Breakfast With Mama - part 2

By Kathy Johnson, Executive Director, MHP

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Weeks Five and Six

This story may not end happily ever after. I long ago learned that the hardest horse to train was an unbroken broodmare. She was set in her ways. She knew her job, raising babies, and that was it. She didn't know what she didn't know and worse than that, she didn't care. She was great at what she did, being the boss of the herd. She protected. And the broodmare's job, especially the alpha mare's, was to take care of herself, first and foremost. If she did not take care of herself, she could not take care of her foals or the rest of the herd. Dealing with these mares in the past, I found that everything took longer than with a younger horse. Their bodies were fully developed and not only were they physically stronger than young horses, they were mentally tougher. Although I've worked with rank geldings, green stallions and wild mustangs, the most dangerous moments with horses were with the older broodmares. The old saying was to tell a gelding, ask a stallion and negotiate with a mare. In Mama's case, I resorted to begging and pleading.

The layers I had to peel through ran deeper than any horse I had known. Mama was not only untrained, but untouchable. She was the alpha mare. She was a range mare, unaccustomed to human contact. On top of all that she endured trauma and abuse. She was livestock, fattened up for slaughter like a cow. Although she wasn't starved, she was malnourished and full of parasites. I imagined her last few months on the auction circuit, trapped in small pens with hundreds of horses, fighting for hay and water for herself and her filly. Humans might look down on her from the catwalk above, or line the chutes, quick with a stick or a cattle prod to hurry the herd along. I imagined the constant coming and going of horses, the cries of the frightened and the stench of diarrhea from the nervous. There would be no safe place. But horses have an incredibly Zen-like ability to live so in the moment they can adjust instantly to their surroundings. Mama knew how to be quiet when it was safe to be quiet. She knew to rest when she could, and to save her strength for the real battles.

According to Snowy River, Mama and Sasha followed the auction circuit. When they didn't sell at one, they were goaded through a chute, clattering up a ramp onto a double-decker trailer pulled by a semi, a stock trailer more suitable for cattle and pigs. Jammed together with 60 or so horses, Mama fought to keep Sasha close to her, flank to flank, flesh on flesh. Sasha was the only thing she knew and taking care of Sasha her sole purpose. Hurtling down the highway at 60 miles an hour, Mama had to adapt again. Surely she watched and wondered at the world passing by in a blur, the strange smells filtering through the slants of the trailer, the sounds of the road vibrating through her hooves.

No wonder her instincts sat so close to the surface. No wonder he hyper-vigilence. No wonder the fight for her live when Sasha was ripped from her side. Since Mama has been at Medicine Horse, people noticed her standing quietly. They saw her sometimes friendly attempts to approach people, her Zen-like calm, and her strong stoicism. "Surely she has been handled before," they said, "she must know something."

If she did, if she ever knew the touch of a human hand in kindness, it was buried so deeply she would have to reach far back for it, back perhaps to her first days as a foal, perhaps back to a past life. I actually felt better if she had never been handled. If she had never trusted, then her fear and anger were normal. If she had once known and loved people, then her trust had been broken violently and irrevocably. I felt unspeakable sadness and despair that could ever help her trust again. I wanted to know more about her. At the same time, I was afraid to find out.

For clues, I could only read her body language and her body itself. Her body language was clear: stay away. The facts were: she did not go in a stall or eat from buckets. She ran from the rattle of grain and the human voice. She did not eat anything except hay and grass. The movement of a human hand sent her skittering. The touch of a human hand sent her bolting. All spelled fear, which I translated as unfamiliarity. Either way, becoming familiar with us, having a consistent schedule and safe place were key Mama to be safe with humans and for humans to be safe with Mama. The closer I could get to her, the more I could examine her body. Her belly was distended, indicating at least one foal. Her bag was still full, so Sasha had still been nursing. Her hooves were perfectly shaped and hard as rock. Either a master blacksmith had been at work, or she had terrific mustang feet, worn down from living outside and moving constantly. Her mane had windknots starting at the crest. It had not been combed for 3 or 4 years, if ever. The most telling clues were the glyphs on her left side, big, burned in brands, each four inches on her left shoulder and her left hip.

I recognized the brands because I had seen them before on the beautiful buckskin coat of one the best ponies in the world, The Dylan Pony, a champion hunter. Dylan had been shown all over America including the U.S. Pony Finals. Dylan was bought off the Navaho reservation where he was a breeding stallion. He was quickly trained to jump, and then began a very successful show career. He had a great heart and a kind soul. Perhaps hundreds of children in Colorado took their first riding lessons sand their first jumps on Dylan.

