On the Back of a Horse

The question of whether horses themselves can dissociate had been burning in my mind ever since that day in my professor’s office, and as I watched Bill step back and light another cigarette, I pondered how to pose the question without sounding confused.

“Give him a minute,” he said, flicking the ashes in the sand.

I reached down and gave Flying Cat a pat on the neck. He caught his breath stretching his neck down as I released the reins. I turned and looked over at the gymnastic we had just jumped through. It was the biggest we had ever jumped. Bill, my coach, had been slowly raising the jumps and making them wider with each time through. Then he would make us wait. He insisted that horses need “time to think.” He’d watch Cat closely, and after adjusting the jumps, send us through the gymnastic again.

I never questioned Bill, and when he said it was time to go, I knew Cat was ready. Sixty seven years old, about 5’11’ and of a slight build, Bill had accomplished more in his lifetime than most trainers can ever hope to. It was not hard to notice the way people in the horse business regarded him – with a sense of awe. Yet, having trained horses his whole life, he never went anywhere without a healthy dose of humility, a straw hat, and cigarette. Forever the storyteller, he loved to recount how he got into show jumping in the first place. He had started out training reining horses, the kind that run, spin and slide. Yet, over time, his reputation for being able to work with any horse spread. He could turn an obstreperous rogue into a polished show horse. Yet when a customer brought over a rangy looking Thoroughbred, Bill promptly told him that Thoroughbreds are not reining horses. They are not built for the fast spins and slides like Quarter horses. They’re too tall and their center of gravity is too high. But the customer pleaded. Every trainer around had rejected the horse and Bill was his last stop. Bill took a look at the horse, a tall, bay gelding. The customer told him that he had bucked off every other trainer and he didn’t know what to do with him. “What does he like to do?” Bill asked.

“Well he seems to like jumping out of his pen. I can’t keep him anywhere,” he answered.

A little smile came across Bill’s lips as he told the story. He always liked a rogue.

Well what became of that rogue is recorded in Olympic history. His name was Fleet Apple. He was on the 1968 US Olympic Show Jumping team. And he never did learn how to turn. When the chef d’equip of the team called Bill to tell him that they couldn’t turn the horse, Bill chuckled. “He turns off the leg. If you use the rein, he locks his jaw. It’s an old reining trick.” There was a pause on the line, “Oh, oh, okay. We’ll try that.” Bill could tell the team captain had never heard of such a thing.

Being innovative in his training methods was only one thing Bill was known for. It was due largely to his efforts that grand prix competition was brought to California. Previous to that, grand prix events only existed on the east coast. There wasn’t even an organization for horse show competition until Bill and many others began advocating for one. What started as a group of trainers, judges, and riders became known as the Pacific Coast Horseman’s Association, now one of the largest equestrian organizations in the nation.

I had begun working with Bill three years before, when a horse show judge suggested that he could help with my “rogue” thoroughbred, Keeper. From the time I started with him, Bill’s knowledge of horses amazed me. He literally thought like a horse.

I walked Cat a little closer to where he was standing, resting one arm on the jump standard. “Hey Bill, do you think horses can tell if people are dissociating?” I asked.

He looked at me quizzically. “If they’re what?”

“You know – like, not there emotionally.”

“Well they’re herd animals.” He looked at me as if this, in itself, answered the question.

“What does that mean?” I had never before thought about what it would mean to be a herd animal.

“That’s how they look at people, too, like part of the herd.”

“How would that make them able to tell what going on with people emotionally?” I still didn’t understand this.

“Because that’s how a herd relates-all on the same emotional level. If one horse gets upset, they all get upset. If one gets nervous, they all get nervous.” He pulled his arm off of the standard, and walked toward the edge of the ring. He returned with a small branch he had picked up off the ground, “Let me show you something.” He took out his cigarette lighter and lit the branch. It immediately began to burn, creating a bright orange flame and a plume of smoke. Cat started to back up. His eyes went wide as he caught sight of the flame. He snorted, turning his head side to side to get another look at it. Bill just stood still holding the simmering branch in front of him as Cat continued backing up nervously. He had gone from resting quietly to a palpable panic.

“Hear that?” he asked.

I turned my head toward the barn hidden behind the house. Keeper, my rogue thoroughbred, was neighing nervously. I listened again. Another neigh. It sounded like Sylvie, one of the mares in the pasture on the other side of the house. Then another, and another. Soon, a chorus of neighs surrounded us.

I looked at Bill, standing there still holding the branch, with a grin on his face. “Now how did those other horses know Cat was nervous?” he asked.

The barn and the pasture were both at least 400 meters from the arena, too far out of earshot to hear the small crackling of the branch, or even the snort Cat let out. Nor could the small amount of smoke generated by the flame be detected at that distance. “I have no idea. How did they?”

“They feel it. Because they are all on the same emotional wavelength, when one member gets nervous, it affects the emotional flow of the herd.”

I had read that certain animals, like birds or fish, could communicate like this. Without actually seeing the leader of a flock, an individual bird could sense the directional changes of the flock. Another study found that schools of fish when placed in adjacent tanks, separated by a barrier entirely blocking their sight, continued to swim in the same direction, as if there were no barrier. Even though they could no longer see the other fish, or sense the current changes created by the swimming pattern, they continued to swim in the same direction.

But these were directional changes. What had just happened here involved an emotional connection between all of the horses; without being able to see, hear, or smell any trace of Cat’s panic, the other horses had nonetheless felt it.“It’s like a sixth sense,” I said, looking at Cat as he watched Bill put out the branch.

“Sort of, yeah.”

I thought back to the conversation in my professor’s office. “So horses don’t repress their emotions?” I asked

He looked at me quizzically again, “They don’t what?”

“They don’t push their emotions away. You know, like try to not feel them.”

“They can’t. See all of those horses that were just neighing, they didn’t know why they were neighing. It was just instinctual. They knew something was wrong. It’s how they keep themselves safe.”

So if Cat actually had been in danger, the herd would have known about it and responded, I thought to myself. It made so much sense. That’s why horses don’t hide their emotions, because the herd will always respond to them. Even if they don’t know why something is wrong, they will respond anyway. So there is never a need to hide their emotions.

I flipped back to that day I decided to ride Nimo for the first time. I could see him standing in his pen, staring at me intently. I wondered what he seemed to notice that I didn’t.