.... As movement caught his attention, his ears shot forward, even though they didn’t tell him anything, and he looked intently in her direction. She had stood up and seemed to be looking at him. She stared for a while and then came toward him. He shifted uneasily, expecting another round of more of the same confusion and pressure from her. But as she approached, he sensed a difference in her attitude. The jumbled feeling of annoyance coming from her earlier that had scared him seemed to have changed. In fact, she was smiling at him and talking to him, as she approached and then reached through the gate.

He pulled back, but only far enough to avoid her touch. He didn’t walk away, but dipped his head as he blew several times, a nervous reaction that bought time to decipher the changes he was sensing. She opened the gate quietly, entered and turned to drop the pin back in place as she shut it. She stood there with her back to him for a minute or two. This piqued his curiosity and he stepped a little closer, not enough to be within range, but closer.

She turned and he backed away. His knowing told him she knew he had moved toward her. She seemed to ignore this and went to the center of the round pen and bent down to pick up the halter and lead line and then seemed to think better of it. Straightening up, she looked at him. He was looking at her, studying her. Something was different.

She moved toward him, stepping to one side so she wasn’t coming right at his face where he couldn’t see her very well. She stopped and looked at him, each of them using their radar to assess the other’s attitude. He didn’t move. She stepped closer, not reaching for his head but moving toward his shoulder. He felt relief – that grabbing for the head motion was all about being caught and hurt. He remembered the tight halter that was left on him all the time so that someone could catch hold of him. He felt her hand ever so gently graze the outer hairs of his wooly winter coat. It almost felt like a breeze. He snorted as the panic rose inside of him, his whole body sense entirely focused on her. She was talking and felt quiet inside. He stood there and let her take one step closer to stroke him on the shoulder, inching up his neck. As she reached forward, that ancient and ever-present bolt of fear shot through him, causing him to lurch as he jumped away from her. He could see that it shot right through her, too, as she flinched and pulled back. He sidestepped, moving away, but not so far as to show that he might run. He wanted to run, but in the round pen it didn’t do any good, he’d just come back to where he started.

She approached him again and they started over. He saw she still had nothing in her hand to catch him with. They repeated the same thing again and again; that electrical bolt of fear always so close to the surface. It was hard to suppress. But she just danced with him as the anxiety drained out before starting over. He watched her walk around the pen with her head looking down, exhaling and he moved sideways in a mincing, prancing movement, away from her, blowing, releasing his fear. Sometimes as she moved toward him, he’d snort and blow and she’d pull back a step. He’d turn his head telling her that she could come back into his space. As she did, he felt his fear rising, but each time they repeated this cycle he was less inclined to run.

After one of these moments, he watched her turn and leave the round pen, heading for her trailer. She was carrying some carrots in her hand when she returned.

                     ~~~~~

As I walked back to Red in the round pen, I thought out loud, "Jeez, I had no idea what time it was. Glad I had a free day. I think we’re getting somewhere. I feel different and so does he."

I stuck the carrots in my back pocket, opened the gate and closed it behind me. The big horse looked curious. I smiled at him which somehow let the tension slip away between us. I approached him to repeat the exercise. At the end of several passes, I gave him a carrot. He snuffled it before taking it. Listening and drifting in my thoughts as he chewed, I found it interesting that he didn’t like apples. They just sat in his feed bin while Jewel slobbered hers up as fast as she could.

As I drifted for a moment, my hand quietly on his neck, standing close to this huge animal, letting the pressure of the training subside, I thought about these two horses of mine, amazed that these wonderful animals had found their way back into my life. What a blessing. I had been forced to let them go for so very long.

As I felt his warm breath on my neck, it brought me back to the present. I smiled as I congratulated myself on my patience. I was now ready to quit, let the pressure go. Maybe we’d done enough. But as I caught that thought flying through my brain, I realized this was my resistance to change surfacing. This was not the right moment to quit but just the right time to press on and build on the little moments of trust he had shown. I was rewarding the try, as trainer and author Mark Rashid recommended in one of his books written in such an appealing way. Considering the Horse, yes, that was the title. Reward the try. That’s what was happening. "I need to reward my own try. Not by quitting but by intentionally moving toward the goal," I heard myself mumble out loud as if talking emphatically aloud somehow drove it home.

I knew I didn’t have much longer before this was going to be overkill. Long training sessions didn’t generally accomplish much. In fact, I’d read about how Cavalia had been training their horses in ten minute slots…the rest was play in between. What that horse extravaganza, a spin off of Cirque de Soliel, had accomplished in horse-human interaction was nothing short of amazing.

I roused myself. Red was standing near me. Waiting. More carrots? "Well, we move ahead first," I said as I projected my thoughts at him. "Can we get the halter on today?"

