Rex, unfortunately, was impatient with staying still for long while humans did things to him. Some days he would behave perfectly, and others, he wouldn’t want to do anything. Brushing would elicit small kicks of his back legs and rocking away from the brush. Being on cross ties would make him shake his head and back up as far as he could go, his neck stretched uncomfortably forward and his legs bracing. Sometimes he’d turn himself completely around in the cross ties, with his butt pointed forward and his nose toward the back wall and paw the mat impatiently.
I had a hard time disciplining Rex when he got antsy or frustrated and wiggled around, thrashing his head back and forth. Sometimes if I was already having a bad day, I could smack him and mean it, but most of the time, I just lamely flapped my hand in his face. As everyone at the barn seemed to comment, I “let him get away with things.” I couldn’t punish him effectively. I tried, but I couldn’t keep it consistent. Instead, I’d practice getting very still, hoping to calm him that way. Or I’d just repeatedly guide him back into the normal standing position after he’d twisted himself into a pretzel on the cross ties for the bazillionth time. He never seemed to hate Leslie when she smacked his face or twisted his nose. He just behaved himself. He’d get a meek look on his face after she did it but he’d stand quiet and poised for brushing. I felt inadequate, like a parent who’s been told she’s her child’s friend when he needs a mother. Still, I couldn’t manage a full smack some days. It hung just out of my flapping hand’s reach toward sternness and laughed at me. “Weak,” I heard it say. “Wimp. Pushover.” The same voice from the beginning of my training still haunted me on those days when Rex was especially stubborn. Instead, I worked out small compromises. A rope tied to the fencepost instead of the cross ties and he calmed right down. The next day the cross ties were no problem again. I kept seeking those crevices where I could get a small handhold on peace, even if it meant giving in to Rex once in a while. Because those crevices existed, I never fully developed the sternness I was told made for safe, calm horses. I developed sneaky little ways to give in to a horse without it looking like I was compromising, like someone hacking a trail through underbrush when there was a clear path just to the left of it. I wasn’t sure where I was, but I knew where I was headed. It just took longer and seemed senseless at the time.
– Excerpt from Standing in a Field With Horses: A Memoir of Equine Connection
Maeve Birch Home 