Mama shared a similar beginning and similar brands as Dylan. I knew the "N" on her left shoulder meant she was a Navajo bred pony. The "bar N" meant she came from the New Mexico area. The "L" on her hip was the grazing territory. And the "LU" underneath were her owner's initials. I did more research and found the phone number for the Navajo Department of Agriculture. I'm surprised it wasn't branded on her side with everything else. The website where I found the number actually said this:

"The Navajo Dept. of Agriculture can help you locate the family where your dream horse got its brand. Chances are there are more like it on their ranch."

Dreamhorse? More like a nightmare. One was plenty and Sasha made two. I left a message with the Navajo Department of Agriculture for more information on Mama.

Mama surprised me often. She watched everything. At first the whites of her eyes flashed, her ears flickered nervously and her stance set for flight. More and more, she watched people with a great deal of curiosity, eyes soft, ears forward. She examined anything left in her run, pushing it over with nose. Despite my misgivings about older broodmares, she began to show signs of all the things I like about mares, who are actually my favorite horses to own. She was loving with some foals. She treated Sasha with firm kindness. When they were turned back out together, Mama would not let Sasha nurse again, but she never hurt her. Mama was loyal. She adopted little Soxx as her own, and played surrogate mother to the rescued weanling Arab. Mama was intelligent. Within a few days, she knew me from other people. When I scolded her for kicking at the other foals, she stopped instantly and moved away without fear.

One day I was working on the far side of the property. I glanced over and saw Mama looking up, straight up, her muzzle high in the air, like a sun guzzling llama. I moved closer to see what she was doing. Her body was at ease, she rested one foot, but she was staring intensely up. As I moved closer, I looked up. A great air balloon was hovering above the barns. It blew air like a fire breathing dragon. Other horses danced, whinnied and bolted. But Mama faced this wonder with calm courage. Yes, Mama was alpha, tough-minded, untouched, untrained, traumatized and abused. She was also curious, loyal, intelligent and courageous.

I went on vacation and was gone for a week. I got a call back from the Navajo Department of Agriculture. They referred me to the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The first office I called told me they didn't handle the "L" brand; another agency did. They gave me 5 more agencies to try. I left messages.

When I went back to the Foal Barn for the first time, it seemed like maybe Mama missed me. Maybe she missed her sweet feed. For the first time, she stuck her head through the bars of the stalls and gave a sweet, soft nicker. She had a beautiful voice, a strangely high pitched guttural song of several syllables when she wanted feed. She could do voice-overs in horse cartoons. When I approached her run, not only did she stick her head through the bars, she gave me a gentle shove with her nose. It was the first time she reached out for me, not for the food. I had new hopes that I might make progress.

I arranged her feed bucket to hang from the run, leaving me with two hands to pet her. The fence between us was a barrier I didn't mind. One problem of training with feed is that many horses become food territorial. Some become angry if you stand too close or don't bring the food quickly enough. I didn't mind having a little breathing room, because Mama was awfully quick with to swing her hindquarters and lash out with her hind legs. It was better, and I was cautiously optimistic. The most important thing was that Mama understood I was communicating. She was waiting and watching for signals. If she swung her tail toward me, I lifted my hands or hat, said, "Come around" and shooed her haunches back in line. When I first tried that, she bolted. After a few weeks, she stepped under quietly and put her haunches back in line.

It was as if the days off made her crave attention. Did she miss me? Probably not. But she missed the interaction, the communication and the sweet feed. She walked toward me in the paddock. She allowed me to scratch her neck when she was eating grain. She came eagerly to the front of the stall when I called her. When I haltered the foals, she watched every movement. It was time to introduce the halter. The first time it accidentally touched her shoulder, she ran to the back of her run. I put the halter in the feed bucket and waited. Mama stuck her head in, no problem. I held the halter up. Mama put her nose right through the loop. It was too soon to have an intention to halter. I was simply desensitizing her to straps around her face. She leaped away when the strap went behind her ears. I formed a loop at the top of the halter and after about 10 tries actually pushed her ears through. I planned about 2 weeks of holding the halter while she ate before actually attempting to put the halter on. Getting a halter on was a huge goal. But I had no idea what I would do with a 700 pound frightened adult horse once that halter was on.

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