Anna Blake's Blog, page 30

Walk, The Queen of Gaits

 

Some riders keep to the walk, a sweet sashay that’s almost a lollygag. They want their horse to stay calm, they have anxiety about going faster, or they don’t. They think the walk is the safe gait, maybe the kind gait. Hoping to not disturb the horse, the rider would rather not admit it, but they want control. They just walk. It feels warm and connected. They absolutely love riding, just as long as they don’t have to go fast.

Meanwhile, some of us are so bored by the walk that we seem to have a quota. No more than ten walk steps per ride, and then it’s a tight scurry of a walk, the horse practically jitterbugging along. Then mostly trotting, but oh, the canter. They like the thrill of chasing the air and being a little out of control. There is no jump that doesn’t call their name, no mountain trail that isn’t better at the trot, no gallop on the beach that isn’t improved by splashing.

Do you take the walk seriously or is it a default way of going? Perhaps you think the real training work must be done at trot and canter. Maybe the walk is so comfortable that it’s easy to get complacent about it. In dressage, we are pretty serious about the walk. It is scored at a double coefficient at all levels. The walk is respected as the queen of gaits because it benefits both the horse and the rider. It’s fundamental to training; all work is learned in the walk first. It’s the hardest gait to improve but the easiest to damage.

The walk is even deeper than that for horses. Grazing and wandering is the rhythm of life for a horse. Nothing is more natural. He can think during movement forward, finding balance and wellbeing within the rhythm and sway of his stride. In a sense, it’s self-soothing as the movement can have a kind of rolling perpetual motion, one hoof after another. The movement over the ground is joined by movement of all the body systems creating a sense of well-being.

The rider’s position can be quieter at the walk, we can be in more control of our bodies as we give smaller aids. Because it is a slower gait, we can have the best coordination of our movements. We have time to reason what we’re asking and learn how to be effective. The walk is a gait of patience for horses and humans who can each panic quicker than the other would like. At the walk, we have time to be generous with praise.

At the beginning of the ride, both of you are a bit stiff. Even if the rider is an athlete and the horse is young and without injuries. In the most perfect bodies, it still takes twenty minutes for the synovial fluid to warm the joints. That means if we want good responsiveness from our horse, he must be warmed up enough to give a positive answer. Slowly the walk improves, the horse’s neck goes long and his stride matches. In turn, that sway gently massages the rider’s sit bones, one after the other, and soon the horse’s rhythm pulls the rider to softness as their two spines work together. One, two, three, four, as the pair of bodies keep a flowing beat, surging forward together.

We want a natural walk, so use a neck ring or keep the reins at the buckle. Leave his head alone so his poll can be soft. This time is only for the beauty of the movement. The rider can gently cue the horse, using only her seat, to take a longer stride. Perhaps the horse answers with a blow, the walk feels even better and he relaxes deeper into its rhythm. Then the rider might as for a couple of shorter strides, again with only her seat and the horse comes to that length of stride as naturally as breathing. In perfect connection with his rider. Dressage teaches that we may get our horse’s attention by doing transitions. A transition is defined as anything you are not doing now.  So far, you have asked for three transitions: His natural walk, a longer stride and a shorter one. All done without hands.

Now a long exhale and still your sit bones. As your seat softens, feeling as if it melts into the saddle, the horse will slow to a stop peacefully. Does your horse get fussy with his head now? Is he pushing forward because he has anxiety that the bit will pressure his mouth? As responsive as he was just a moment ago, this is a good time to encourage yourself to ask for a smaller, more peaceful cue.

Use an inhale to energize a horse into moving forward, or to let him know something is coming. Energy is found in an inhale. While walking the rider should focus on their breath. That way they have something productive to do instead of fuss with the reins. An exhale is the cue for a downward transition or a halt. Continue to do transitions in his stride, notice that they are improved with your breathing. Let him feel the strength of his stride matching your sit bones. Without contradiction, he can become more confident.

