Mark Rashid

It was research for a book that first led me to investigate horse whispering. As you might expect, I started with the books by Monty Roberts. Then Amazon’s recommendation system told me that people who read Monty Roberts also enjoyed books by Mark Rashid. So I bought Horses Never Lie - the Heart of Passive Leadership and after a few pages, I was completely hooked. For Mark Rashid is not just a brilliant horse trainer – he's also an excellent writer.

His books aren’t guides on how to train your horse. He doesn't try to get you to use a specific Mark Rashid method or to buy special Mark Rashid equipment. Instead, he tells stories about his experiences with horses and shares the way he learned to work with them, including many of the mistakes he made. In the process, he teaches you how horses think and how important it is to be adaptable to what an individual horse needs.

Horses Never Lie turned me into a fan so I swiftly read every other book  by him I could find. Then, just as I wondering what to do next,  I made a discovery so perfectly timed that it made me wonder if I was actually treading a path already laid out for me. This Colorado cowboy who normally works half a world away from me was about to give a weekend clinic at a yard not far from where I live.

I’ve never booked anything quite as quickly, and I’m so glad I did. Watching Mark Rashid in action was even better than reading his books. He’s quiet spoken, modest and absolutely focused on doing what’s right for each individual horse. He taught us the importance of softness, both in the horse and in ourselves. He demonstrated how tenseness in the rider can change the way a horse moves and he showed us how to ask a horse to canter just by changing the rhythm in our heads and breathing out.

I came home with a different approach my favourite animal. I even brought a not-quite-perfect horse to practise on. (see my previous post.) And I still reread Mark Rashid's books from time to time just for fun. They’re well worth a try if you enjoy anecdotal horse stories with a touch of humour and you want to learn more about the way horses think.

Trying Too Hard

by Lisa Trovillion

I’ve recently had a few hands-on lessons in the old adage: Tell a gelding, but ask a mare. My mare, Dorrie, because of past physical problems, has been a study in patience and correctness. What do I mean by this? She is physically unable to go forward without being straight and needs a lot of help from the rider to find this straightness and maintain it. Here comes the patience part. It has been so hard for me to understand that I was a large part of her problem–why she would curl in a ball, flatten ears and not go forward? Why would she bow out in the opposite direction of our turn? Why does she drag and break to walk? What was happening? I’m not THAT bad a rider, am I? After all, my other horse goes along just fine. Learning the hard way—my personal specialty—I discovered that I was in fact shoving at her with my seat and nagging with my legs to go. Doesn’t work. I would creep forward, pinching with my thighs instead of sitting back with legs open. Makes her slow or stop. And I was not centered, but was instead dominating one side, which caused her to shift her weight and bow out. And all of this was so subtle that it took an instructor with a keen eye to detect it. That being said and acknowledging my riding faults, Dorrie is not a horse to meet you half way --or at all. You have to ask and you have to do it right. She’s like a giant, red “correctness” meter that clearly tells you when you're screwing up. And most of the time when I wasn't getting it right, it was because I was trying too hard.  Shoving, clamping, forcing, willing something to happen doesn't necessarily make it so. Same with writing. I'm in the slumping hammock depths of a novel right now that I'm afraid is not living up to its great beginning and planning surprise ending. Every word I write, I'm evaluating as junk. So now I'm shoving at the page, nagging at the sentences, and endlessly fidgeting with the wording so that the story is fed up, shut down, and pinning its ears at me. It's time to let go. Take a breath. Open and relax and just write as if no one will ever read it and I am free to tear up the pages as soon as they are written. That's the only way I'll go forward into that sought after zone of "self-carriage" where the words come, the characters speak, the creativity flows and the rhythm of the story moves with perfect cadence so that I'm just along for the ride! 

She's Got Personality

by Meghan Namaste

In my book Training Harry, the main characters bond through the trials and tribulations of reforming a so-called "problem horse". Harry is a young polo prospect with good breeding, who's never known anything but the best of care. His athletic ability and potential to succeed is mind-boggling, but his brain is not on board with the proceedings. He's firmly stuck, fighting with all his keen intelligence and athleticism to avoid conceding to a human agenda. It takes quite a bit of persistence, creativity, and a stroke of luck to uncover Harry's demons. Behind the storybook upbringing, he's harboring a deep-seated fear.

When writing the "horse behaving badly" scenes, I stayed far away from the tired trope of a rearing, snorting, nostrils-flaring animal. Not that Harry didn't rear (he did just about everything a horse might resort to when resisting), but I felt it was important to get down into the nuances of equine behavior. Sometimes, resistance isn't all that dramatic. It could mean simply that Harry gave a dirty look, or set his head a certain way, or went along in a lovely, cadenced rhythm while carrying enough tension to detonate a nuclear bomb.

The acknowledgment in Training Harry is dedicated to my horse, Sofie, "who appears all over this book in equine characters both brilliant and devious". It's a true statement. I stole it all, and I used it at will: her moods, her ups and downs, our path to bonding as horse and rider.

In one pivotal scene, Lawrence & Erica's quest to unlock Harry's resistance comes to a turning point when Erica sees Lawrence is feeding into Harry's fear and compounding it.

