To Be Wild Or Not To Be Wild--That is This Section!

       You may have noted in the photo accompanying my previous entry that Dolly was no longer wearing her bright orange-red halter.  This halter took three burly, auction house employees over thirty minutes to wrestle onto her head, our first—though certainly not the last—evidence of her lack of handling.  In fact, this trouble, coupled with her determination not to get in the trailer, caused the Blaschke’s to realize they might have to give up and leave her.  But the thought of what might happen—that if I decided there was no way to get Dolly up to Massachusetts and that she could then possibly be shipped to slaughter—caused them to press on.  After another flip-over backwards and ding to her head, Dolly finally loaded.  (The wonderful Blaschke’s didn’t know me at that time but, of course, I would never have left Dolly there.  The following day I would have driven down myself and, even if it took all day, I’d have gotten her into my trailer.  I had made a commitment to this little girl and she was heading north to New England.)  All-nylon halters are dangerous things:  if a horse gets one caught on a gate or a stall door it will not break.  But some part of the horse will.  Each year many horses are seriously injured, even killed, by these penny-wise pound-foolish objects.  The one on Dolly needed to come off—but how?  A facility that regularly takes in rescued horses usually has a “squeeze box”—a chute where the new arrival is funneled into and properly restrained.  A wild thing like Dolly would immediately be administered a tranquilizer.  When it had taken effect, she’d be given a bath, dusted with mite powder, and have her feet trimmed and teeth checked.  She might also receive immunizations, depending on her level of fitness, and a Coggins—a blood test for equine infectious anemia—would be drawn.  Yes, another trauma inflicted but for her own good.

       Well, I’m no professional rescuer—I don’t have a squeeze box—so I’d simply have to tame her.  Please, no visions of The Misfits with poor Marilyn Monroe witnessing the rounding up of mustangs for dog food; nor of cowboys hanging on until their horse bucks to exhaustion.  Thankfully, these methods are no longer in favor save, perhaps, for a few Marlboro Men out there who haven’t yet died of lung cancer.

      Natural Horsemanship is the ticket:  it’s kind and efficient.  And the first step for Dolly was to convince her that I was not a predator but a prey animal such as herself.  But why on earth would Dolly think me a predator in the first place?  I furnished her with a nice warm stall, deep bedding, fresh water, grain, and unlimited hay.  I adore animals, and though I was upset when a Mama vixen killed twenty of my half-grown chicks in forty-five minutes, I bore her no ill will.   It might have been a coyote that got my beloved cat, but I was the first in my house to grab the binoculars and marvel when one invited my then-yearling Elementa into a game of tag with a series of play bows.  I’ve tossed a towel over a stricken sharp shin hawk and driven it to Tufts University veterinary clinic.  I even scooped up a skunk from the street after a car had severely injured it.  (That led to some decidedly unpleasant and, ultimately, sad days.)

       Answer to the question why Dolly might think I’m a predator:  I look like one.  Lions and tigers and bears—and me (oh, my!)—approach prey animals in a straight line, halting but never backing.  We look at them directly with a pair of eyes set close together in the front of our heads.  And our ears are flattened against the sides of the head—humans always, canines, felines, and bears when pursuing quarry.  You may think that a tentative, quiet approach to a nervous horse will convince her that you bear no ill will, but this is doubtful.  She’s more likely to interpret it as stalking.

        Another word here about herd dynamics.  Horses are herd animals—they derive their safety from the herd, and herds are hierarchical.  A horse wants to be with a herd, it’s programmed into their DNA.  If you released any horse into Paradise Valley, Nevada—whether a grand prix dressage horse, show jumper, draft or pony, young or old—it would join up with one of the mustang bands that roam there.

       At first the newcomer would be chased off but would remain on the edge of the herd, not an enviable position:  predators tend to pick off the animals that are on the herd’s fringe.  But then she’d try again and again to join up with the other mares.  She’d exhibit submissive behaviors—lowered head, licking and chewing, and at least one ear pointed in the direction of one of the other horses.  Eventually, the chase-offs would become fewer and fewer until she finally could graze side be side with members of the herd.  And so this would continue in her interactions with each member of the herd until she had established her rank within it.

       But where is the stallion? you ask, the fellow in charge of all these ladies?  First of all, despite what Hollywood with all its westerns over the past six decades would have you believe, the stallion is not in charge, except to the degree that he will drive off any other stallion who attempts to take over his herd, including any of the young males in the herd who’ve become old enough to challenge his reproductive authority.  (These exiled youngsters go off to form bachelor bands until they are older, strong enough, and lucky enough, to take over their own herd, which doesn’t usually happen until they’re at least ten years of age!)

       All this male rivalry aside, it’s the alpha mare who determines when and where the herd migrates, how to find the best grass and water, and if and when the stallion may breed!  So, the herd stallion might gallop up to introduce himself to the recent addition, but he would have to get the nod from the alpha mare as well as form the newcomer herself.  It’s a matriarchy.

       In the artificially constructed world of the round pen—lunge whip in hand—I set out to become Dolly’s herd leader, and, as you read in an earlier post, by moving her around, causing her to change direction, then softening my body posture, turning my shoulder in toward hers, and lowering my eyes, she would turn in.  But because of the winter ice I could neither move her forward nor change her direction as quickly or as frequently as I wanted to.  Though she would not come up to me (often referred to as "join-up" or "hooking-on"), she did allow me to approach and scratch her withers and neck.  But if I sought to draw my hand up closer to her face or back towards her tail she walked away.   In short, I had failed to demonstrate that I was adequately credentialed to be herd leader.