Any cue from the reins right now will feel like a contradiction to moving forward for your horse. The pressure on the bars of his mouth, metal on bone, will create resistance in his gait. It will threaten the horse’s ability to move on, equivalent to driving with the parking brake on. Again, during this twenty-minute warm-up time, we are building strength and suppleness. Leave his face be. Let him just have one goal: a ground covering walk that is relaxed. Let the Queen be.

If you feel a need to correct something, deepen your breathing by counting to three on an inhale, in time with your horse’s hoof falls, pause a stride, and exhale for three strides, pause, and repeat. If you still really want to correct something, feel your legs long and heavy in the stirrup. Let your shoulder blades, exhale, slide lower on your back. As you walk an arc, use your inside calf to pulse as light as a feather on his flank, allowing his inside ribs to flex and his outside of the arc ribs to stretch. Pulse three strides, in time with a breath. Feel his neck go longer, his balance improves. You might make a small waist turn, and your horse reverses direction as long as you do not break the rhythm you have found together. You can leg yield or do a walk pirouette; the rhythm is all that matters. The horse has been allowed to move freely forward, still without reins or correction. This is the gait that makes him strong. His body feels good. It is as simple and profound as that.

This is an energetic, ground-covering, long-strided walk, without tense scurrying and with no lollygagging. The walk is the price of admission to his world. Default nothing: Let it feel like a jet taking off. Let it feel like a locomotive. It’s the walk he uses at liberty in turnout; our riding cannot be allowed to destroy that beautiful stride. That means our complacency in the saddle is poison to his long term welfare. Let yourself shine with a brilliant focus. Default nothing: Let your seat spark the dance. Let your hands be bored wallflowers.

The walk is the gait we begin with and the gait left at the end. For its regal power, its flawless balance, and its irresistible rhythm, some of us, whether horses or humans, will always love the passion of a slow dance.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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Photo & Poem: Pride

She has no time for gentle words

and soft hands primping her mane.

The broad-chested mare may allow

a stiff curry in the itchy season,

but she would rather throw herself

on the ground to rub the loose hair

off on a crust of spring snow and

cool mud, leaping in air to gallop

away, knees high and tail lifted in the

the sun, a white shadow of hair left

on the earth. No soft mare eyes, she

stands to guard the horizon, never

pandering for touch. She has more

pride than want of comfort, keeping

to the wild edge, all wind and thunder,

born for something better than pretty.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more from this horse trainer who writes poetry? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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Escalation: Finding the Thing Before the Thing.

It feels like you wake up in the middle of a movie, one of those thriller-action plots that have too many stunts and special effects, and your horse is the star. He is peeling out in a dead run. What’s happening? It takes a minute to recognize you might be in the saddle and in a panic, too. Out of control and frozen with fear, with no idea how the movie began, not that it matters, because it’s too late to get off now. The two of you are hurtling toward one of those James Bond-like stunt sequences but with none of the cool. Your lips are stuck up on your gums and you have a death grip on the reins. Your horse is bathed in a panic sweat and feels like he might spontaneously combust underneath you. No one is breathing, you’re moving fast enough to feel an alarming headwind, and neither of you has any idea how you got here. Oh wait, you remember now. You walked your horse to the mounting block and climbed on totally by choice. After that, everyone followed their instinct.

If you aren’t a rider yet, consider the facts. Horses are thousand-pound flight animals. It isn’t a choice to panic, it’s by design. Their limbic system in the amygdala can engage the motor system (make their legs run) before the prefrontal cortex has evaluated the threat. Or in more comprehensible terms, the route the message takes in the brain is literally shorter to panic than it is to think about it rationally. Horses are hardwired to panic, no surprise. It’s the definition of being a flight animal, after all. Once a horse is in his flight, fight, or freeze mode, his sympathetic nervous system, neither of you can pretend otherwise.

If you aren’t a rider yet, you can use your rational mind, think this through, and then take up gardening. If you already have horses, there have been some changes to your brain chemistry, kind of like an aftermarket accessory. We still have rational thought in our frontal lobes, but not about horses.

Humans have a similar autonomic nervous system to horses. We both panic, but there are two big differences. We will never be as good at running and we have a frontal cortex which means we can think (overthink) about what happened. Some riders plead random chaos. Out of nowhere, the horse just bucked or bolted, which is the easy answer. Not true, of course.