I pressed Harry’s sides. He trotted off rigidly. I knew what had to be done. I looked left, and tightened my hand against the rein.

Harry seized up. He came to a quivering halt, sinking down on his hocks. I pushed him forward. He scrambled sideways, terrified. I stopped thinking, just like him. My hands crept back toward my body, closing Harry in.

"Drop the reins!" Came Erica's frantic yell.

Harry's heart pounded through my boots. His eye rolled in his head. White foam covered his lips and fell onto his chest. He couldn't swallow. My hold was too strong.

"Give him the reins!"

I couldn't look at Erica. I couldn't look anywhere but Harry's neck. We were both locked in our fear patterns, and I was the only one who could end it.

"DROP THE REINS! DO IT NOW!"

Harry was thrashing desperately in my grasp. I realized, sickeningly, that he was trying to be good. He wasn't running us into the fence. He wasn't flipping over on me. He was trying. I felt a warm bubble of emotion in my throat. I was proud of him. And I absolutely hated myself for being incapable of the same, simple thing.

Erica's voice cut into my toxic mix of emotions. "Drop the - " she paused suddenly. I listened hard. She started again, decisively. "Reach down and pat his neck! Right now!"

That did it. That got through to me. I couldn't drop the reins in the heat of the moment. It seemed drastic, insurmountable somehow. But I could pat Harry. That was doable. I put my hand on his neck, rubbing the glossy, sweaty hair, feeling the concrete muscle under my fingers. The reins went slack. Harry's feet sank into the ground again. His head flopped downward. He was relieved, exhausted. I knew how he felt.

I set the reins on his withers and just sat there, rubbing his neck with both hands. He melted under my caress, and I realized how I had condemned him. He was crazy, he was a jerk, he had no work ethic. I had done what everyone does. I had blamed him so I could be blameless. I had only thought about the behavior, not about the why.

When I started working with my horse, she had a light mouth but could be bullish, and she carried a lot of tension. She'd rush at the trot or canter and build up speed, and if I pulled back on her mouth to try and slow her down, she'd brace into the contact and simply keep going faster. Through trial and error, we learned that if I softened the contact (a completely counter-intuitive approach) she would relax, soften, and slow down. Therefore, a lot of our rides ended up a bit like the scene above, with my horse racing around in a field and my mom yelling "Drop the reins!" at me from afar.

Sometimes we're on the bit, sometimes we're not (same day, btw)

Baby

Those of us who blog here are passionate about two things: horses and writing about them. Most of us ride. We live all over the world and interact with horses in different ways, but we all love everything about the horse.

While we love all horses, some inevitably become more special to us than others. You have probably found that to be true as well. It may be that one horse has a funny personality quirk, or is kind, or is exceptionally beautiful. Those special horses get pulled into our hearts and stay there forever.

I am fortunate. My heart is filled with many special horses. I have written a lot about my first horse, the white Appaloosa mare Snoqualmie, and her son, Ben, in some of my books. Valentino, the little rescue horse who could not relate to either horses or people and who eventually became the 2011 PATH International Equine of the Year is another horse who fills my heart. I have written about him in several books, too.

There is another very special horse on the cover of my most recent book, Therapy Horse Selection. Baby is a black Tennessee Walking Horse/pony cross. At just 14.2 and twenty-plus years, she is the senior mare in her herd and plays the grandma role very well. No drama. Lots of patience. She is also polite. Each time a human comes into the paddock area for the first time on a given day, Baby whinnies in welcome. I always half expect her to pull out iced tea, lemonade, and cookies, as any Southern hostess would do.

Baby also makes her people do it right. Whether it is teaching therapeutic riding instructors how to ground drive, or a teenaged girl with disabilities to ride, or a young man with autism to longe, they have to ask correctly. Baby is the very best teacher and I love her dearly.

I use present tense, but that is not exactly correct. You see, we lost our beloved Baby last Saturday. A neighbor waved to her in the pasture while she was grazing peacefully with the rest of her herd at eight in the morning. By ten o’clock she was in the throes of a bad colic, so bad that her veterinarian could not save her. Hours later she was buried in a corner of the pasture, near a wooded area and stream where she liked to hang out on hot days.

All of Baby’s horse and human friends, myself included, grieve for her. Today when I went to the barn there was no welcoming whinny from a quiet, patient little horse and my heart did a number of sad somersaults inside my chest. Yes, Baby was, is, special, and she will always remain in my heart. My remembrances of her and all the lessons she taught me will live on through me, and in everyone else, horse and human, that she impacted so positively. RIP Baby. Good girl.

The Boogie Man

by Patti Brooks

Life was scary for Tommy, a big-eyed Morgan gelding. He saw the boogie-man in everything. His official name was Trijas Tantara and his two older sisters had graduated from our Storybook Training Stable and went on to bring years of enjoyment to their owners. But Tommy.....

Our farm was located at the edge of a state forest and after serious lessons in the ring, we would take the horses out on the forest trail. That was not a plus for little Tommy. He was the only horse I ever trained that would shy at the shadow cast by a big bird  (hawk, Canada goose, buzzard) flying overhead.

