Bottomley Blog

So how do you take this 1800 pound beast and make him weightless? You can sit on his back, but how do you cause him to carry you? You cannot make him. He is bigger and stronger than you by factors of ten. How can you cause his prey animal instincts to follow your predator lead? How do you cause his feet to follow your direction instead of fleeing at the first sign of fear? How do you gain his confidence when you sit on his back instead of having him think he is being attacked?

You do less. You do nothing at all. How do you "train" this 1800 pound flight animal? You stop, you wait, you breathe. You never trap him. You let him move his feet when he feels like fleeing. You let him rest -- you choose the time and place. You rub his neck a little, but leave him wanting more. And then you walk away. Never try to catch him. Always let him catch you. Never try to make him do your bidding. Cause his idea to be harder than yours. Cause your thought to become his idea.

A bit is not for steering or stopping. And spurs are not for going. The seat of your pants was made for that. A horse is stronger, but you can wait longer. How did you make those 1800 pound feet light? You just pet him when he does it right.

You can tell a lot about a horse's character from its opinion about tomatoes. Tomatoes are almost apples. They have the same shape, but not quite the same smell, and the texture is kind of squishy. So, if you are a horse, you have to be pretty brave to eat a tomato. Generally the horse who will get her teeth around a tomato is the herd leader. She has no fear of an apple slightly to the left of center. She will boldly approach the snack, open her jaws like a big piranha, and squirt tomato juice all over her human. Then she'll lick her lips and look for more. The alpha mare will eat a tomato - any tomato - to show others she will take the unknown head-on.

The horse who will approach and sniff a tomato offered by a human is in the middle of the herd. He is more suspicious. He's a follower, but definitely not the bottom horse in the herd. He approaches the tomato with cautious optimism. It looks like an apple, and it smells ok, but there might be de-worming medication hidden inside (because humans can be sneaky that way).

He approaches the snack and stops a few feet away. Then he stretches his neck as far as he can so he can just barely touch it with the end of his upper lip. He takes a few sniffs, then he peels back his lips and tries to take a very tiny nibble with his front teeth. Trouble is, the tomato skin is slippery and it and it falls out of the human's hand and this scares the pony. He whirls around and bolts. A few moments later, he is back again, neck outstretched, prepared for a bolder bite. A few cautious nibbles convince him that there is, in fact, no dewormer in the almost-apple snack. He eats it, but it several bites because the juice and seeds get everywhere. And that's kind of messy. This horse doesn't like messy so much.

The horse who sees the tomato as a deal-breaker is, essentially, lion food. He's the one whose fear is too great to overcome. In the wild, he'd be a predator's natural selection - for dinner. This horse sees the thing that's not quite an apple, loses all trust, and won't come near the human again for days.

Me? I'd rather ride the horse who likes tomatoes.

The components of the classical training scale are: rhythm, suppleness, contact, impulsion, straightness, and collection. Dressage riders always seek improvement and refinement of these qualities. And horsemanship, while no substitute for classical methods, can certainly enhance classical training.

There are many, many ground work techniques which have been developed by horse whisperers over the years - most with the intent of solving behavior problems in dangerous or unruly horses. But when they are refined in the right way, these techniques have an astounding relevance to classical riding and the training scale. Intelligent groundwork can eliminate a horse's tension, refine dressage movements, and improve the rider's position and aids.

If the building blocks of dressage are found in the classical training scale, then the building blocks of natural horsemanship are the Six Gymnastic Elements. The classical training scale is frequently expressed as a pyramid. The Six Gymnastic Elements can be expressed the same way because one builds upon the next.

The Six Gymnastic Elements of horsemanship are: Personal Space, Forward Motion, Lateral Flexion, Disengagement of the Hindquarters, Back up, and Turn on the Haunches.

Like basic ingredients in any recipe, the Six Gymnastic Elements can be mixed and matched to form almost every movement in dressage. The Six Gymnastic Elements describe specific physical movements (the first involves mental gymnastics). The classical training scale describes qualities of movement.