The rest of us try to unravel the event because there is always the thing before the thing. Like Equine CSI officers, still not as dashing and romantic as on tv, we sift through the debris for a path backward. But since this is real life, there is no tape to replay, so we look for the tiny thing before each of the increasingly larger thing that started the domino effect to disaster. It was all fine and then it wasn’t, but if we can deconstruct what happened back to the place just before everything escalated, perhaps we could help our horse in that instant and defuse the event before it happens. And we have finally found a good reason for overthinking.

Horse people always say less is more. The sooner you can sense the problem, the smaller it is and the easier to resolve. Working small has less drama and emotion to the horse and to you. And perhaps you realize that beyond the uncontrollable physical environment, there is a realm you can negotiate with. The runaway that you had was emotional. It was your energy that bolted. If horses are never really under control, and they aren’t, then is there a way to gain control our energy? Because it always comes back to self-responsibility. If we want a different result with a horse, we must change ourselves first.

Prepare for an abrupt left turn.

Horses already think we are unpredictable and inconsistent; poor qualities in a predator you are trying to get along with. They are certainly smart enough to remember how much we love to escalate a situation on purpose. We do it, knowing that horses must involuntarily react, and then think if we do it long enough, we will somehow control fundamental equine brain/body function.

We think it’s smart to escalate cues in training. Clearly, we think we are god-like that we can hot-wire a response against instinct. The other word for that is dominate. But still, we do it. Perhaps it’s our predator instinct.

If the horse doesn’t take a cue, we give a larger one, and then a still larger one. The theory is that the horse will learn to take the smaller cue (the thing before the thing) to stop what feels to him like an emotional runaway his rider is having. That in this situation he will act against instinct and his fear will make him obey instead of fleeing. It makes no sense if you understand horses, but like other false ideas, if they are repeated often enough, they can seem true.

Escalating cues is sometimes referred to as a version of the “Ask, Tell, Make” slogan. It sounds totally logical to our frontal cortex. Of course, horses have a totally different brain structure than we do, but theoretically, we are the more advanced species, so we march on, with some success. Some horses appear to give to the pressure. Perhaps they are okay with it. Maybe they move past the flight choice, and the fight choice, and settle on the freeze option. Meaning they pull inside and shut down. They obey on the surface but there might be an unnatural stillness to their eyes.

On the horse side, he was probably in the process of rebalancing in preparation to take the cue when the second louder cues come. He knows what’s happening, so he flinches to protect himself from the coming pain from the third cue. But we see that as resistance.

Oh, how to partner with these beautiful creatures without fighting with them! Can we be addicted to horses but find a different, more supportive approach?

From Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, “From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.”  It’s a heartbreaking quote from a brilliant leader, and not about horses. But the Nez Perce tribe rode Appaloosas and I said something, much less poetic to an Appaloosa who taught me this lesson. It’s a choice: It’s possible to just stop fighting. It was a totally new concept that had to be the gelding’s idea. I’m a predator, it wouldn’t occur to me back then.

Does the “Ask, Tell, Make” slogan work well on you? Does intimidation make you compliant and grateful? Do threats like “I’ll give you something to cry about!” work well with children? Can domination make us dependable? Or just like horses, does it make us unreliable and sometimes participants in random chaos?

If we are the leaders, that means we go first. If the change has to begin with us, could we use our famed frontal cortex for something kinder than aggression? Finally, if it is a true partnership with horses that we seek, then we need to give them their voice back, along with their autonomy.

Ask, Breathe, Wait.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

Working with riders of any discipline and horses of any breed, Anna believes affirmative dressage training principals build a relaxed & forward foundation that crosses over all riding disciplines in the same way that the understanding Calming Signals benefits all equine communication.

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Photo & Poem: Natural. Magic.