Bicyclers enjoyed the state forest trail, too. Tommy was certain they were panthers. Bicyclers, hunched over their bikes, sliding quietly toward him. His equine instincts said PANTHER! And those same instincts told him exactly what to do...flee.

Tommy: "Out of Here!"

The sight of a car was enough to make Tommy break out in a sweat.  He simply lost his mind and would run blindly in the other direction.  Something had to be done. He wasn't safe to ride.

So, one day when it was everyone's day off, I turned Tommy out in our indoor ring. Then I drove our small Datsun truck in. Tommy raced to the far corner. I drove willy-nilly around, honking the horn. Then I stopped and slammed the truck door. Next I revved the engine and took off, weaving about the indoor, honking the horn.

Tommy was visibly shaking. I parked the truck in the middle of the ring, got out and let the tail gate down.  I went to the feed room and got a pail of grain which I brought to the quivering Tommy.  The grain took his mind off the truck and he gobbled a handful. Turning away from him, I walked slowly to the truck.  Tommy followed a few steps before he glanced at the monster truck and quickly turned tail.  I continued toward the truck and placed the bucket of grain on the tailgate, then walked out of the indoor.

I kept busy in the office for a good hour before coming back to check on Tommy. There he was, cowering in a corner of the indoor.  But...the pail of grain was now sitting empty on the ground.  The little guy got up the nerve to snatch the pail off the truck and carefully place it on the ground.  He obviously stayed long enough to eat the grain before retreating to his corner.

Tommy & Pam
Note all 4 feet off the ground!

Tommy took more hours of training than any horses we trained into world champions. But eventually he found a soul mate. From the moment this girl laid a hand on Tommy's neck, he immediately felt comfortable and willing to put his life in her hands. She would make his life's decisions from now on and keep the boogie man away.

Don't you think those big eyes we all think are so attractive on a horse let him see more than he needed to?

Happy Birthday

TC tosses his head at me as I pass him with the hay wagon. If his halter was hanging on the front of his stall, he would have picked it off it's hook and thrown it at me. Unfortunately for him, I pass by with the hay wagon. He hasn't subsisted on hay in two years, not since the choke incident, but he does pick at it. On certain days, he will chew on a wad of hay until he feels it's sufficiently mushy and then spit it out on the floor. The concrete in front of his stall looks like it's littered with smudge sticks.
E B Top Cat, or TC for short, will officially turn 34 years old on April 8th. On his 30th birthday, we had a barn party with treats for the horses and the guests. This year we'll celebrate with only a few, perhaps a horse-friendly cake so he can dive in and make a huge mess. I'm sure he'd be elated if we formed the current concoction of grain/hay stretcher mush into a rectangle and said it was a cake. Maybe that would only make us feel like we're celebrating. TC seems to think that any moment filled with food is a celebration. I tend to agree. We don't need frosting. We're not that fancy.
In fact, from the beginning, TC and I have had a very logical, business-like understanding. He was 27 years old and bouncing around the internet. I love older horses and have created a retirement sanctuary for them. I knew TC had a sway back and a weight limit of 125 lbs. I anticipated soundness issues, perhaps some metabolic problems. But when the older Morgan gelding walked down the ramp of the hauler and caught his first glimpse of my farm, I knew I'd made the right choice.
Inside that graying hide and pointy skeleton was the soul of a much younger horse. It's only been in the last few years that his maintenance regiment has increased. Two years ago, he choked. My vets pulled him through it and were surprised at how quickly he returned to his every day regiment, acclimating to his modified feedings. Then, about a year after that, he choked again. This time he coughed and dislodged the obstruction, only to aspirate it. At 33 years old, my vet was not optimistic. Earlier in the week, he'd had another case just like TC's and the horse was already gone. But we pumped the old gelding full of antibiotics and that night he was eating as if nothing had happened. For the next three days he was carefully monitored. Each day a vet arrived looking grim and each day they left smiling. TC's lungs cleared and he survived. Although I shouldn't be surprised.
After I brought him home, I started researching his past. I called numerous previous owners and heard stories that were larger than life. I discovered that TC is trained to ride and drive, was shown saddle seat, trail ridden by a novice and used in lessons for beginners. He drove one owner on a first date with his wife. He was on a trail ride with another owner when they halted over a ground bee nest resulting in the owner going to the hospital and an emergency vet visit for TC as he had been stung over 30 times. At some point, he became separated with another rider on a different trail ride, and ending up running into a car, breaking out their back window. Just last summer, he was cantering in the pasture with his mate and caught his toe, resulting in a perfect, slow motion forward roll.
I'm not sure when it happened. I don't think there was a specific moment, but rather a conglomeration of moments, that brought TC into full focus. The more stories I heard, the more I understood him. He's strong willed and a survivor. I enjoy every day with him. His impish nature and love of being groomed make him easy to enjoy. He is a war horse.

Passing it Down

by Linda Benson

Just a quick photo essay about passing down the love of horses. 

Because obviously, all down through the years, this never changes:

 The Outside of a Horse is Good for the Inside of a Girl.