The Parable of the Backward Trainer

In Psalm 40, David said, “He lifted me… out of the mud and mire” and for me it has been literally true. Much of my time as a horseshoer was spent sloughing through the mud and mire and I’m glad those days are over. But despite the dirt and sweat, those years proved to be a fascinating study of horses and humans and left me with a storehouse of memories. Let me tell you about one of them I saw many times.

I was shoeing horses one early spring day for the Mickelsons. They were a typical horse family. Dad was a hard working doctor, almost never around, but a vital part of the teamwork required for a successful show horse family. You might say he was the chairman of the finance committee. It takes real cash flow to float a horse showing operation and being part of the long list of bill presenters, I wished him good health. Mrs. Mickelson had stayed home and pretty much single handedly raised four daughters. All four had successfully marched through horsemanship from 4H to pony club to A level shows, and only Kristin remained. She was 18 years old and bound for college in the fall. I lost more good customers to college than for any other reason. Like a killer cancer, it had devoured her three older sisters and now she was stricken. I had been a part of the support team for the Mickelson family for over 20 years and twilight was setting in. I was sorry to see it ending. Aside from the steady pay, I genuinely liked the family.

For those of you who haven’t been around the horse world, let me describe it. First of all, I would estimate that 95% of my customers were female. There is a virus inside the average girl that goes wild if exposed to horses when the girl is of tender years. I don’t know if it’s a nurturing instinct, a romantic fantasy, a desire to control a masculine symbol, or the big, limp brown eyes, but there is something about horses that positively infects the average female. Some boys get the disease too, but they sensibly recover and graduate to baseball, motorcycles, four-wheelers, pick-up trucks and hunting after a few years. Most girls never fully recover from the malady. It may go into remission for a few years of college and husband snaring, but usually it resurfaces by age 28, stronger than ever. It is astounding to see the amount of time, effort, emotion and diligence a girl will put into a horse. Half of the same energy in school would have made them Rhodes scholars. In any event, suffice it to say that I spent 60 hours per week around horse addicted female people. In those days, I couldn’t understand their malady and was totally flummoxed by the gender, but I came to admire their pursuit of their dreams.

Back to the story- I was shoeing Friday, not the day, but the horse. His name was Friday’s Fantasy. There’s another story to be written just about horses names. Men name horses sensibly. If you buy a horse named Buckshot, Blackie or Stumpfoot you can rest assured a man picked out the monicker. Every single purebred jumper I ever shod was named something like Hidden Moments, Passionate Interlude or Forbidden Assignation. Most of the time, I couldn’t figure out if I was in a show barn or a romance novel. Anyhow, I was setting cinches on Friday’s off-side hind foot and that work position put me where I could see Kristin in the barnyard. She was schooling a really sharp, green three year old chestnut filly names Peaches and Cream at her horse trailer.

One of the most difficult training assignments is to teach a young horse to load into a trailer. Horses are naturally cautious creatures and the creaking ramp and tight quarters of the average horse trailer scare them. In fact, even aged, experienced horses consider trailers guilty until proved innocent. Over the months, I had watched Kristin go through a predictable and patient ritual with Peaches. It started with Kristin quietly walking Peaches by the trailer and letting her eat grass around it. Over the weeks that followed, Kristin would occasionally throw a handful of sweet feed on the down ramp and let Peaches eat her favorite treat there. Kristin’s plan was to gradually diminish Peaches’ fear of the trailer by planting positive experiences and memories in her mind. Driving Kristin’s plan was the delivery date. She had “broke” Peaches as a two year old and had her going very nicely. A buyer had surfaced, paid a good price, arranged for the current spring training by Kristin and was expecting delivery on the coming Saturday. I knew the time table and I had forged a set of going away slippers for Peaches.

That Saturday night, the phone rang late and I picked it up like a live hand grenade. I had an impossible week lined up and the last thing I needed was more work. On the other end of the line was a distraught voice. Mrs. Mickelson quickly described the horror show that had happened that day. In spite of Kristin’s months of patient desensitization efforts, Peaches had balked at loading. After hours of pleading and feeding, Peaches had refused to step even one toe onto the ramp. When Mrs. M and Kristin had finally resorted to a rump rope, Peaches had reared straight up, cut her head on the top of the trailer, flipped over backwards and headed for Alaska dragging lead strap, rump rope and Kristin at a high rate of speed. The vet had just departed, having sewn up Peaches’ seemingly empty head. “We just have to deliver Peaches tomorrow, Steve, will you help?” rang in my ears. Although I readily assented, as I hung up the phone my heart sank. It’s tough enough to deal with a problem loader but to try to pick up the pieces the day after this debacle was going to be nearly impossible. I didn’t want any part of this deal, but I couldn’t refuse their plea for help.

Frankly, I’d seen this Waterloo coming for months. Most horseshoer’s become professional horsemen out of survival necessity. You simply can’t last in a trade in which you have to deal with 1,000 pound pets and their loving owners, if you don’t master the mind of the horse. Kristin had tried her level best to teach Peaches to load onto a horse trailer. In her patient and nurturing manner, she had spent dozens of hours trying to reassure Peaches that there was nothing to fear beside the trailer, in front of the trailer, or behind the trailer. During this seemingly logical process, Kristin had inadvertently trained Peaches not to load. That’s right. All of her efforts resulted in teaching the horse exactly the opposite of what she intended. Peaches was fine beside, in front of and behind the trailer, but she wasn’t about to go into the trailer. I drove grimly to the Mickelson’s farm early that Sunday morning. It’s no fun to volunteer for a dangerous no win situation and I knew I was going to have to use methods that would hurt all three of the females I wanted to help if the situation were to be salvaged. Horses are just like people in many ways. It takes concentrated pain to override their fear and practiced patterns of behavior. If I had two weeks and a controlled environment at my farm, I could have quietly taught Peaches to run onto the trailer, but I was going to have only one chance and about 10 minutes.

I told Mrs. M that she wasn’t going to like what I needed to do. She set her jaw and told me to do whatever I thought best. I sent Kristin and her out of the barn, took a chain lead shank and went into Peaches stall. I quietly threaded the chain through the left cheek piece of the nylon halter, into her mouth and across her upper gum and out to snap onto the right cheek piece. Then I suspended all my body weight on the lead strap and buried the chain into Peaches’ upper gum. There is a nerve plexus in the gum that has a trunk line going directly to the brain and a taut lip chain helps a horse focus marvelously on the handlers request. I led Peaches through a few start and stop maneuvers to be sure I had her undivided attention and then headed straight for the trailer, increasing the chain tension as we went. I strode briskly up the trailer ramp emanating 1,000 volts of positive expectation and Peaches walked right in. We slammed shut the ramp and the Mickelsons’ hopped into the truck. I pried the chain out of Peaches’ gum and jumped out of the trailer. They whooped their thanks as their rig thundered out of the driveway and I staggered in relief to my truck.

What’s the moral of the story? Over the years, I saw this scenario repeated literally hundreds of times. Loving horse owners inadvertently teaching their horses exactly the opposite of what they wanted them to do. You see, it wasn’t really the horse’s fear that Kristin was trying to desensitize. It was her own. She was afraid she wasn’t going to be able to control the trailer lesson and she spent months avoiding the shutdown. In 2=1, particularly in leadership, we deal with relationship behavior. Where have we produced exactly the opposite of what we intended? Where have you? What is our real underlying fear?

P.S. Why not face your fears straight up and let the Holy Spirit show you a better way? It sure beats the gum chain.

Steve and Annette