 

The young visitor stared at the bay mare’s mane. “Would you like to

brush her?” I ask. Sending the girl for the grooming bag, I haltered

the mare, a visitor to the farm herself. After showing the girl about

curry combs and brushing with the grain of the hair, she set to the task

with immense thoughtfulness in each stroke, giving special attention to

the mare’s mane until it was perfect, her other hand smoothing it down,

chipped nail polish on small fingers, so delicately she could have been

a fly, while the mare kept her head low to her hay. “Would you like to

lead her?” I ask. The girl nods, her eyes solemn with the responsibility.

Inside the pen, I walked the first circle with them, asking the girl to

stand at the mare’s shoulder, to let the rope be slack, and with a nod

to the mare, I stepped back, suggesting the girl take giant steps and baby

steps, like Mother, May I? And the mare naturally matched her, as she

had done with her herd since she was a filly, but the mare’s size made

it seem magical to the girl. Walking over, I un-click the lead rope, roll it

up, and say, “Big breath, and walk just like before.” The girl is uncertain

but ventures a step. Instinctively the mare picks up a hoof, and the pair

walk on together. It was never the rope. The girl steals a look to see if

I’m watching, her face flushed with wonder, and I smile back so the

girl knows it’s real, as the mare absentmindedly continues the baptism.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more from this horse trainer who writes poetry? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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The Next Horse: Remounting after the Hardest Fall of All

 

 

This perfect horse of yours has been with you since he was young, or you got him near retirement, but he taught you the best of what you know. Maybe he was your first horse or maybe he was one of many in the course of your life, but this particular horse just happened to fit perfectly into an odd-shaped hollow place that you didn’t know you had before he came. Yes, I’ll say it. He completed you; dorky but so what? Sometimes a horse can do what friends and family never can because riding makes us wildly vulnerable. The truth is he’s special. He’s smarter and more sensitive. He lifted you above the mud; he carried you like a queen in a t-shirt and helmet. This horse gave you the kind of beauty in movement that your own legs never could. With this horse, you took to the air.

But it was more than that. When you flew you felt a thing too elusive to put a human word on. Was it some kind of grace? He didn’t hold your random impatience against you. This horse was always the kinder and more forgiving half of the dance. He took care of you when you didn’t know better or might not have deserved it. This horse was your treasure, so you arranged your life to support him, spared him nothing, and it still felt like you got more than you gave. The two of you had the very best luck and did everything just right, but time passed, and the horse died. You were shocked or you saw it coming but he was just as gone.

You sobbed, choking on air, eyes swollen bloody red, or you went marble-cold, pale and silent. Utterly silent.

If you are her friend, you said the Sainted Horse’s name and told all the best stories, mourning with her because it had happened to you or you knew it would someday. If you’re her trainer, you tell her that all horses are smart and sensitive, you remind her what he was like when she got him. Being reminded what a mess things were in the beginning only makes the Sainted Horse more amazing.

Inconceivably, days passed. Whatever happened, happened, not that any of it was memorable until the day you found your new horse. You had looked just enough, then tried the horse out, and he was fine. You whipped up some enthusiasm and hatched a new plan because you were getting on with your life and being magnanimous. So, you bought a young horse with potential or a rescue horse who needed a home. A horse that belonged to the friend of a friend because he reminded you of your Sainted Horse or because he was the exact opposite. You can’t imagine life without a horse; you want that feeling back.

Meanwhile, your Next Horse can tell something’s going on. Lately, his owner is riding more but seems distant. Strangers ride him, too. He’s been a family horse forever or he’s been traded a few too many times. Mostly, he notices everything and remembers. Your Next Horse is stoic. He doesn’t feel safe so he pulls inside just a bit. He appears calm and polite.  It isn’t that he’s dishonest. Just smart. And sensitive.

Then he’s taken from his herd or from his lonely stall. He loads in the trailer easily or he gets scared and there’s a fight, but trailer rides are stressful either way. He’s been abducted with no idea where he is going or if he gets to come back home soon. He’s alone. Finally, he comes off the trailer and the people are all anxious. Are there horses? He is looked at a little too closely by coyote-like people and scratched by someone with a kind voice but tears. The water smells funny but there is hay. Hay is comforting. Being kidnapped, not so much.

