The Best Travel Writing 2011 - James O'Reilly [103]
The charging animals stopped short as if I’d reached out and held them back. They didn’t stay still for long, snorting and tossing their heads, looking for weakness. I held my ground and kept my hands up. Staying close together, the horses began circling the dogs and I tightly, in hurried canters, eyes rolling, ears pinned back against their heads. I turned with them, hands still raised and talked to them softly. After a few passes, their ears relaxed and I felt their tension ease. I lowered my hands and the two of them came to a stop a short distance away and faced me. The whole dance had probably lasted no more than a minute or two.
I stood still for a minute, catching my breath, watching the horses. They were unkempt but beautiful, as wild horses always are. The chestnut took a step towards me and I raised my hands again, stopping him. I wanted to touch him, to run my fingers over his rough coat, but even more so, I wanted him to stay wild. Stepping forward I said loudly but evenly, “You two are lovely, but you’d better give us some space.” The horses took a few steps back together, side-by-side, in pace with my advance. I stopped and so did they, their eyes softer now, ears forward, watching and listening to me, more curious than aggressive or afraid.
Then one of the dogs whined, reminding me both were still crowded around my feet. I waved them on ahead, keeping myself between the dogs and the horses. I faced the horses another moment to make sure they were going to let the dogs go, but they ignored them and kept watching me. I studied their blazed faces and long whiskers and watched recognition come into their eyes. I wondered if they were remembering a person they trusted long ago, before their wilding. Slowly, I lowered my hands, turned my back to them and walked away, continuing down the path towards home. As we headed across the open field, every few steps I glanced back, and each time the horses were still standing where I left them, still watching, still wild, letting us walk away.
Communicating with unruly horses is an artform that I began studying at an early age. I grew up in Strasburg, Pennsylvania in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country. When I was twelve, I bought a pony, complete with cart and harness, at auction. An Amishman I knew gave me a quick driving lesson on the spot, told me to stick to back roads, and sent me home at the reins. My parents were shocked, of course. But I had taken riding lessons for years and knew how to handle a horse. I named the little red mare Saturday, put her up in a big stall in our big red barn and grazed her in circles in the backyard on a dog tie.
My pony, cart and I fit right in on Strasburg’s already rutted country roads and in time, Saturday and I drove up and down all of them. Once, in town, Saturday untied herself from a hitching post and set off on her own for home. An Amishman who recognized my rig and managed to catch her said she’d been following the rules of the road “like a proper pulling horse.”
At home, however, Saturday was not at all proper. Somebody in her past had been cruel to her and she had gone past the point of cowering and had learned to fight back. The first time I entered her roomy stall, she pinned her ears and charged. I spent weeks earning her trust, feeding her carrots and apples and her favorite treat: hard candy. I soon discovered that while Saturday feared space between us, she loved to be touched. I learned how to sidle up next to her shoulder,