       So, how to get that halter off?  Fortunately, the ill weather that compelled us to shut Dolly in a stall yielded an opportunity.  Handling a wild horse in a closed space brings its own problems.  Aware they can no longer flee, a horse might resort to her second line of defense—fight.  But from the time of her pitched trailer battle through the two weeks she’d been with me, I’d not witnessed a single act of aggression on her part.  Yet, once Dolly was in the stall, she knew she was at a disadvantage.  She acquiesced, and within two visits to her stall, she permitted me to brush and curry her from neck to tail.

       By the third visit she demonstrated obvious pleasure in having her chest and the side of her face rubbed with the tips of my fingers.  This was the opening I needed.  Each time I scratched her cheek I’d also move my hand around the halter, sometimes touching it.  A lot of seemingly simple things with horses take small steps and several days.

       I would then immediately resume with her pleasurable rub.  Within minutes I was able to hold the halter and wiggle it a bit.  This I repeated until Dolly thought nothing of it.  A few more breaks, a few more scratches, and I was able to pull and push up on the part of the nylon strap that ran over her head and through the buckle.  I pulled my hand back and scratched the area of her neck I knew she was most accustomed to.  A few more tries and I was able flip the buckle's tongue out of the hole in which it was set.  I stepped back and the halter slid off on its own into the shavings.  Dolly calmly enjoyed a few more rubs.  Then I picked up the all-nylon halter and tossed it into the trash.  Good riddance.

       A word now about my own domestic life.  I've spoken little about my husband Jim but he has been much in my mind and always in my heart.  He is, in the words the poet  W.H. Auden, my North, my South, my East and West.  And we have had to be apart much of this year because Jim was given the wonderful opportunity to be a fellow at the National Humanities Center in North Carolina.  After six very busy years of chairing the English Department at Harvard, this gave him the time and distance from work to concentrate on his next book.  But it's been hard on us both.  We've tried to see each other twice a month but between the farm and Jim's other commitments this hasn't always been possible.   So we formulated a plan for early March:  my daughter would house-sit,  Jim would fly up to Boston, and we'd then drive up to Bretton Woods in New Hampshire for two days of skiing, good food, and rest. 

       Well, delete skiing for me.  I'd find other things to do.  I packed my dressage Omnibus and set of DVD's on cross-training your horse, Spanish language tapes, my recorder, and my Kindle.  I was going to get things done as I sat in the grand hotel room, drank latte, and took in the magnificence of Mount Washington, the tallest mountain east of the Rockies.  But as soon as we checked in and I lay on my bed my plans derailed.  I slept the entire afternoon.  The next morning--it was snowing and a bitter wind put the temperature at -12F--we watched a movie and walked about the historic hotel.   When it first opened in 1902 guests arrived by train at one of three(!) local stations and then were transported to the door by horse and carriage.  Jim and I came by car, of course, but with the majestic French Renaissance Great Hall, conservatories, and the Gold Room, where the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank were signed into existence, I felt like a walk-on in a Henry James novel.

       Joseph Stickney, who had made his fortune in coal and railroads (perhaps we now know about those three train stations) was the hotel's founder and demanded the very best that the early 20th century had to offer his guests including over a half-acre of window glass, much of it facing east to grand views of sunrises and Mount Washington.  It's interesting to note that when Joseph and Carolyn Stickney marrried in 1892, he was 52 and she but 25.  When it was dinnertime at the hotel, Carolyn would observe the women arriving for dinner from behind a balcony curtain.  If she thought that any female guest better dressed than she was, then Mrs. Stickney would retreat to her wardrobe and don a different--and, of course--superior gown.  When she wished to go swimming, the pool would be emptied of guests until she'd finished taking to the waters.   One year after her beloved husband's death Carolyn married a member of French royalty and--as the hotel's brochure states--was "affectionately" known as the "The Princess."  It also adds that "some say her hospitable spirit still resides in her beloved hotel."  Everyone out of the pool!

      The next day brought skiing for Jim.  After luxuriating in bed--something horses and home never allow me--I made my way to a comfortable chair with mountain view, and between sips of latte, thumbed through the Omnibus, entertaining what shows I might be able to enter this year.  Then Ingrid Klimke's newly-released DVD set on cross-training and Greg Mortensen's Stones Into Schools.  It was a lovely afternoon!  This followed by drinks and yet another lovely evening meal.

      Next morning we returned  home.  I felt rested but not rejuvenated.   It is the farm that rejuvenates me but, ironically, it is the farm that exhausts me.   I'm certainly not the only horse owner who experiences this dilemma.   I head out to the barn to check everyone.  Dolly seems even friendlier.  My daughter Marleny had spent a good bit of time just sitting near her in the round-pen.   She seemed to enjoy a hearty finger scratch on her hindquarters.  It was time for those horrible green "613" squares, so strongly adhered to her coat, to go.  And go they did, the very next day.  I scratched and picked the first one off and Juliane the second.  Done without trauma and fear, to the great relief of us all.   The only number Dolly would ever wear again would be on her bridle as she enters the show ring.


 You Tube videos of Dolly's auction sticker removal:

 
       And here is a You Tube of the Berceuse from Gabriel Faure's Dolly Suite, written for the one-year-old daughter of Emma Barduc.  The French composer was in love with Mme. Barduc, and it is said that he hoped it would help secure her affections.  Though our Dolly hails from Tennessee, it's this charming, intimate piece of music (rather than Dolly Parton) that contributed to the selection of our filly's name.  I hope you'll have time to listen; it speaks to the sweet vulnerability in all young things.



   Next week's blog:  Weather and footing willing, we will describe and present a You Tube of Dolly round-penning and, if we do it well enough, joining-up with us for the first time.