And so it begins. Sometimes the adjustment goes well. More likely it crosses your mind that your Next Horse was drugged when you first saw him. A short trip is enough for ulcers to form, one more pain added to the others. He’ll try to hold it together; he may shut down for a while or he may spring wide open. If there are no other horses, he will crumble quickly. If there are other horses, he will have to begin to find his place. It doesn’t matter if there’s more turn out or less, he isn’t home. Change is hard for a horse.

You have second thoughts. He isn’t the horse you bought. Nothing you know works now, your new plan has failed, and you feel like a rank beginner. All your confidence and skill seem worthless and you are about twenty years older than the last time you did this. You cock a hip and stare. Tense scrutiny that reads as anxiety to your Next Horse. He thinks you are a scattered predator and drops his head, staring back.

This is a tricky time because the doubt is real. This isn’t a Harlequin romance, it’s real life and if you truly did get the wrong horse, don’t be a martyr and commit to owning him till he dies. There is nothing noble about a living death sentence. If you can get past the what-people-might-think part, you’ll stand and admit your mistake and help him find where he is supposed to be. Sometimes horses come into our lives as a stop-over to their perfect place. Are you strong enough to admit it and let go again?

You think and then overthink. You settle that it’s a mistake and feel relief. Or maybe a small spark of familiarity shows itself, you recognize the real question isn’t if horses are hard, but is this Next Horse the right kind of hard? Could some it if be that your life was simpler when you got the Sainted Horse? Maybe you know things now that you didn’t understand before? One thing is painfully obvious. You forgot what this first part is like.

Maybe you see past your own drama and get a peek inside his stoic shell. Your Next Horse looks small inside of his bravado or maybe he’s a warhorse squeezed inside a tiny closet. All you know is that he hasn’t had a fair chance. This is not his life yet. One thing you both agree on: The hardest job is being the Next Horse because he always has one huge glaring fault. He’s alive and with every breath, he reminds you of your loss. Who can compete with a saint?

When you’re exhausted with yourself and fear has given way to vulnerability, the answer finally rises. That’s what it takes for a Sainted Horse to get a word in edgewise. A small thought, frankly too kind to be yours, comes with the slightest nudge from behind that makes you take your first deep breath in all this time. The details will work out in time. Yes. That sainted grace is still with you and you make a choice to start again. You make yourself an odd-shaped hollow place that’s just the right size for the Next Horse. Being a true horseperson means becoming one-size-fits-all.

Then you let the Next Horse know he’s perfect, exactly now.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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Photo & Poem: Hunger Moon

Fresh snow fell yesterday and more

will come tomorrow, but in the still

between-time, a full moon sits high

in the sky, casting steely shapes on

the ground, dimly lit to a haunted

gray pallor. Unnatural colors that did

scare me as a girl, when my shadow

chased me for sport. Turn away from

the false lights of the house, give in

to the restlessness and walk the blue

pasture, boots crushing thin ice to

the powder below. Drawn to the

light that darkness holds, midnight

sky over glittering earth, to greet

those that still live in the shade of

the moon. Dear ghosts, come find me.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more from this horse trainer who writes poetry? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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Spring and Horses That Fly Like Kites.

Left: A breathtaking view of Pikes Peak from my pasture. Right: An aerial view (from the height of the berm) of the pond and our pens. Miraculously, there are [the same] trees in both views.When people hear I live in Colorado they often get a romantic look on their faces. I shake my head, “It’s not that Colorado.”

It’s February on the High Plains of Colorado. Due to low precipitation and an elevation of almost 7000 feet, the High Plains experience gusty winds and extremes in temperature. But at least the soil is poor and only grows sparse prairie grasses that maintain a dead tan color for what feels like eleven months of the year. It was below freezing every day this week, except for the day it was sixty degrees. Winds gusting to forty miles per hour brought both the warmth, and the following ground blizzard.

