The Soul of a Horse (7 page)

                  Stand and walk on firm, fresh ground, not in the chemical remnants of their own poop and pee…nor be breathing the fumes of those remnants, plus the excessive carbon dioxide that accumulates inside a closed structure

                  Get a certain amount of unstressed REM sleep, which usually will only happen when surrounded by a herd with a sentry on guard

Dr. Strasser compares the complex interaction of the equine organism in its natural surroundings to a key in a very complex lock. Alter anything on either side—grit in the lock, a corner broken off the key—and the entire system is no longer functional.

Of course, a horse who has been in a controlled temperature environment or who has been wearing a blanket has not been able to grow a winter coat and lacks the stimuli (temperature fluctuations) that trigger and strengthen the activity of the thermoregulatory system. That horse must be introduced to winter gradually. Put him out in the early spring and let his system reac-climate. He’ll then be ready for the following winter.

The only area where the horse might need a bit of help is under extremely cold conditions when it’s raining. When a horse’s coat gets soaked, and it’s really cold, and he cannot get out of the wind, his systems might become overloaded. I’ve found no hard research on this, so I say better safe than sorry. If there is no natural windbreak in the turnout or pasture, provide, perhaps, a covered windbreak where he can stay clear of rain in extremely cold weather, and he’ll be fine.

When I was standing out in the cold rain, without a raincoat, feeling sorry for my horses, I didn’t want to hear, “Your horses are fine, Joe. Leave them be.” It was difficult for me to believe, as miserable as I was feeling, that the horses weren’t miserable, too. But the truth is, they weren’t. And the things I’ve been seeing, like the horses on the trip to Idaho, always push me to learn more, to dig, to throw out the marketing-induced guilt of the barn and blanket makers, the “traditional” reasoning, and try to get to the truth. For no other reason than I care for my horses as much as they appear to care for me.

When we take control of one of these lives, when we say,
I will be responsible for this animal, his care and feeding, his health and happiness,
we tacitly promise to give him the very best care that we can. To learn everything we can about the horse, and how to give him the longest and very best life possible. Not the life
we
think he should have because that’s what
we’d
like, but the life we
know
is right because we’ve studied it and
are certain.

Yet the majority of domesticated horses in the world are kept in some sort of stall for at least part of the day/night cycle, if not all of it. Often within a closed structure, like a barn. Some stalls are bigger than others, but the vast majority of box stalls in closed structures are approximately twelve by twelve feet. The accumulation of negatives from this lifestyle is devastating to an animal born to be outside, on the move, with the herd, day and night.

The most frequent argument we’ve heard is, This isn’t a wild mustang, it’s a domesticated horse. As if the declaration “He isn’t running free” would somehow change the millions of years of genetics that have made him what he is. As if such a statement would make the ammonia from poop and pee eating away at his feet disappear; or cause his physical structure, which was built to be on the move constantly, to be suddenly fine with standing still twelve to twenty-four hours a day. As if it would make his respiratory system, which is built to be outside breathing fresh, clean air, suddenly find it healthy to breathe in ammonia and high quantities of carbon dioxide in a closed environment. The average horse breathes 62 liters of air a minute, producing 150 liters of CO
₂
per hour. And ammonia is so destructive to protein, it is actually being taken off the market in some countries.

Not being a wild mustang does not compensate for the reduced blood circulation a horse wearing metal shoes suffers while standing still in a stall. Reduced circulation in turn weakens the hoof by reducing the quality and quantity of horn produced by the hoof. And reduced circulation that doesn’t efficiently pump blood back up the legs to the rest of the body adds stress to the heart and affects the immune system.

And whether mustang or domestic, it isn’t healthy for a horse to eat from a bucket, feeder, or hay net usually hanging at table height when his body is built to eat from hoof level. Nor does being domestic negate the claustrophobia and stress he lives with on some level, caused by feeling trapped, unable to flee, alone, and bored. Never mind how willing he might be to go into the stall either because he has always been forced to or because he knows that is where the food is.

Is it any wonder that domestic horses, on average, do not have near the life span of horses in the wild?

The wonder is how so many caring, intelligent, conscientious people have remained so uninformed about what they’re doing to their horses. This information is readily available. In studies. In books. On the Internet. Backed up. In depth. With consensus.

