Like children, horses have to be told everything a thousand times. Puppies, too. It’s called training, but really, it’s just dogged insistence on the part of the responsible party. Some people have a gift for doing it, others have it thrust upon them—and then there are those who just give up too soon and miss out on all the fun.
This is about two magical things that happened yesterday. Was it yesterday? Heck, I’m living out of Sterilite boxes and sleeping in a two-couch nest—how would I know what day anything was? But I think it was yesterday.
Thing 1: we have loud puppies. It is their gravest flaw, those two: they cannot shut up. (Do not look at me and say this is genetic.) Their inside manners are very good, with the exception of the chewing, which is inevitable at this age. I will not tell you that they haven’t chewed anything expensive or really non-toy (except for several pair of G’s reading glasses) because I don’t want to jinx anything.
But their outside manners are terrible. If they are not running with scissors, they are playing with blasting caps or shredding construction materials with their teeth or digging holes to china. And they are able to bark and destroy at the same time.
Yes. Can you imagine this poor little puppy being rude?
They bark to say “Hello.” They bark to say, “You scare me and if you come any closer I’ll run away and then bite you.” They bark when people take their trash cans out to the curb, or open their garage doors or walk by on the sidewalk. They say the rudest things to Sam Tuinei when he rides by on his bike. Uncalled for rudeness; Sam is a mensch.
Yesterday, in the morning, Jeri (of the fresh Aracuna green chicken eggs) came across the street for a chat. She stood at the gate, while Guy stood just on the other side of it, talking to her. The puppies, gloriously, happily alarmed by her presence, were raising holy heck. The worst thing about it is that they get Piper going, too—ninety five year old Piper whose most intense moment in a day before the British Invasion (yeah, yeah, yeah), was to stroll out into the vast yard in answer to his dinner.
The three of them, then, were yelling their heads off. I was just coming out of the house to see what was going on when I heard Jeri unleashing The Voice. I have lived across the street from Jeri for—I don’t know. Twenty five years? More than that. I’ve known her kids since they’z babies. I know this Voice. It could empty the entire neighborhood in three seconds flat. I cannot remember whether what it said yesterday was “Stop it,” or “Shut up,” but whatever the words were, those dogs went suddenly and absolutely silent. As if the whole outside world had turned to acoustic tile.
And there they were, all three sitting on their haunches, staring up at her.
For the full half hour that she and I were talking about our lives, there was not another poop out of them. (I think she means “peep.” Allusion?)
Later in the day, I heard them outside, barking again. I had just opened the storm door, meaning to shut them down, when I heard Jeri—now sitting in leathers astride her Harley Davidson (she rides with a Teddy Bear strapped to the back of her seat)—open up that Voice at them one more time. And one more time, they shut their mouths, then they turned around and skidding past me back into the house.
When they were being wild and rude in the living room about an hour later, and I unleashed MY voice—known to stun High School students at up to two hundred feet—it didn’t work. Totally didn’t work.
This made me feel pretty bad till I remembered that Jeri’s dogs bark outside all the time, too – and her Voice doesn’t make a dent in her dogs. Just like bringing up kids. Oh yeah – they’re good for you . . .
Thing 2: I don’t even know if I can explain this.
My young horse, Hickory, and I have a lovely relationship. He’s smart, inquisitive, quick to learn. He’s also mischievous, opinionated and sassy. Once in a while, when I approach him with halter and stick, he takes off on me. Even if he can’t get any further than the back of the arena, he plays hard to get. When a horse does this, you don’t chase him to catch him. You hunker down like a border collie, and you drive him away from you.
These shots, which I can now see have been WAY over-warmed , are from January 2009. He’s much more elegant now, being older and stronger, and he’s not so winter coated. And this is not the arena. And the snow is gone by now. But you get the idea seeing these.
Horses are herd animals. Ultimately, they can’t stand being driven away from the herd. Even if the only other herd is you. So eventually, a sassy horse who is told to get out enough times will finally come back in of his own accord, apologizing and groveling and suddenly willing to do anything to make you like him again.
Yesterday, we had a little moment like that. It was my fault. I started it. So I had to finish it. And I drove him away for about ten minutes.
But it turned into a game. We were both really enjoying it. I’d drive him away, and he’d get all sassy and throw his head, and put on amazing speed and pass me, and then I’d drive him away again. He was beautiful. Snorting and leaping—young and lean and lovely.
Finally, it became a dance. When I’m training him, I put a halter on his head and attach a fourteen foot lead to it. I have him circle me, and I talk to him with my carrot stick (a three foot, orange, somewhat flexible fiberglass stick – not a whip, but an extension of my arm). He will speed up or slow down, change directions or stop on command. And when he does, it is communication, and it feels wonderful.
But yesterday, I had no halter and no lead. Only my eyes and my hands and my stick. And after we’d run the kinks out, chasing around the arena, he came in toward me, still moving smartly, head up, feet and neck happy, and suddenly, I was standing in the middle of an imaginary circle. I held up my arms, and he began to circle me, completely at liberty, and we were dancing. It didn’t last long, but it was amazing. And when I finally remembered my own stuff (it’s been a long, dreary winter for us), I stepped back from the center of the circle, bent and pointed at his hindquarters, and he immediately swung around to face me, giving me his full, lovely attention – and stopped, right in the middle of trot. Easy to do with the rope. A miracle without.
He just did it himself. For the pure joy of the communication.
I know that it’s hard to understand if you haven’t messed much with horses. But when a creature so powerful, so beautiful, so full of life, loves you enough to dance with you, it’s a pretty amazing thing.
