Horse Stories/Sonita/Chapter6

Never Buy A Horse That Looks Up

Sonita was progressing as fast as she could with me as her rider. The idea of learning a sport as complex as Reined Cowhorse while training my first cowhorse was crazy.
I was competing in a sport where my fellow trainers and competitors had been working cattle as long as they had been riding.
I, on the other hand, spent my formative riding years goofing through suburban parks bareback with my girlfriends. I honed my horsemanship skills by tying my horse in front of Seven Eleven to buy a Slurpee and trying to score a pack of Marlboroughs.
They had kept busy apprenticing with cow horse trainers. Or reining or cutting trainers. Or growing up on ranches, working cows as part of their everyday life.
I had my work cut out for me.

And then there was Sonita.
Wild, raging, intense, hysterical. She was all of that and more before breakfast.
She was hyper sensitive to every scent on the breeze, every sound that didn't ring true. Every scrap of blowing anything within a two mile radius was enough to send her to the moon.
She was an absolute bug eyed freak, twenty four seven.
Trying to keep her attention was almost impossible. She was bored in an instant, always ready to move on. She felt no need to actually learn anything before she felt it was time to get on with the program.
Sonita had astounding strength and speed. She was perfectly willing to use it against me anytime, anywhere.

The key had to be keeping her interest.
I am a fan of trail riding as a training aid. I can work on maneuvers as easily in the trees as I can in an arena. When your horse can look ahead it will try harder than one that is eternally going around in circles.
The trick was, trying to get Sonita to look ahead. She was too busy blowing up at tree stumps, rocks, or the sun dappled patterns on the ground.
She wouldn't step over a fallen tree, no matter how small. Instead we would blast into the air, and clear whatever twig or tree limb in front of us, by at least three feet higher than called for.
There was a steep trail straight up the mountain behind our stable. Fairly technical, I hoped it would keep her busy little brain engaged. Sonita and I headed up it, with a good friend, on a pretty fall morning.
As usual, my friend Chris was ahead on her good horse James. Sonita was boogering along in the back, soaked in sweat, slinging foam from her snaffle. She was terrified of taking the lead on a trail ride. The world was too much for her as it was, she couldn't be in front and freak at the same time. Chris took James down a steep gully, a sit on your butt and slide kind of gully. It was only about five feet deep, then leveled out for a stride or two before it continued back up the mountainside.
I stayed back on Sonita, giving Chris plenty of room to negotiate the trail. Besides, it was a chance for Sonita and I to practice standing quiet on a loose rein.
I took my legs off her, deepened my seat, dropped my reins, and said "Whoaaa."
She hesitated for a nanosecond and tried to dive into the gully.
I caught her up, backed her several steps with a lot of kicking and cussing, took off my legs, dropped my reins, "Whoaaa....
Dammit, get back here.
Whoaa...
Sonita!"
"Snort." Stamp, paw, head shake, said Sonita.
When James clambered up the other side Chris kept up her easy, steady pace and turned around the bend.
I kept my reins loose, my legs relaxed, and my seat deep. I leaned back over her haunches, and got ready to ease her down the gully.
Sonita threw her head high, staring at the spot she had last seen James.
From a complete standstill she jumped the entire stinking gully.
"Auk." I said.
We landed about a foot behind James' tail. I was still on, kind of, when James spooked. Chris squeaked, and Sonita spooked and spun towards home. I had just enough time to gather up my reins and stop her from jumping back across.
We rode back up later with a carpenter's measure, and measured across the gully. From hoof print to hoof print, Sonita had jumped a little over 12 feet. I am not petite. She was packing me and a western saddle. Good Grief.
Sonita was terrified of being left alone anywhere, not just on the trail. Every time I hauled her somewhere she would become hysterical. She would systematically begin tearing apart whatever portion of the trailer she could get at. Tying her alone was a guaranteed nightmare.
I finally tackled this by leading her to the trailer parking area at our stable. It was over a hill and out of sight of the barn and other horses. There I tied her to a very large, stout tree and left her.
For three days she spent my entire work day tied to the tree.
The first day she hollered and shrieked all day long. When I went to get her that evening she had skinned up both her knees, and her nose, whacking at the bark of the tree.
The second day there was a little less noise. When I went to get her I realized it was because she couldn't whinny around a mouthful of tree. The lower branches were shredded and pounded into the dirt. Long, raw scrapes from her teeth wrapped around the trunk of the poor beleaguered tree. She pinned her ears and shook her head at me. I brushed the chewed bark off my shirt, and led her back for dinner.
She spent the third day peacefully dozing in the shade. Not a peep out of her. My guess is, she was finally tired. A soft, friendly nicker greeted me as I came down the hill. The tree and I heaved a sigh of relief.
Sonita never fussed about being tied again.
That was her saving grace. She could, and would learn. If she was interested, or if I could make her.
"Big K, check this out."
Sonita was staring up into the sky. A flock of geese, in a perfect vee, was flying overhead. She stood, head flung as high as she could, fascinated. Her ears swiveled to their honks, and she watched, enraptured, until they disappeared over the horizon.
"She does that all the time. Airplanes, hawks, herons, anything bigger than a duck will catch her eye."
"Do they ever spook her?" The Big K asked.
"Not if it makes sense to her. She just likes to watch."
"If it don't make sense?"
"You mean like a roofing crew?" I laughed a little. "Then God help me."
"Look at my horse." The Big K waved at the neck of his mare.
"Now I would qualify this mare as pretty hot."
Having just watched him spend twenty minutes wrestling her into some kind of mood to cooperate, I had to agree.
"She didn't so much as flick an ear at those geese."
"Maybe she didn't see them."
"She knew they were there. She just didn't need to see them.
You're mare needs to process way more information than other horses. For some reason she's got to look at everything. I'd say that has to be hard on a horse."
"Why is it?"
"'Cause you know how to pick 'em." The Big K liked to think he was funny.
"Any thoughts on how I should handle this?"
"Let her look if it doesn't change what you need to do, and make her listen if she's pulling you off track."
"Easy for you to say."
"That's correct."

