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Trailering Ms. Raudhetta

When you acquire a young horse, you pretty much get a blank slate. Then too, some things are learned and then later relearned. At times, it seems like nothing comes easy, including learning to trailer load. I wrote the following narrative on February 1, 2009, a few days after Raudi refused to trailer load.

I knew zip about training horses when I purchased Raudi and Siggi. But I figured that I’d be able to home school both because I had a teaching degree. Like the good educator, I sought out a philosophical approach that complemented my beliefs about horse behavior and cognition. TTeam training fit the bill because of its decided emphasis on respect for the horse. I also appreciated the fact that the TTeam philosophy takes into consideration where the horse is coming from, both physically and mentally.

My curriculum has been dependent on my horses’ previous schooling, physical and emotional state of being, and current educational needs. My program isn’t outcome-based – if a horse doesn’t “get it” I abandon that lesson and return to it at another time or take a differing approach. I’m the teacher and the horse is the student.

As a graduate student, I was required to write up philosophy of teaching statements. Old habits die hard. I periodically revise my equine teaching philosophy. The other day, when I opened my journal, the statement “I’m the teacher and the horses are the students” leapt out at me. I grabbed my pen, crossed out the above and wrote, “I’m a teacher and a student both.”

My dealings with Raudhetta are a case in point. My five-year-old mare has always been a self-serving, and extremely willful individual. At eight months of age, she gorged herself on a bag of birdseed. The tell-tale blue line on Raudi’s gums indicated that she had toxic shock syndrome, which in extreme cases is fatal. But much to the amazement of her breeder and veterinarian, Raudi pulled through.

I bought her as a yearling, and then taught her the basics, some of which included walk, trot, whoa, and stand. I was very pleased with how, after two training sessions, she hopped into and out of the trailer. I became less pleased when she climbed into the trailer with me on her back. I dealt with this potential problem by teaching her the wait command.

I’ve always been happiest when I’ve been on the move. I’ve since squelched the feelings of anxiety that have come with being rooted by young horses by repeatedly reminding myself that I’ll someday ride from Canada to Mexico. When this past March rolled around, my heart was filled with great joy, for after four years of waiting, my little red mare and I were finally going places. Our first seasonal trek was to the big horse arena, where I’d scheduled our preliminary riding lesson. Raudi balked, but five minutes later, got in our two-horse trailer.

The lesson went well, but after our lesson, she refused to load back up. I immediately became unglued, as did Raudi. She put her head up into the air and I set my jaw. Hindsight is an asset, but only after the fact. I should have put a body wrap on Raudi and began doing T-Touches. I instead pulled repeatedly on the lead rope and encouraged Pete to push on her rump. A half-hour later, I conceded to Pete and well-meaning friends (lesson observers) that yes, it was getting dark, the roads were freezing up, and we should go ahead and use a strap to push in her rear end. I shut my eyes lightly and pictured Raudi rearing up and falling over backwards. Hearing the sounds that accompany a successful loading (Clomp, clomp, bang, bang.) I opened my eyes. Pete, moving fast, shut and latched the rear doors. Moving equally as fast, I jumped up on the wheel well, and made sure she was okay. Everyone but me then cheered because I, and not they, had seen The Look. In a manner of speaking, Raudi said “Mark my words—you outwitted me once, but this will never, ever happen again.”

On the drive home, I mentioned to Pete that our two-horse straight load trailer was, for reasons that were unbeknownst to me, not to Raudi’s liking. Therefore, we needed an aluminum Featherlite two-horse slant, like the one our friend Nick had. Pete immediately vetoed my suggestion.

“Okay, then let’s buy a stock horse trailer.”

“No.” Pete reiterated.

“Why not?”

“Because we don’t have the money.”

“I can cash in my retirement funds.”

“Oh no you can’t.”

“Oh yes I can. It’s my money.”

“But you have no guarantee that Raudi will get into a $25,000 stock trailer.”

“A $3,000 trailer is being advertised on Craig’s List. All it needs are a paint job and a new floor. Let’s go home, put Raudi away, and check it out.”

“Where is it?” Pete said, feigning interest.

“In Homer.”