The Six Gymnastic Elements serve the dual function of potent problem-solving tool and training method when schooled with a natural horsemanship approach. The goal of natural horsemanship is for the rider's thought to become the horse's idea. So, a horse whisperer typically schools the Six Gymnastic Elements in an environment where the horse is allowed a choice in its response. In horsemanship, a horse is allowed to do the wrong thing.

At first glance, allowing a horse to move incorrectly opposes the philosophy of dressage. But a skillful horseman organizes schooling so that the correct movement is easier than the incorrect one. The end product is that the horse moves correctly?by choice, not force. This eliminates tension. When the tack is reapplied, the horse understands better how to hold himself, and is therefore softer and lighter to the aids.

So there was a bird. Or something. And the thing about birds is that they fly up out of nowhere and they flap their wings (making a flip-flap noise). They do this suddenly.

And the thing about ponies is that they are flight animals. Not actually flying flight, but, you know, running flight. They run first and ask questions later. This is because certain canine and feline species (as well as certain French chefs) look on little Fluffy as an especially tasty hors d'oeuvre.

And therein lies the problem. There was a flippy-flappy bird -- or two -- and a horse who was particularly good at, well, being a horse. So when the bird flapped, the horse took flight. But he never actually got airborne. Just got a wicked lot of groundspeed. We're talking world class acceleration.

This was the root cause of Fluffy's fix. The crux of his angst. The cause of his pain. In hindsight, Fluffy mused as he stood in the trailer on his way to the hospital at UC Davis, in this particular instance, it might have been better to have asked the question before running. Just this once.

Because as Fluffy took flight, both of his monocular eyeballs were on the flippy flappy thing somewhere above his head with none left over for the very large, very immobile, very dense wall in his admittedly poorly planned path.

Ouch does not begin to express Fluffy's shock when he learned first-hand just how immobile the wall was. Fluffy came home from the hospital all fixed up. He got pretty turquiose blue stitches over his massive equine shiner. His right eye was still swollen halfway shut and he had to take medications several times a day with very complicated names like cholramphenical and banamine. But he's fine now.

When they make horses in the horse factory there are a few standard features installed on every model. If it has got four legs, a long swishy tail, and a soft nose, it's a horse. Also, all models have two ears which can rotate 180 or more. (The ones with extra-large ears are mules.) The eyes are installed on the sides for maximum field of vision.

Most modern horses don't have much experience with cougars or other large predators, but, just to be safe, every model has some basic programming: be afraid of sudden unfamiliar sounds, be afraid of sudden unfamiliar sights, be afraid of narrow and/or dark places, and run as fast as your four legs can go whenever you are afraid. Save the questions for later. And if you can't run when you are afraid then you should kick very hard with one or both hind legs. Also, stay as close to other horses as possible (because they will tell you when you need to run) and eat as much as possible as often as possible (because it might be winter tomorrow and there won't be any grass left).

While horses come in many colors, shapes, sizes, and with many different names, the aforementioned is the basic nature of any horse.

So when Fluffy was presented with a new gate for the first time he found himself in the same age-old pickle as many who had gone before him. The gate was narrow and unfamiliar so he was supposed to run away from it as fast as possible. But his friends and his food were on the other side so, at the same time, he was supposed to go through it.

Fluffy was in the worst sort of horsey conundrum. Fluffy fussed and he fidgeted. He swished his long swishy tail. He snorted and stamped his front feet. He jumped left and right. But the gate didn't move. Neither did his friends or the food his friends were finishing without him on the other side of the gate. The only way to his friends and his food was through the narrow, unfamiliar gate which would certainly bite him should he walk through it. So Fluffy lowered his hindquarters, shifted his weight from left to right, and jumped. As he sailed through the air he tucked his long tail between his legs and looked downward between his knees to make sure the gate's giant teeth (which, though invisible, were undeniably there) couldn't get him.