As I moved away from him with the intent of getting the halter, I found him making a slight effort to move with me and I could feel in my gut that join-up feeling, that thread of connection, of willingness Monty Roberts speaks of. "Come on," I said as I turned back to look at him. "This is good. Another step. Yes." I turned around, moving toward his shoulder to stroke him and encourage him quietly. I really wanted to be effusive but thought that might tip the scales the wrong way. He stood still, accepting the touch.

I moved again and heard him shuffling along a step or so behind. I felt elated. And the more I thought about how I was feeling, I tried to communicate it to this horse, hoping not to hit one of those sudden moments when that electric zing of his panic shot through me, heading one or both of us into anxiety or fear. I was getting better at not responding. It amazed me how this came out of nowhere. Outwardly he showed no signs of any change. It came so fast that there was no time to second guess it, to steel against it, and prevent looping it back to him. But none came. I felt clear with him.

By the time I had reached for the halter and lead rope in the center of the ring, I had lost him. I wasn’t surprised. A few steps were enough, I thought, as I slid the halter over my right shoulder, making it more a part of me rather than holding it in my hand. I unclipped the lead rope and dropped it, figuring less equipment was better.

I moved back to him. He looked at me with wariness, but didn’t move away. I knew he saw the halter. He wasn’t dumb. If I was ever going to ride him, all this groundwork was the foundation, the basis for our relationship. Without it there was nothing. At the thought of riding him, I glanced down at his front hoof. It was so close to normal now. One more trim. The idea of riding excited me but carried its own new layer of fear. Talk about moving into your growing edges, I thought.

I reached out for his shoulder in exactly the same way I had been. Turning his head slightly to keep the halter in full view, he eyed me carefully. I stroked him again and again, talking to him, running my hand over the areas that I thought were safe. He relaxed, lowering his head slightly, pulling back from flight mode. I gave him a carrot and started the procedure again. This time as I stroked him, I shifted the halter from one shoulder to the other. He danced around at the change in movement, but let me approach again. Another carrot.

I felt the tension rise in my body as I thought about holding the halter in a position that would signal my intent to put it on him. He picked up on the thought immediately and started to pull away. I breathed into the feeling and let it dissipate and he relaxed again. His head was barely turned and I could see his dark liquid eye with the worry wrinkles rising over it intently following every movement. There was an electric sense that his entire body had eyes. Standing there facing his massive brown shoulder, my head just clearing the top of his withers, I continued to stroke him and visualized putting the halter on very slowly, about leading him back to the stable and letting him go with Jewel. As I stood there quieting myself, I longed to lean against his fuzzy brown shoulder, to hold him in some way, to breathe in his wonderful smell and just listen to his pain, letting him release it. I waited to feel relaxed as I continued to touch him and saw him drop his head into a trance that would last only as long as I stayed motionless. The thought struck me as simple but monumental - he liked being touched this way. This was a new thing for him. He’d never known this kind of trance-producing stroking from a human and the kindness it represented. "Well, come to think of it, neither have I," I heard myself mumble aloud and felt that familiar sting of tears.

As I prepared to try putting on the halter, I turned slightly toward his head, alerting him to change. His head came up along with his awareness, but he stood there. Slowly, with no attempt to hide it, I slid the halter off my shoulder while I leaned in against him, trying to stay in contact and keep the quiet peacefulness between us. He didn’t move.

As I opened the halter, I had to step toward his head and break contact with him. He accepted this. I held the halter open in front of him, he moved his head toward it, then snorted and pulled back. I stood there with it held out still, not moving. "Let it be his choice," I said aloud, "let it be his choice."

In concert with my thoughts, he thrust his massive head into the halter again and I slowly drew it up over his nose. He didn’t try to bolt although I could sense his rising tension. I put all my energy into being aware of what I was doing while at the same time paying attention to not only what he was doing but what he might do and most importantly, what I was feeling. If I could stay quiet inside, I thought, he’d let me strap the thing on him. He lowered his huge head, as if in supplication and I flipped the strap back behind his ears and ran it through the buckle.

"My god, we did it, Red, we did it. WE did it, together. Thank you, big boy. Thank you." A surge of pleasure passed through me. As small an accomplishment as this was, for an abused horse to assist by lowering his head into the halter noseband was a monumental piece of the trust that was being built. This was more than just a response to training. This was willingness.

I slowly walked him around the pen a half turn holding the halter until I was sure he’d come with me and not bolt. I leaned down for the lead line and his head came with me. I clipped it on. With only a moment’s hesitation at the gate for safety, I walked him out, moving slowly, moving in any way other than the rough way he was used to.