Dog Desensitizing

My friend and her horse Dolly joined me and Ransom on a scenic ridge loop ride. Everyone was out on the trail today, enjoying a 70 degree Saturday in February. Though we didn’t encounter any other equestrians, we shared the trail with many bikers, hikers, and their dogs. Our first canine run-in was with a young yellow lab who stopped in the middle of the trail to look at us, his head tilted quizzically as if to say, “What are you?” When we neared, he jumped to the side and gave a single, startled bark at these strange new creatures.

Just a little beyond that, two black and white border collies sat sedately on a rock while their master took pictures of Dolly and Ransom. The man wasn’t the only one to play paparazzi. Apparently, horses are a novelty even to outdoor enthusiasts.

As we trotted along a flat stretch of the ridge, a brown dog came barreling towards us, his three women walking a ways behind. One woman called out a sharp, “Come!” and the dog stopped in his tracks and loped back to her side. My friend and I exchanged impressed looks over the dog’s obedience.

As we walked the horses down the final hill to the staging area, two black dogs came charging around the corner, harassing Ransom and Dolly. They barked aggressively, circling and running behind the horses, who stood quietly, until an older couple regained control of the culprits.

I think it’s safe to say that Ransom passed the dog desensitizing test.

The Equine Identity

Ransom and I trailered out for a trail ride at the training barn where I work, crossing, for the first time, the line between my two horse spheres. This was an emotional risk for me, and I felt vulnerable. The professional horsemen and horsewomen I work with had only heard snippets about the private life of Sarah and Ransom. To merge the two was to expose myself to the discriminating eyes of those whose knowledge and opinion I trust and value – and that was scary.

I’ve said before that I’m not one of those women who refer to their horse as their child, but I felt a lot like a parent being judged by their child’s behavior. There was no escaping the fact that Ransom’s behavior was a reflection of my skills, or lack thereof. And when you’ve spent the last fourteen years of your life in driven pursuit of this passion, it’s hard not to take critique of those skills as a critique of your identity. Horses are part of what defines me. In this one trail ride, all that time, effort, and experience was somehow dependent on what someone thought of the performance of a spotted gelding.

Ransom, like all horses, was honest. He didn’t try to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Nor did he embarrass me (“good boy!”). He showed his strengths and didn’t hide his weaknesses. He didn’t care what somebody else thought. And as I wrestled with my performance-based insecurities, that was a lesson I needed him to teach me.