Crash. Fluffy landed with the grace of a beer barrel in a cloud of dust and pile of manure. His friends briefly looked up from their grass. Undaunted by this embarrassment, Fluffy galloped toward his friends not considering, for the moment, how he was going to make it through the gate again when it was time to leave.

It's one of those times when time slows down. You think all kinds of thoughts and envision all kinds of scenarios in the space of a second or two. You consider, for example why it called horsepower instead of, say, cow power or camel power. You try remember all the things you've ever learned or heard. You try to visualize how this will end -- in a good way. What are the possible positive outcomes in this sort of situation?

And then reality sets in. Your 1700 pound horse is being chased by a 4 pound owl and you are in the unfortunate position of being on the horse's back while she is running as fast as she can (which is really really fast) away from a genuinely angry owl. In hindsight you will realize that you rode Fluffy right under the nest of a mother owl with new babies and that this was a mistake. Owls, it turns out, do not have senses of humor -- particularly where their real estate is concerned.

So there you are going nine-oh with very little possibility of stopping and even less chance of dismounting gracefully. And there's a wall (very solid) looming about two of Fluffy's gallop strides away. Ok, so do you hit the wall with Fluffy (whose horse sense is evidently not functioning at optimal capacity at the moment)? Or do you bail, hit the dirt, and leave Fluffy and Mama Owl to work out their differences on their own?

After careful consideration of your options -- well, as careful as you can be given that you've got a couple gallop strides before your choices are severely diminished -- you opt for the latter.

Thud.

A very lot could be said about horse boogers -- it is a vast subject. Unless you live with horses and their boogers, it is difficult to imagine the volume of slimy horse snot coming at you with surprising velocity on a regular basis in the barn. Horse boogers are, as you would imagine, gross. The best way to bulk up your dirty laundry pile is to wear a clean shirt to the barn. Any clothes you wear to the barn are in need of washing within ten minutes of arrival. Guaranteed. Less if you are wearing new or particularly expensive clothes. Horses are very intelligent creatures. They can sense clean clothing a mile off. Their radar is razor sharp. Walk through the barn with a clean shirt and rest assured that everyone will snort in your direction. Sit in the middle of the arena to teach a lesson and you've got a target on your back like the gophers Harry hunts. (See July 31, 2009 entry.)

Go ahead. Just try to feed one or give him his supplements. Try to put a halter on, and you are asking to become a human hanky. Just try to groom one. I double dare you.

But you should never take personally the fact that Fluffy blows his snots in your direction. Truly, its a sign of endearment. Horses snort when they are relaxed and happy. The more horse boogers on your shoulder, the more horse laundry you have to do, the more Fluffy adores you.

The good news about horse boogers is that they are also a wonderful form of natural inoculation -- a veritable cure-all. Just imagine the dose of germs in each snort of equine snot! Since happy horses snort more, if you ride happy horses your immune system will be virtually impenetrable. Ebola? No problem. Bring it on. You've been bathed in horse boogers from happy horses every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

So get your snort of horse snot every day. It will increase the laundry pile but it will keep the doctor away.

Horses are herd animals who rely on clear leadership from a member of their herd for survival. One way the herd leader establishes leadership is by creating a certain amount of personal body space around her. This is space into which certain other horses may not come. Herd animals generally have eyes on the sides of their heads. They are prey animals and must see predators from a distance. Otherwise there would not be enough time to escape. Because of this anatomy, horses do not see objects well when they are close up. And horses can't see anything directly under their chins.

When you lead your horse with your hand eight inches away from his nose, or worse, right under his chin, your personal space vanishes. With little or no personal space, your horse will regard you as equal to or beneath him in the herd, rather than the leader. If he gets scared while you are leading him this way he has every right to run you over. You have shown him that it's ok to run over you because you are not acting like a herd leader. A herd leader would insist on respect for her personal space. It is unrealistic to "control" a spooking horse who thinks its ok to run over you to get away from danger. You are much smaller and weaker than him.