I could tell you that I know it’s spring because there was a slight moisture in the last snow or that the light pretends to linger a moment longer at night. The real first sign of spring comes from my elder Llama, whose age in equivalent human years is three hundred seventy-five. (375!) She initiates a moany-growling sort of lap dance with another female Llama. Soon after, the horses all seem to contract an equine version of Seasonal Tourette’s, erratic spurts of lousy behavior. Our most stoic gelding and our spayed mare began a romantic interlude. Meaning they are backing up and double barreling each other through fence panels. Then, walking the sting off and coming back for more. Meanwhile, I loosen my muffler and take off one of my hats so I can do my impression of a chaperone at a high school prom. Ah, Spring. I’m not in the mood but their deep instinct to procreate must be acknowledged, even respected.

This time of year, leading horses can seem more like flying kites. Most of us have been taught to pick a fight with frantic horses; facing them, jerking ropes and yelling, “Whoa!” followed by a few expletives. Maybe chase them blindly backward. The horse might freeze for a moment, but then you ask for a step and he explodes again. It might make for a good show for ranch tourists but it’s high time we recognize that punishing a horse who is already in their sympathetic/flight response is a foolhardy from a human, also in their sympathetic/fight system. If you believe in domination training, you’ll need to say no in a hundred ways as you demand behavior that’s the opposite of his flight instinct. 

Do we let them harm themselves or us because we are affirmative trainers? Does it mean we are sacrificial lambs to their worst instincts? Are you kidding? It’s our job to buy hay and that means self-care comes first but we don’t have to alter training methods to stay safe and help our horses. Common sense and a bit of discipline (of ourselves) would be a big help. 

It’s all about space. We don’t want the horse on top of us. When they come into our space, we were taught to make THEM move. Often when we’re nose to muzzle with a horse they seem to freeze with that deer-in-headlights look. Pause and take a moment to see it from the horse’s side: A human might do anything. You might poke him with your pointy finger or you might straighten his forelock. You might flail your arms desperately and shout, “BACK!” or you might tickle his muzzle. And just below the surface, we usually give another level of mixed messages with our emotions. No wonder he looks at us that way. If I play kissy-face half the time and then flap my arms, yelling at him. Conflicting cues! My consistency isn’t better than his.

It’s a revolutionary thought, but how about we get out of their space? We seem to have the wits to not step in front of a speeding car, why would we block the escape possibility of a flight animal? Besides, we have more leverage from the side. Instead of an aggressive face-off, we could step out of their space, releasing them. A release is a reward and we haven’t betrayed their trust with punishment for the crime of being a flight animal.

Effective training is done on quiet days. We teach the sweetness of peace rather than the anxiety of war. We show them how good space feels by example. We stand at his shoulder because standing in front of them puts us in their blind spot and is more aggressive. Shoulder to shoulder, always at least three feet away from his head. If you are dying for a cuddle, you can rest your head on his butt. We need to show consistency in our own spacing all the time in preparation for “spring-like” events. We need to claim this space when breathing in the pasture, when grooming, or holding for the farrier. We must consistently stand with our own autonomy and ask that they do the same. Confidence is the finest gift we can give horses.

If things do come apart, we can’t tell them everything they do is wrong. Saying “no” gives no information about what they could do. If you believe leadership means safety, we must find a way to stay on their side. We have to be drawn to their fear rather than repelled by it. 

First, give up the notion that horses have human logic. Reasoning with a hysterical toddler doesn’t work either. It doesn’t matter what you think, it matters what the horse feels, sees, hears, smells. 

Complacency is a luxury we may not have with horses; their response time is seven times quicker than ours. So, we train ourselves to listen and stay focused in-the-moment, just like a horse. It isn’t that you anticipate, so much as notice the first calming signals, a bit of ear or eye tension, while responding with an exhale. When his energy jumps, I can let him move and release it. I can use a rope long enough that I can keep out of his space, leading at his shoulder but still wide away from him, watching with my peripheral vision as I hold a good forward pace. I can’t calm him immediately, but I can lift my energy to match and participate by moving on with him. If his energy is fearful, I’ll make mine courageous. I’ll be red-hot in oneness, each sense plugged in and firing. I might even say, “Good boy” to remind him who he is. Soon, I can take long steps and short steps, evolving the conversation and he will begin to respond. Then we can talk about coming back to his parasympathetic/restorative system.

