head left, then right, and crashed his forehead into my elbow. Bone impacted bone; Samson reared up and then galloped away. Like a horse out of the gate, he was off to the races and gone in an instant. Samson the terrible was back in the house.

  It was just the start of what was to come.

  Perhaps I pushed the envelope a little too far, but that was okay. Before Samson’s issues could be remedied, they had to be identified. My failed attempt to touch Samson’s head provided much-needed insight into this dark and complex animal. Samson not only guarded his head, but he had also repeatedly jerked away from the slightest intimation of physical contact. The stories and my worst fears were now confirmed: Samson had been struck repeatedly in the head, face, and body.

  Sadly, in the weeks to follow, I would learn firsthand that Samson’s head and face–related issues were unlike those of any other horse I had ever handled.

  As Samson’s list of issues continued to grow, so too had the list of crimes committed against this Mustang since his arrival in the domestic horse world. The two were no doubt correlated. Samson was a walking and breathing crime scene. And as our first training session came to a close, I recognized that Samson’s past life had left profound scarring and he now viewed, with no exception, each and every person as a dire threat.

  While I understood what motivated Samson to strike, I could not condone his actions. He had communicated through ways and means learned and perfected as both a wild horse and a frequent victim. He didn’t know any better and thus I could not impose punishment. I could, however, impose discipline, order, structure, and expectations.

  Over the years, I have preached to countless horse owners to “expect, demand, nothing until you teach something.” In other words, there is no place for expectations until you have first properly introduced your ways and your rules. When Samson exploded, he believed that I had crossed a line—his line of comfort. If I had punished him for what was a yet-to-be-defined infraction, I would have both negated the day’s successes and placed myself in a category with all who had come before me. I would have been no different from those who had punished Samson for being and acting like an untrained wild horse. So for the time being, Samson received a free pass.

  This pass, however, would soon expire.

  Samson circled the pasture and tried to calm his nerves. His mad dash over, he came to a halt, chest heaving, at the ramp’s edge. Since every trainer knows you never end a lesson on a bad note, our dance card was not yet complete. For what I hoped was the final time, I slowly angled in toward Samson and placed my hand upon his shoulder. Seeking to reinforce the positive, I briefly rubbed his neck and then gradually stepped away.

  With a foot separating us, I looked upon Samson and spoke, “You are succchhh a good boy. I think we are going to work things out.”

  Samson and I had sparred for two hours and faced each other with mutual respect and mutual restraint. It was a battle that both sides fought free of overt aggression and unprovoked violence. Samson sought to demonstrate that he would not be controlled; I was determined to establish my identity as the alpha. Like herd alphas of the last 60 million years, I had communicated my dominance by initiating and controlling Samson’s movements.

  The skirmish was over; the war was just getting started.

  I left Samson standing at the ramp, returning moments later with knife and apple in hand. The fundamental principle at the core of my training regimen is P & P: praise and punishment. Praise anything that nears or resembles attempted compliance; punish or deter anything approximating threat, intimidation, or violence. Over the years, however, I have given a great deal of thought to renaming my training motto something other than “praise and punishment.” Not because the terms don’t fit, but rather on account of the fact that many in the horse world attach very different meanings to the word “punishment.”

  Yes, in very rare situations, if threatened with violence and injury, I will strike a horse. But such corporal punishment is extremely rare and the instances few and far between. The remaining 99.9 percent of the time, punishment in my training regimen translates to providing discipline, structure, and order, rechanneling unacceptable actions, and redirecting energy. In all instances, punishment in my world requires that I provide either significant incentive for a horse to comply or sufficient deterrence to preve
nt the undesired behavior.

  For many horsemen, though certainly not for all, punishment means a lip chain, a skipped meal, or an ass whooping. I can’t say that I understand these methods, nor can I claim to have observed long-lasting, permanent results when they were employed. But just as you can’t tell an adult how to parent a child, it is very difficult to counsel a horse owner on how to properly deter his animal’s unacceptable behavior. Ultimately for me, punishment is synonymous with and translates to deterrence. If, for example, a horse has decided to jog rather than walk home, then he in turn has bought himself a nice extended day out on trail. When he decides to walk at my speed and pace, then he can proceed directly home.

  Compliance should be easy and inviting; obstruction, costly and unappealing.

  * * *

  It was now time for Samson to receive his first lesson in praise. He had worked hard—his efforts required both physical control and mental focus, and he was entitled to and deserved a reward.

  As I quartered the apple, Samson stood puzzled. Seconds later, nerves and anxiety got the best of him as he engaged what were now his standardized defense mechanisms but held his ground. With an outstretched arm, I slowly moved the apple toward Samson’s muzzle.

  He instantly recoiled as though confronted with the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge. How sad, I thought to myself, that a twelve-year-old horse has never been treated to an apple. I placed the apple on the ground and departed the pasture under Samson’s watchful gaze.

  Having observed the entire lesson from the safety of the driveway, Amy broke her silence as I jumped back over the fence, “I was in awe of everything that you accomplished up until a few minutes ago. But after seeing that head butt, I really don’t know why we are bothering. I just don’t know that there’s any hope for him.”

  Amy had it all wrong; hope was the one thing that Samson actually had going for him. Hope instructed him not to drop-kick me when I trespassed into his stall. Hope advised him not to run me over when I pressured him in the pasture and placed my hand atop his quivering back. Life had taught Samson to distrust, hate, and preemptively put me down, but hope had counseled otherwise.