Define your personal space with each and every horse you handle. In fact, that's the very first thing you should do any time you ever take a horse out of a stall or pasture. Lead your horse from a safe distance well in front so he can see you and your gestures clearly. Teach him that if he crowds into your personal space there will be consequences. It is not possible to "control" a 1000-pound animal who thinks for himself. But it is possible to influence a horse's choices - especially the choice of a herd leader and who its ok to run over. Horsemanship is about influencing your horse's decisions. Trying to control him invites disaster.

A sunny spring day. Lots of people in the park. A dainty snow white Arabian mare. She is delicate and feminine. All the people stare as she trots past. Her tiny hooves barely touch the ground. Karma seems to know how beautiful she is. She is almost intentional as she flips her long flowing mane and swishes her shining white tail.

She begins up a hill. The trail winds back and forth. The grade does not slow her down. She barely breaks a sweat. It wouldn't be ladylike. Around the first turn, a jogger slows to admire the vision. The next turn, a group of junior high school students. They can't think of any horse remarks quickly enough to impress each other. Karma is gone before they do.

The third turn is different. Fate is waiting around the third turn. Karma stops short. She is waiting for direction from her rider and really hoping the direction is to turn and run fast. Fate is a giant black bovine with horns the width of the fire road. Fate is blocking Karma's way with his horns, massive girth, and very cowy smell. Flies buzz around his head, a fact which bothers him not at all.

Fate and Karma look at each other. Karma's eyes are wide. Fate's eyes are black, mysterious and impossible to read. The one thing that is clear is that this park belongs to him. He is totally uninterested in yielding the trail to dainty white Karma. Fate is busy and bored for Karma.

Karma lowers her delicate white head and licks her ladylike lips. She tip toes past on the rocks at the very edge of the trail. She walks gingerly away, peeking tentatively behind her. Fate rotates his massive skull to follow her with his black eyes.

When there is a safe distance between them, she runs like hell. She runs and runs and runs. She is sweaty, tired and relieved when she gets back to the barn.

When you are a baby horse, four is an awfully big number. And unfortunately for Sam four was the exact number of his legs. Horses have a handicap when it comes to their feet which is that they can't actually see them. And that is fine most of the time. Except when you are a baby horse, like Sam, and you've got to move all four legs all at once with little or no warning. Then having four feet that you can't see becomes, well, problematic.

Things were going just fine. Sam was learning how to move his feet and be with his human. Sam liked this well enough because he got pet alot and then he got brushed (which felt really nice). But Sam was not anticipating the chicken wire. If you've never seen it before, chicken wire can be terrifying -- just like anything else you've never seen before. And if you're a horse, all new things are suspect because of their potential to eat you for lunch. And the rule is, if you are a horse, that when you see something suspicious you should move your feet. Alot. It is best to keep the potential diner, whoever or whatever it is, guessing.

Sam, being a horse of above-average intelligence, knew the rules pretty well. He was trying in the worst way to be a really, really good boy. And he was. Sam was concentrating as hard as he could on the human who was telling him what to do with his four (remember what a big number four is) feet. So Sam was not paying terribly close attention to the other human who had come around the corner carrying a large roll of chicken wire. The chicken wire human kept coming closer to Sam's round pen and Sam didn't notice.

By the time the human with the chicken wire got close enough for Sam to notice the looming tower of this unfamiliar stuff which was evidently capable of walking, it was too late for Sam to count to four. Even a horse of Sam's intellect could not absorb or digest the terrifying roll of chicken wire much less what to do about the fact that it was walking right next to his round pen. And poor Sam blew a gasket. All the synapses in his equine brain fired at once causing all four of his legs to gallop in different directions. Poor Sam promptly crashed to the ground with a large snortfartthud noise accompanied by the sort of cloud of dust you would expect a 1500 pound horse to make hitting the ground with some velocity.

Poor poor Sam. He scrambled to his feet and shook himself off looking at his human with a sheepish embarrassed expression. Chicken wire 1, Sam 0.