It can’t be wrong for a flight animal to move. We forever tell horses to calm down and we aren’t being fair. We need to use positive ways of releasing energy, instead of asking horses to be lapdogs. Horses gotta move and our job is to find a way to facilitate that safely in our domestic world. When the horse feels safe, of course, he’ll stand quietly. That’s his nature, too.

Do we look silly standing around breathing with horses, a few feet away, on a cocked hip? Some think it’s bliss-ninny laziness. The truth is, if we do it right, we’re having a conversation about confidence; that’s serious training for Spring.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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Photo & Poem: Hand-Me-Downs

 

Leota would send a note warning that she’d

put something in the mail and we waited.

She was a distant relative who never visited,

but she had girls older than us. Soon a big

cardboard box arrived filled with pleated

wool skirts and pastel sweaters; good school

clothes, all store-bought. Leota’s girls must

have lived in town. My older sister wore them

first and finally passed them down to me.

After that, I saved them for good, imagining

I came from a better family, an impostor trying

to pass for someone prettier, or at least less

awkward. Even now, I don’t dress myself,

wearing my hair like the young mare with

the cowlick that sets her untidy mane at odd

angles, never willing to behave. Marching with

big clomping strides on borrowed hooves.

Squinting to see the world through that bay

horse’s proud dark eye. Forever trying to fit

into the old gelding’s hand-me-down spots.

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more from this horse trainer who writes poetry? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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Calming Signals: Sleeping with a Reactive Dog

 

 

I don’t mind bragging; I’ve slept with some very fine dogs in the course of my long and blessed life. Some say I can’t tell a good dog from a bad one but of course, I can. How else would this have happened? It’s been six years now since my arranged marriage with this little yellow dog. Preacher barked his way across Texas and caught a flight here. We’ve been trying to sleep together ever since. It’s my annual report on the dogs of Infinity Farm.

There aren’t so many of us now. Just three dogs. It’s Preacher Man’s yap-a-versary. He has the soul of a pirate, the athleticism of a flightless bird, and the voice of an operatic tenor having dental work without anesthesia. Barking is his superpower. Preacher appointed himself my Warrior-Guardian and as such, growl-yips at the Dude Rancher each time he comes within ten feet of me. If we are all in the same room Preacher does an impression of every siren he’s ever heard, nonstop without taking a breath. My life is that valuable to him. (His primary calming signals are tense agitation, looking away, licking his nose, the air, and yawning. Correcting any of these is cause for panic peeing, usually inside the house.)

Jack is the newcomer, here three years. He’s a terrier who managed to pass himself off as a Corgi Mix, amazing right there. He lost his adopter to cancer and we inherited him. He’d like you to be clear, he’s not a serial rescue dog but was inherited like a family jewel. He didn’t make a peep when he was fostered here or when he came for stretches while his adopter had hospital stays. He was a saint but now I think he was on his best behavior through all the changes. He finally believes he’s stuck with us and has let down his guard. Seems it’s barking that makes him anxious. He self-soothes by barking back. (His primary calming signals are a frantic wag that uses his whole body. Wrinkling his nose, sometimes one side in a kind of sneer, other times he pulls his lips up above his teeth; that thing we call a dog smiling when it is anything but.)

Then there’s my dear step-dog, Finny. He’s a labradoodle but he got the bad end of the cross. He has a thick Lab body with skinny poodle legs. His mind was never burdened with big thoughts, but now less so. Our best guess is that he’s around fourteen. He walks like an old farrier, his eyes are cloudy, and he has a barely audible sneeze-bark, but he can still steal a loaf of bread off the kitchen counter.  When Finny came he brought the Dude Rancher with him. (His primary calming signals are subtle. He’s stoic but that isn’t the same as being fine. It means he’s as sensitive as the other dogs but knows it’s smart to hide his weaknesses. He dips his head, looks away, keeps his eyes half-closed. He stress eats, but be careful with the judgment on that one.)