“I’m not driving 300 miles to check out a trailer. You’re just going to have
to keep working with her.”

“Oh, and by the way, Raudi’s also requested that I purchase her a Hybrid Sensation saddle. She claims that it will be more comfortable on long trail rides than her Sensation trail-dressage saddle.”

“What Raudi wants, Raudi gets,” Pete said wearily.”

As we pulled into the driveway, our conversation ground to an abrupt halt. Pete backed the trailer into place, and I unloaded Queen Raudi, who with a toss of her ample forelock, greeted her waiting stablemates. Once in the pen, she and Siggi engaged in a furious session of social grooming. In Raudi’s mind, this trailer business was a done deal. In my mind, it was far from over. A late-evening library/internet search revealed that there are currently 34 books, 75 videos, and over 150 articles on the subject of trailering. Reading the advice of many, some of whom included Cherry Hill, John Lyons, Clinton Anderson, Tom Dorrance, Shawna Karresh, and Linda Tellington Jones got me to thinking that a willing loader was indeed a rare animal. Rare, but not non-existent. The trailer loading virtuoso was Pat Parelli, who is currently one of the forerunners of the natural horse movement. In his video, Parelli grabbed onto the top of the moving trailer, as his running horse scrambled inside.

I was emboldened by tons of advice, some of which included “be the alpha mare,” “put yourself in charge,” “be assertive,” “think win, win,” and “keep those feet moving.” And so, the next morning, I strode purposefully down to the horse enclosure and lead Raudi in the direction of the trailer. Most of my research dictates fell by the wayside as she planted her feet and refused to move. Hadn’t someone said to try loading a buddy up first? Undaunted, I put Raudi away, and walked Siggi over to Pete’s home-made pallet step ramp. The chow hound scrambled into the conveyance and noisily snarfed down his reward, a few crumbs of grain. Raudi, who was totally disinterested in the goings on, did a two-step back in the direction of the hay barn. Right then, darkness descended. I know from past experience that this cloud is a forerunner of a lengthy period of intense introspection and pessimism. Indeed, the future looked bleak. Raudi and I weren’t ever going anywhere again, and no one would be able to convince me otherwise.

I’d hoped to take Raudi to the Willis’s Ice Tolt gathering, which was scheduled for later in the day. Pete, standing close by, suggested that I back her in.

“You trying to be funny?” I snarled.

“Uhh yeah. Sort of. I mean, it just might work.” Pete said.

“Well then, you try it.”

Pete turned Raudi end facing the trailer. She glanced over her shoulder, snorted and dragged Pete down the driveway.

“Don’t muscle her!” I yelled.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. But don’t do that!”

“Let’s try something different,” Pete said.

“Let’s” I muttered.

For the next half-hour, Pete and I employed every rhetorical strategy known to English Teachers and Horse Trainers alike, some of which included bribery, coercion, pleading, begging, and cajoling. Raudi would have none of this. I knew from past experience that, in times of duress, our respective energy levels rise, as they feed off one another. This time was no exception. My pulse rate picked up, my stomach muscles tightened, and my throat went dry. Raudi acted accordingly by stomping her foot, flattening her ears, and shoving her butt into my chest. I did then what I’ve done one too many times, which was toss Pete the lead and storm off. As I walked our mile-loop, I considered one most obvious alternative, which was to part with Raudi. Maybe Bernie Willis would buy her. No, I’d give her to him. The only catch was that he’d have to find some way of getting her to his place. She’d probably agree to go if he’d give her what she wanted, a trailer with no-jostle shocks, a home entertainment center, and a wet bar with unlimited horse treats. Heck, if he could comply with her wishes, he deserved to have her.

Raudi watched from the safety of her pen, as we left for the Ice Tolt festivities without her. Once there, all I could think about was my trailering dilemma. My friends, Brandi, Sue, and Ruth are encouraging and empathetic individuals—and this time was no exception.

“She’ll get in because she’s a horse who wants to go places.” Brandi declared.

“Yeah, you’ll figure out something,” Sue added.