I am Bay Horse! Hear me roar! Fluffy tosses his regal, soon-not-to-be grey locks. With a swish of his Fluffy tail he pirouettes on his haunches and gallops to the other end of the pasture where he can roll in the dirt without human interruption.

Fluffy's natural color is a pure virgin-snowy white. If he was outside, a decent satellite could identify him. He would be eye candy at any horse ranch. Little children oooo and aaahhh over him.

But Fluffy hates little children. Like a floofed-up poodle who does not identify with its pom-poms, Fluffy does not identify as white. In his heart of hearts, in his most authentic soul, in his dreams and wishes, he is as brown as the dirt he rolls in. He is as brown as dead grass. He is as brown as stale manure (which he sleeps in as often as possible).

And, like the poodle, Fluffy is deeply misunderstood. His human has a huge box full of brushes and lotions and shampoos and potions -- all intended to keep him white. His human spends hours brushing and cleaning and scrubbing and rubbing. She is tireless. She is tenacious. She is ruthless with her brushes.

Poor Fluffy. When his human leaves him at the end of the day he is white again. Like the poodle whose only comfort is the dredlock under its tail the groomer missed, Fluffy's only solace is a small spot of dirt left under the widest part of his belly. He stands with his head against the wall of his stall, tail tense, ears pinned. Fluffy does not identify as white.

As evening falls and Fluffy searches for a pile of manure in his stall, he feels his inner brownness like the burning knowledge of truth. He redoubles his determination as he drifts off into a horsey doze. He dreams of bay horses frolicking in his pasture. And he is one of them.

The next day Fluffy gallops to his rolling spot in the pasture. He dives head first into the dirt. He uses his nose like an elephant's trunk to toss dirt over every square inch. He rubs his ears violently on the ground. He snorts, leaps up. Then dives in again. Bring your brushes on baby! Today I will be bay, he seems to say.

-Hey Fluffy.
-Yah Stinky?
-Check out that grass man.
-Mmmm. Yah. Pretty cool.
-I think I'm going to eat me some of that grass Stinky.
-Well how you gonna get to the other side of the fence Fluffy?
-That's a good question. I could try to jump.
-Dude. You are not that athletic. That fence has got to be 5 and a half feet high. What if you get stuck?
-Never happen. Hmm. Hey Stinky.
-Yah Fluffy.
-What if you paw at the bottom a little and see if we can loosen this wire stuff between the fence posts? Then we could try to crawl under.
-Fluffy, man, we do that and the human is going to get really pissed off. Probably never let us out here again.
-I guess you're right. But that grass might be worth it. Hmmm. Hey Stinky.
-You got another idea to get that grass?
-Yeah man. How about you and I pretend to get into a fight. We can squeal and kick. We can pretend to kick at each other but we can really be aiming for the fence. Then we can kick it down and get the grass. Whuddya think?
-Kick the fence down to get the grass? Fluffy. Dude. That sounds like a lot of work.
-Stinky, man, it's not that bad. A few well-placed punches and we are there man. In the zone. Come ON.
-Hey Fluffy. Man I'm gonna wait for the lady with the hay cart. It's almost lunch time. Chill dude.
-Man, Stinky. You are SUCH a cop out.

It starts with a yell. Oasis has learned that if you yell, the humans come out of the house to feed you. Charming. As soon as the sun gets up, Oasis gets up and yells. No use trying to go back to sleep. The windows are open, Oasis has some world-class horse lungs, and, well, what else are you going to do but go feed them? No one is sleeping through that.

As soon as the door opens, they all look to see. As soon as the first one catches sight of a human, he yells. Then they all yell. And, well, no one in this 'hood is sleeping in. (Hey, they knew they'd be out numbered when they moved here.)

The barn is a tense place in the wee hours. There's pawing and kicking. More yelling. Then biting at one another. It's basically like recess at kindergarten with 1000-plus pound 5-year-olds. This is an acquired taste, this lifestyle.

