Nube. Dark Clouds and Questions With No Answers

Nube (Nu-bay) was particular. He required my undivided attention in the saddle and on the ground. My focus had to be laser sharp. Most advanced horses require it and it was something I’d learned to do. Odd for such a young horse, but I decided it was good. It meant he would be a sharp horse. And he was a dream to ride, so willing and curious. His ears were inquisitive even trotting down the rail. He was young and I was slow to introduce new things, but nothing confused him, each transition from my breath, no fear or intimidation.

If someone walking by the arena said hello to me and I responded with a hello back, he’d pin his ears and flash his tail. Sometimes he’d throw in a hoof stomp. It wasn’t normal to be so possessive and I began to wonder if our connection was too deep. Is it possible to be too much inside of each other? Iberian horses are known for being one-person horses, I reasoned. There is a joke that when an owner died, their Iberian needed to be buried with them. I didn’t think it was funny.

I had an advanced student who could ride upper-level Dressage movements on another of my horses. She was an intuitive quiet rider and I asked if she wanted to ride Nube in lessons. She was thrilled to be offered this tall dappled iron-grey. We’d had several lessons, and they were getting on well. It was beautiful to work with such a talented pair. Then one lesson, I went into the barn to get something and heard a commotion. I raced back out to see my student on the ground with the breath knocked out of her. Nube trotted back toward us, calm and cool.

Later, she told me as soon as I was out of sight, he let out an airborne buck that sent her to the stars. Nothing was broken, her helmet hadn’t taken a hit, and we sat with her until she caught her breath and a good deal longer. She said it was unprovoked as far as she could tell. It was Nube’s first buck, but she had ridden plenty. She had amazing balance and kind hands. She was a brave rider, as committed as any I’ve known. I know she did nothing wrong. She said she didn’t want to ride him again, that she couldn’t trust him. Just before the buck, she felt him disappear somehow.

When I write about Nube, I get a bit defensive. I know people will say their horse was sensitive, too. Yes, all horses are sensitive. I’m a professional but I struggle to find the right words. I work with “overly sensitive” horses often, many are a little damaged and have become fearful. They might arrive at that place through harsh training and poor riding. Their predicament is fair, and each horse is a bit different but rehabbing works. What Nube did was different.

Trainers routinely have clients with challenging horses, and we teach methods to calm both horse and rider into relaxation. But with our personal horses, we want spirit and energy. We want to ride the crest of the wave, we want that razor-sharp level of focus in our horses and ourselves. It’s a ride most of my clients wouldn’t take. Nube could be brilliant and soft, bold yet focused. He was different than any horse I’d known. Again, words fail me. It was like he had no skin.

Thinking (hoping) it had been a fluke, when another student asked to ride him a few months later, I said yes. He hadn’t taken a bad step and I felt he was safe. At the end of the lesson, where they had both been brilliant, she was walking Nube to cool him out and I went to my truck for an instant, and it happened again. No serious injury but a huge launching buck out of the blue. When she caught her breath, I climbed on Nube, who was perfect every stride.

I debated it all with a trainer-friend who had an animal behavior degree. How was he always great for me, when he bucked anyone else off? She asked to ride him and with a warning, I agreed. She was a fabulous rider. Here’s how you can tell. I walked out of sight, and she rode for a half-hour in the arena and out. It was a calm pleasant day. The entire time, Nube bucked, took a few steps, and bucked again. From a distance, I could see her hands release forward with each buck, see a hand calming his neck, but the bucking continued. My friend managed to stay on, but now I’d seen it happen. I didn’t recognize my horse.

“This wasn’t just plain terrible, this was fancy terrible. This was terrible with raisins in it.” Dorothy Parker

This is what I knew: Nube was six years old. His ulcers returned like the morning after night. Some months, he’d colic five or six times, even on ulcer meds. Then he’d seem fine for a couple of weeks, maybe months. Then there was a flare-up, and I’d let him rest. He’d come back better, seeming to have learned more since our last ride, calm but always requiring flawless focus. I think riders should have flawless focus, but this was different. It wasn’t normal, and we should aspire to normal.

What I didn’t know remained a mystery. Vets, more vets, legions of bodyworkers of different sorts. Supplements and medications. I scoured the Earth and nothing helped. I believed the ulcers covered a hidden condition that we hadn’t been able to diagnose. A pinched nerve maybe? With horses, it’s never just one thing, it’s interwoven layers. A cut would have been simple to bandage, but not this.

I was desperately trying to find an answer, in all directions. Horses don’t buck for no reason, and I had to guess it was pain. But in our rides, his flank was soft and his ears happy. Was he that stoic, but also that sensitive? I wasn’t any more flattered than I was when he pinned his ears as I greeted others. It wasn’t normal. I knew what he was holding in for me would continue to manifest in one way or another.

Nube began changing. Not spooky, not fearful. He was getting even more emotional. Almost temperamental. I still don’t have the words. He was strong and confident one moment, yet extremely fragile. Bold or clinging like a kitten. No mid-range, no ordinary. I wondered if there was a mental aspect in the puzzle as well. More in-depth research followed. Maybe some kind of attachment disorder? Could he have Savant Syndrome? That’s the current term for the oxymoronic and outdated term for a condition we used to call “idiot savant.” Horrible term, but it felt almost like an explanation; extreme opposites in one. It was impossible to find scientific studies. Even today as our knowledge of equine brains grows, there is little study into brain dysfunction in horses.

I went to hear Dr. Temple Grandin speak. I’ve done it often over the years. She had been an immense help in understanding myself as well as animals. At this meeting, as always, I was spellbound by her brilliant bluntness. Finally the audience questions at the end.

I raised my hand and in turn, stood and asked in a clear voice, “Can horses have Autism?”

(To be continued; this is the tenth post in a series, Nube’s Story.)

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