Getting To Know Shyloh… Again Part 2

Six years had passed since I last set eyes on Shyloh. I knew I would recognize her immediately because her pretty and refined head, her soft and welcoming eyes, and her distinctive markings – a white diamond on her forehead, snip just above her nose, and stocking on her left rear foot – were blazed in my memory. Whether she would remember me was the question. I certainly knew better than to hope for a movie moment where she lifts her head, stamps her feet and whinnies in recognition. As close as we had once been, I was hopeful that something would pass between us that would let me know she hadn’t completely forgotten me.

The horse standing in the back of a three-horse slant trailer was a shadow of the Shyloh I remembered. Shyloh was a sorrel whose coat used to shine like burnished copper; the horse in the trailer was almost a dirty brown in color. I knew she hadn’t been exercised but I’d hoped that, living a more natural life in a pasture with other horses, her love of running might have kept her in reasonable shape. But the cost of inactivity and stress of carrying a foal every two years had taken a toll that showed in a lack of muscle-tone, a sagging back line, bony withers and a barrel of a belly. As for her eyes, they were as glazed as if she were sedated.

As if that weren’t enough, as I walked around her I noticed that a brand –- RS - had been seared into the hide of her right rear flank with an iron heated until it was red hot. The initials that signaled ownership were not mine.

It was as if the years of giving life to foals had drained her of her own vitality. But it wouldn’t be that way for long if I had any say in the matter. And as I led her to her stall I stroked her and whispered, “It’s okay, Shy. You’re home.”

I probably didn’t have to take the re-orientation as slow as I did. But I wanted to go step-by-step and savor the getting-to-know-her-again. The next day I soaped her up and gave her a good bath. I went in search of a saddle that fit her. I introduced her to the dogs - the Ruff Riders, as we call them. Four “pound pups” who would quickly learn to appreciate the arrival of a horse if only for the “table scraps”. Who knew dogs like molasses-flavored sweet feed almost as much as horses do?

It was time to take her for a walk around the neighborhood. But before I did I wanted to see how many of the basics of handling she’d forgotten. Shyloh had always been a well-behaved horse. Would she require intensive re-training?

On my Santa Fe ranch, when I turned her out to graze, she was never a problem to catch. Often, when she saw me coming and calling her name, she would start my way. Now, in the corral, as I approached her with a lead rope in hand, she didn’t turn away, but neither did she acknowledge me.

Once I had a halter on her I shook the lead rope and asked her to go “Back.” She did, taking several steps backwards without my having to place a hand on her chest and pressing. The moment I stopped, she stopped.

“Good girl,” I said, pleasantly surprised.

I gave her a pat before pulling lightly on the rope and putting my hand on her hindquarters. She moved so quickly into a spin I wondered if she was reacting to something other than me. But when I did the same from the other side and she reacted just as quickly, a big grin came across my face. She had moved exactly as I wanted.

We stood still beside each other, doing nothing for a couple of minutes, which with some horses is easier said than done. Then I let her know how proud of her I was by rubbing her ears.

We live on a dirt road in an area that was county land not long ago. Here and there neighbors board their own horses and all around there are still sections of undeveloped Sonoran Desert that are home only to rabbits, javelina and coyote. Taking Shyloh on a tour reminded me how she’d always been a curious horse, quick to notice anything new. She woke up on the walk, taking in every house we passed like she was committing it to memory. Her ears kept twitching and at first I didn’t know why. Then I realized what was going on: Arizona birds sing different songs than New Mexico birds, and she was recording new tunes.

What she seemed to have the hardest time accepting were the trash receptacles rolled out to the head of driveways. She spooked at every one as if they were spacemen that had landed during the night.

With each passing day Shyloh seemed to relax into her new surroundings. Her appetite picked up. She became comfortable when I groomed her. There were times now when I called her name and her head would turn or lift as if in response to a familiar sound on the breeze. Going down the road, when I broke into a jog she would move off in a trot that kept pace. I wanted to be careful not to project feelings onto her that weren’t there, but I began to feel that she genuinely looked forward to the walks we took each morning and evening.

We still had a ways to go. But one warm early dusk, after a long walk that began with the sun going down and ended with the moon coming up, I decided it was time to go for a ride. 

To be continued….