Ruth had the most useful advice of all. She’d parked the trailer (mine, on loan to her) next to the pen, and put hay in it. The Icelandic got in when he realized it contained food. Ruth and her husband Michael dealt with subsequent noodling by using a butt rope. I agreed that providing Raudi with free access to the trailer was a good idea. However, our enclosure wasn’t designed to accommodate dining cars. I also didn’t have four-hours-a-day to dedicate to being a waiter. I also gave serious thought to the butt strap idea. My situation was similar to the Ruth and Michael’s in that the roles had been reversed. Raudi was taking me for a ride, and it was supposed to be the other way around. The butt strap strategy would work, but I’d first wait and see if I could get her in of her own accord.

That night, I tossed, turned, and reflected upon past experience. Teaching Raudi to lead had been difficult. From day one, she went one way, and I went the other. I’ve always believed that animals become what we call them. A case in point: We nicknamed my friend Daryl’s Akita the “the orange thing.” This term of semi-derision came shortly after she jumped, unbidden, into the Sacramento River (which was then at flood stage) swam after, and caught a doe. When, one day, I called Raudi the “orange thing” I realized that I was inferring that she, like Chica, was too headstrong for her own good. I nixed this self-fulfilling prophecy by signing up for a TTeam Young Horse Training Clinic in Vernon, British Columbia. Here I learned enough about ground training to safely get us both from point A to point B.

I partially solved my loading problem by meditating on it. What came to me, in my more relaxed state, were the words that I’d once heard TTeam clinician Robyn Hood utter. “Sometimes,” she’d said to a fellow student, “you just have to abandon outcomes.” Yes, I was getting flustered because I was obsessing about the immediate future. I’d begun obsessing about my missing our second Friday lesson and ceased to enjoy the schooling process. This insight enabled me to see the situation a bit more objectively. And seeing the situation objectively enabled me to come up with a plan. Raudi and I needed to go back to kindergarten, and do a quick review. If it took three, six, twelve months for us to again become mobile, well, so be it.

I decided to chunk down the trailering lesson by breaking it into steps. I began by taking Raudi through my reconstructed self-built obstacle course. (I’d dismantled it last fall, shortly after the first snow.) This course (which TTeam people call a playground of higher learning) consists of tarps, a labyrinth, cones, logs, tires, and a sawhorse bridge. I also built a pallet platform like the one that I’d put in front of the trailer. I then put Raudi in homing pigeon and had Pete help me lead her through it. This, I explained, would make our gal more supple physically, and more limber mentally. And, I added, it would also help to alleviate any trailer-related fears that she might have.

The next day I placed Raudi’s grain on the pallet platform that was in front of the trailer. Once she was eating calmly, I inwardly cheered, for we were now making progress. The following day I put the same bucket on the trailer edge; then, as she ate, did ear strokes and python lifts on her legs. The day after that, I placed a bale of hay against the back wall, climbed in, sat down and, acting upon Susan Tilly’s advice, read her Dr. Suess’s “Oh the Places you Will Go.” Raudi, ears pricked forward, placed both front feet in the trailer and dove into her breakfast.

Getting all four feet in the trailer took another two days, but no matter, I was no longer in a hurry. And so, it was just an added bonus when Pete shut the door behind her. I deliberated some about canceling that day’s lesson, but agreed with Pete that the week’s training had served her in good stead. I grabbed the tack ,and Pete put the platform and plywood sheet in the Land Cruiser. Raudi did all she was asked to do in her lesson, and with great aplomb and vigor. Upon exiting the Big Horse arena, she pawed the pallet platform and swished her tail. I looked into her large brown doe-like eyes and began singing “You are my sunshine,” in my supposedly-off key voice. Raudi, perhaps realizing that there really was nothing to fear, entered the trailer.

The dark cloud that had engulfed me lifted on the drive home. And, as often has been the case, life affirming insights followed. Raudi, for reasons that were beyond my comprehension, had figured that getting into the trailer wasn’t something that she wanted to do. I’d learned a few things about trailering in my attempts to convince her otherwise. I’d also learned some things that were applicable to my horse and human-related dealings. Remaining calm, keeping my cool, and maintaining my sense of humor—these are important life lessons, as is being in, rather than living for, the moment. Of course Raudi didn’t intend for any of this. She’s just a horse, and as such, she will always have her own best interests at heart.

Alys
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