Archive for March 17th, 2005
Thursday, March 17th, 2005Dillon and Me
Dillon is one of several horses whose job it is to help disabled children and adults…
Thursday, March 17th, 2005The Art of Riding a Horse
Horses are not dogs. This may seem obvious to most people, but it has taken me a bit of time to learn this simple fact. Most of my adult life has been spent around dogs: owning them, training them, working with them. A dog responds best to positive reinforcement, a look in the eye, and lots of love. I learned early on to get my dog’s attention, get her to focus on me, and then ask her what I wanted from her. I usually talk in complete sentences to my dog. She will often do things for me just because she loves me and wants to please me. A dog is happiest when they know they are pleasing their person.
Not so with horses. Horses need to know who is boss; they need to respect you; and even if they outweigh you by several hundred pounds, they need to think that you can make them do what you want them to do. They don’t usually respond to make their handler happy; they respond because they think they have no other choice.
So, when I joined up as the physical therapist for a therapeutic riding center, I needed to learn all about horses. I needed to learn to ride.
One of my first days at the ranch, I gently leaned into Sage’s shoulder and nicely asked, “Lift your foot, Sage.” So I could pick his hoof. He stood like a rock. He did not move an inch. “Something’s wrong with him,” I said.
Carla stepped over, pushed Sage firmly to one side and up came his foot. “Respect,” she said. “He needs to respect you.” It was my first lesson, but not my last.
Last night, high up on Dillon’s back, I tried to get him to walk around the arena. I wanted him to stay close to the fencing; I wanted him to change directions smoothly. He wanted to leave; go out the gate; and get his dinner. I wrestled with him. He tossed his head. He chomped on his bit. He pulled one way, while I pleaded with him to go the other way.
“Be tough,” Carla said.
“He outweighs me,” I told her.
“Be tough,” Carla said again.
“I don’t want to hurt his mouth,” I said.
“Be tough.”
I sat tall, kept my heels down, turned his head and dug my heel into his flank. I walked him in a tight circle. I didn’t let him stop at the gate. Within 15 minutes sweat soaked my shirt even though the outside temperature was cool. Pushing around a thousand pound animal is no easy task. But eventually, Dillon started to listen to me.
After the riding session, I led Dillon over to a tie out to take off his tack. I leaned against his soft neck, breathed in his horsey perfume and kissed the side of his face. And his eyes slid partly closed; he sighed.
Horses are not dogs, I reminded myself. But for a moment I thought: Maybe next time Dillon will do what I want because he loves me.