The wild horse model works. It’s simple to create. And the horses are not only healthier, they’re happier.

Just ask Scribbles. Or Cash. Or Mariah. Or Pocket. Or Handsome. Or Skeeter.

9

Bloodlines

T
he golden stallion circled the herd, watching, waiting. It was his job to protect, but he was always keenly interested when one of his loin was to be born. In the center of the herd, the matriarch lay on her side, new birth imminent. Unlike many stallions, the palomino felt attachment. A new foal was noble, and he treated it so. Perhaps the quality of his lineage, and all that his ancestors had been through, had somehow found its way into genetic code. Or maybe it had always been there. The blood of a stallion who had traveled the entire breadth of this great land ran through his veins. And that of one who had saved his herd from shipwreck. His pride was justified. And, once again, he was passing it on.

T
HE STORM HAD
hit the small fleet the day before at dusk, unexpectedly and with vicious intensity. The ships were immediately scattered and lost contact with each other.

Swinging helplessly in his harness on the smallest of the five ships, the big stallion expected to be ripped apart at any moment by the driving forces of the crashing, breaking waves. He tried to twist around to check on his herd, but each wave came larger and more menacing than the last, smashing over the bow, sending torrential rages of angry sea across the decks. Were his mares still alive? He had no way of knowing.

Twenty-six humans were belowdecks, crammed into a space barely large enough for ten, and they were all violently ill. If not from the turbulent sea, then from the vomit of those less sturdy. Fifteen horses were swinging like wind chimes from the rigging of the ship. One mare had slammed into the gunwale and fractured a leg. It was miraculous that, so far, hers was the only severe injury. But the palomino stallion knew none of that.

Another explosive onslaught of foaming seawater drove his feet off the deck and slammed him toward the rail, testing the strength of his harness. He managed to lift his legs and swing clear of the gunwale. He knew he was going to die but not without a fight. He snatched at one of the rigging ropes supporting him. It would be better to be in the sea.

Across the big ocean, he had often swum in the sea before he was captured. He and his entire herd. It was a sad day when they had been caught off guard. A day just like this one, with no expectation that humans would be about. The beach, with waves crashing and winds blowing, had seemed a safe place. But when the humans appeared, there had only been two options. Swim into a sea as stormy as this one or run for a small canyon and hope for the best. The matriarch had taken her only real choice, but the best didn’t happen.

The stallion was descended from proud Arabian stock brought to Spain after the Crusades, and his mares were mixed with his blood and that of the Barb. And now, because he had not protected them well, they would all surely die.

Suddenly he felt the small ship lurch sideways and lumber into the trough between two huge swells. He struggled to look toward the helmsman, but no one was there! No one was steering the ship! He felt himself rise and he knew what was coming. The boat was drawn upward into the vicious curl of a breaker three times its size.

There was a loud slap and the stallion seemed to fly through the air. Then a crack and everything was black. Black, and cold, and wet. He suddenly realized that his legs were churning and he was free of his harness. He held his breath as the raging water swirled around him. And he churned his legs, reaching upward, reaching for air.

That he knew which way was up was a mystery. But that he was free was a miracle. The ship had smashed onto a shoal, then been lifted and flipped like a leaf in the wind, turning totally over; the loose ballast, stores and cargo that normally lay in the bilge and kept the boat upright, had crashed through the cabin sole and would keep the little ship upside down.

The big stallion’s head bobbed above the crest of a breaking wave. Suddenly there was air! Air to breathe! A huge wave of cold, green water slapped him in the face, but he didn’t care. He had air and he could swim. And there was land! He could smell it. And he could tell it wasn’t very far away.

That night thirteen horses slept on the beach of what would one day be called Shackleford Banks, North Carolina. They slept longer and deeper than horses usually sleep, and before dawn a large palomino stallion had them moving across the dunes into a stand of trees. Before the day was out, they found one additional horse from the ship, leaving only one who had not made it. The matriarch. Her shattered leg had left her unable to swim. In time she would be replaced. But for now, all had eaten heartily of the abundant marsh grass and had traveled the length of the seven-mile island. They even ran for a brief spell, kicking up their heels and tossing their heads. They had no idea where they were, but they knew they were alone.

And safe.

With food.

And the stallion was pleased.