Every now and then, it’s good to be reminded that the term Calming Signals was coined by Turid Rugaas in her book, On Talking Terms With Dogs: Calming Signals. For any of us who shared lives with animals, we’d been waiting for this small volume of immense wisdom that gave words to the body-voice we knew intuitively.

Last summer we had some good months. Sometimes the Dude Rancher and I could hold hands in Preacher’s sight. Jack spent the afternoons dozing in the sun with only a small grin on his face. Finny was all stove-up but we discovered some miracle “hemp chews.” Online people were asking me to give a clinic here at my home farm. I said if I did have people come, no one could stay here or even use the inside bathroom. My fragile pack took months to recover from a “visit” from the roofers. One person made it a joke, commenting that she was going to use that excuse so she didn’t have to clean her house for company.  Arguably funny and said with no bad intent. How is it that I can maintain a sense of humor with a dog who’s been peeing in the house (in somewhat designated areas) for six years but get all wound-up over this joke? (Seems I have calming signals, too. I get quiet, cover my eyes, bite my tongue and hold all that anxiety until I pant, rant, cry, or scream. Usually all at once, I learned it from Preacher, who would have us know they are all ways of breathing.)

The thing about change is that it’s dependable. Nothing stays good or bad forever. Our lives are built with dominoes. The recent topple was Squirrel, the ancient tabby who was tiny and boney and mainly slept all day, but her passing shook our foundations. Then the other cats had to debate politics all over again. Finny got confused. He pretends to ignore the cats, but somehow losing her made his limp worse. Now, he stares too long and gets lost in the back yard. He forgot where he sleeps and moved into my tiny studio with two other very concerned dogs. It’s their territory; they just let me write there. So they glare at Finny and over-bark which confuses him a little more. He asks us to open doors for him and a second later, asks again. Finn pushes his gray snout into my leg and wags the very tip-end of his tail. Change is impartial: It’s as if he has two paws in this world and two somewhere else. Has there ever been, or will there ever be, anything as precious as a limping, half-blind elderly dog who is always underfoot and in the way?

It’s snowing as I head outside for the late-night barn check, Preacher leaves his bed and waits at the door. I bundle up and tuck my chin against howling prairie winds. You can tell it’s spring because the snow is blowing in all directions at once but I can see a crescent moon. While I check the horses, Preacher stays in the yard. He likes a poop-snack before bed.

Like I said, we’re working out this sleeping together thing. Preacher is a worrier; too much anxiety to be so close, too much fear to go out of sight. The first few years, Preacher slept under the bed and darted out like a snapping turtle when needed. Then for years, he got off the bed as soon as I coaxed him up. Finally, a boudoir photo.  Now a few mornings a week he’s still sleeping when I wake up at 4 am. Seems I’m a restless sleeper by human standards, but sleeping in a dogpile is a calming signal for me. Finny is already awake wondering if it’s breakfast yet. Jack tries to get under the covers one last time. Preacher is am-bark-tious, greeting the pre-dawn sky doing scales to warm his vocal cords.

The truth is that we’re all inconvenient creatures. Calming signals take the blame out of behaviors. That’s what Preacher and the dogs like; they aren’t wrong for being who they are. Labels of good and bad lose importance because in the big picture, we’re all just breathing here together for a little while.

 

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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Photo & Poem: To Soar

https://annablake.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/01/VID_51950824_165509_5421.mp4

 

Alone in the sky, her broad wings create

their own horizon, as she dips one edge

for a soaring arc that ignores property

lines, her prairie without boundaries. Too

high to be hunting, does she glory in her

body, coursing on the air on this warm winter

day? Her massive body as dense and black

as her head and tail are white, translucent in

the sunlight, impossibly high yet stark across

the blue sky. We shade our eyes, suspended

helpless in our wonder, squinting to keep her

in our sight, to hold her with our longing. She

sees us, too, rooted to the sandy ground. We

have nothing she needs, lifting wings to fly

on but, then she tips her opposite wing, one

last soaring arc; her beautiful indifference.

 

(Video Credit: Bethany Geiger)

…

Anna Blake at Infinity Farm

Want more from this horse trainer who writes poetry? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.

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