Miss Manners and The Brat

Shiloh is now Miss Manners politely waiting for me to serve her a piece of candy cane

Shiloh was two years old when she came to live with us, and this was how she had the world figured. 1. People give me treats if I nuzzle their faces or frisk pockets. I nip only if they forget what that means. 2. Wherever I want to go, people get out of my way. 3. No one can pick up my foot if I lean on it. 4. Most people can’t halter me if I stick my nose in the air and wave it around. 5. If someone does get a halter on me, I decide where we’re going. 6. When people bother me, I swing my butt at them. If they don’t behave, I wedge them against a wall. Shiloh wasn’t malicious. Though she behaved like a spoiled brat, she was only doing what previous owners had unwittingly taught her to do. She had also been sold four times before she was three, her behavior having proved to be a serious liability. With the other horses, however, she was Miss Manners. From their first over-the-fence meeting, her body language said, “This lowly filly respectfully requests permission to join your herd.” That bodes well for learning people rules, so I was optimistic as I wrestled her into a halter and trundled her off to the arena to start “Lead-line Manners 101”. She learned quickly, but the instant I opened the gate to leave the arena, she “forgot” it all and tried to charge past me. I shoulder-checked her, leveraged her nose around, and brought her up short. The confusion on her face was as clear as words. She had no idea the lessons she’d just learned were meant to apply to the next 5 minutes, let alone the rest of her life. Thus, Shiloh illustrated the limitation of training sessions. Whether it’s 30 minutes in your arena, or 30 days with someone else, training can teach skills, but only daily reinforcement turns those skills into a way of life. That’s why many ethical trainers require the owner to take lessons along with the horse. There at the gate Shiloh’s real training began. The rules were simple: stay out of my space, yield to pressure, move when I say move. But those rules applied to every aspect of her life: leading, grooming, feeding, and just hanging out. I corrected mistakes gently, but relentlessly, before she got far out of line. I praised honest efforts, and encouraged her to be proud of what she learned. At first it was more work for me than for Shiloh, but persistence paid off. Good manners became a habit, and Shiloh began to anticipate my requests. She made better judgment calls in unusual situations, such as the time I slipped and fell in front of her, accidentally pulling on her lead-line. Instead of stepping forward, she leaned back, standing perfectly still as I scrambled to my feet. I realized that much of Shiloh’s “bad” behavior came from fear of punishment, and from doubt that I was reliable. Her trust grew as she learned that expectations were fair and predictable. Two years after she came, we passed a special milestone; for the first time Shiloh’s trust in me overruled her anxiety. I had asked her to put a hind foot in a bucket of water, and she froze nervously, body braced. “It’s OK,” I assured her gently, holding her foot and waiting. The tension drained out of her on a sigh, I guided her sore foot into the water, and she stood like a statue. Shiloh is not an obedient robot. She is still an individual with feelings, ideas, opinions, and attitudes. If I leave a gate unlatched, she is sure to push her way through the moment my back is turned. She is a master of passive resistance when she’d rather be doing something other than what she’s been told. A favorite trick is backing her butt into a corner when we’re ready to clean hind feet. But these are misdemeanors. A warning, “Ah-ah” or a mildly indignant, “Excuse me,” reminds her when she’s out of line. I rarely need to tell her what she’s done wrong. She knows. I just wait quietly and she corrects herself. Fictional stories are full of dramatic showdowns in which a horse’s “bad behavior” is reformed “once and for all”. In real life, alas, good horse training provides little drama. What it does provide is a communication channel between us and our horses. Shiloh understands my verbal commands, my gestures, and my body language. Her responses clue me into her moods and physical well-being. Uncharacteristic resistance warns me something is wrong. This communication fosters mutual trust and respect. Every day I reassure Shiloh that I am a leader who can be trusted to take care of her. And her good behavior reassures me that if a day comes when I can no longer care for her, someone else will want to.

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