The Big K is a genius when he's training a horse. Unfortunately he has the communication skills of a goat.
One Baaaa, and then all he has left is a head butt.
Which is what Sonita and I continued to do.
Until one day my sister told me about a book she thought I should read. It was called "The Highly Sensitive Person" by Elaine N. Aron PHD.
In it she discusses the different roles animals play in herd or pack behavior. Some animals are the sentinels, or watchers. Their role is to stay apart, and read the input that swirls around the group, so that the group itself can relax and get on with their lives.
The idea intrigued me. I researched feral horse herd behavior. This is what I found.
The lead mare runs the herd. She decides where they go, what they eat, when they drink. She maintains peace, and the hierarchy. She also decides if the stud du jour is acceptable as a herd sire.
She is the most valuable member of the herd. She lives in the safety of the middle of the herd, with the babies and the other dominant mares. The perimeters are filled with yearlings, two-year-olds that haven't been booted out yet, old and sick horses, and the stallion.
On the very outer rim of this nexus live the watchers. Nervous, wired, disposable. They hear every sound, watch the entire world around them, live on the verge of total panic all the time.
When the wind picks up or the grass rustles they bolt.
The lead mare raises her head, assesses the situation, and decides what to do. Which is usually going back to grazing.
The watcher circles the herd, snatches a bite of grass, and spins to focus on a distant howl.
The lead mare might pay attention this time. She may decide to move the herd away from the sound.
The watcher stays on the periphery, too reactive to function in the confines of the herd, vigilant enough to be a reliable alarm. They stay alone by choice, genetically wired to shun the safety of the herd. Their sole function is as an alarm.
Meet Sonita.
I told The Big K about my thoughts.
"It sounds a little like me and you. We're outsiders." He said.
"Maybe, but we can cope with it. How do I help my horse?"
"Be the lead mare I guess."
Baaaaaa.

I started my poor, mental case, horse's therapy by trying to respect her reactions.
Normally I ignore my horses when they spook. I'll just ride them through the scary spot without any fanfare. They learn that if I ignore it, then they can too.
I started to look at everything Sonita jumped at. When she was spraddle legged blowing at some bag stuck in a bush, I'd give it a good look too.
I'd take a deep breath, and then look to where we should be headed.
No petting, careful not to encourage her behavior, just a brief glance where she wanted me to look.
"I see it you nincompoop." I'd say in my sweetest, lowest,calmest voice.
"Now let's try that slide stop again."
It worked. Not completely, but pretty much. The poor thing had been screaming for my attention since the first time I stepped up in the stirrup. She had finally gotten it.
I paid attention to her need for space. When I took her to shows I tied her alone on one side of the trailer. I made sure she could watch the comings and goings of the show. In the barn, I blocked off the view of the horses stalled next to her. She finally could eat in peace. It seemed to satisfy her need to be separate, but together.
I changed her water buckets from dark to light colors. She drank deeply for the first time in her life with me, once she could see the bottom of her bucket.
I fed her hay spread loose on the ground, so she wouldn't have to stick her nose in the bars of the feeder. I talked the barn owner into giving her lunch to occupy her mind, and ease her nervous stomach.
The world began to change for me and the freckly red filly. She started to feel better. I felt safer now that I had an idea why she was such a wack job. I was learning to analyze instead of trying to ram my point home. Sonita was calming enough to pay attention to me for longer and longer spurts. I was getting a handle on the girl.
Beware! I feel a rant coming.