So you hope the flakes are the right weight because breaking them up or adding to them take extra time. And this is SO not ok with all the Fluffys who live very very in the moment. Especially when it's 50/50 and pick 'em if the moment involves food.

But here's the thing. An old cowboy pointed this out once, and listen up 'cause this is true. The best sound in the world is the sound of horses eating their hay. There is munching and nothing else. These guy are totally in their moment. Nothing else matters except the mass munching. This is what peace is. This is what peace sounds like. This is what soldiers on a battlefield yearn for. This is what the CEO in the traffic jam is searching for. As much as you had their attention a moment ago before you fed them, they are ignoring you now. Worthless, unimportant, human. Go back to your own house and eat your own breakfast. We have no use for you now.

A pair of fuzzy pointed ears visible over the top of a wooden wall wiggle back and forth in time with munching hay. The barn is bucolic bliss. Suddenly the sound of a foreign crunch breaks the peaceful mealtime mood. The little horse is at attention - grass hay forgotten. His back is tense, his nostrils are flared in a very pregnant pause. He is waiting with the suspense of a horror flick. Will the human eat the whole carrot or will he get a piece for himself?

Carrot: downtrodden immigrant of the vegetable world. It is at once ubiquitous and indispensable. Barely noticeable when it is there, sorely missed when it isn't, the carrot is the equivalent of equine caviar.

His mouth is watering. His large liquid eyes are lasers focused on it. Every ounce of his being is willing this thing just a few inches closer. His soft nose extends toward the human -- he can't quite feel it with his whiskers. If ever frustration had a face, this is it. In his eyes you can see that he is living the moment in the future when he can bite into it. The satisfaction of that crunch is like scratching the itchiest itch. Oh to get hold of the carrot that human is holding. . .

His binocular eyes - designed for a 360 degree field of vision -- have focused together on the smallest orange point. He has lost his prey animal instinct and has instead become the most vicious predator. His world is this carrot. Nothing else exists. And the human -- casual to the point of blasphemy -- chews as if it were an afterthought.

The human takes another agonizing bite. The horse snorts in frustration and angrily shifts his weight from one front foot to the other. As the human chews, it tentatively reaches for the ground to place the rest of the treat in front of the little horse. He quickly reaches down and snatches it up with his muzzle. He chews greedily and reaches toward the human's pocket for more before he has finished.

So Harry's back. He's got the horses upset again. As for me, I'm glad to see him. Means summer is officially here. Harry is the blue heron who shows up each year like clockwork to hunt the abundant gophers who infest this little horse ranch like pigeons in the Manhattan ferry terminal. Truth is, I wish he'd stick around all year. But I think he winters in Costa Rica or something. Smart bird.

Far as I'm concerned Harry is a pretty good guy even if he does spook the horses. He's very self possessed -- all four-and-a-half pounds of him. And the gophers! If you've never seen a blue heron impale a rodent on it's beak, well, you just haven't lived. It's like Wild Kingdom in Orinda. Right here behind the barn! I swear Harry's like a sushi chef slicing Hamachi with that thing.

Ulana, unfortunately, is unimpressed with Harry's hunting prowess. She gets upset -- like only a Dutch Warmblood can get -- that this bird is poaching her real estate. You'd think she'd get used to it by now. But every year she acts like her in-laws are visiting for three weeks or something.

So the horses get turned out. And four hours later when its time to come in, sure enough, there's Ulana still staring down Harry at what must be a very productive gopher hole. He's lunching on gopher guts alfresco. Not a care in the world. His lunch might as well be served up on silver at the Ritz. As for Ulana, she's got her knickers in a twist. Tossing her warmblood head, swishing her warmblood tail, trying to stare down Harry with her meanest Dutch Warmblood stinkeye.

Harry? He doesn't give a goopy bird poop about some big prissy horse doing her snooty song and dance over her postage stamp of real estate. A gopher hole is a gopher hole as far as he's concerned. You gotta love Harry.