A stray thought that occured to me today, about pets and trust.
After over 20 years of having pets of all kinds, that came to our house in various stages of trauma and varying levels of experience with humans, there is way always one foolproof way to tell if an animal actually trusts you.
Removing eye crusts.
(I’ve only had mammals, so I can’t speak for birds, repriles and other various and sundry animals, but this rule has held true for numerous cats, dogs, rats, hamsters, two rabbits and a cow.)
Just imagine it. You are likely tiny. Maybe you are big, but most likely small. Maybe you hunt, or maybe you run. Maybe you have paws with claws, or legs with hooves, or almost hands. And you get eye crusts.
Because eye crusts are inevitable when you have eyeballs that need to stay moist and lubricated. And while it’s not usually painful or debilitating, it is uncomfortable, and you may not be able to get rid of it yourself.
Enter giant hairless apes with opposable thumbs.
But these apes could be dangerous. Eyes are extremely important but very sensitive, easily vulnerable. Mere carelessness is enough to lose one. Eye crusts are a bother, but removing them isn’t worth risking losing such an important organ. If they go near your eyeball with their fingers, they will lose them swiftly, or at least learn better than to try again!
But when that hairless ape, far too big or barely bigger than you, has proven themself worthy of your trust… Then the risk seems acceptable.
So you have a crusty eye. Your paw isn’t enough to get it out. It’s a bother, but you manage.
Enter a giant hairless ape with opposable thumbs.
This giant hairless ape has been good to you, has provided you food, shelter, warmth and companionship. They have seen and touched your belly, your neck, your ears, and even your young. Not once have you come to harm. They see your eye is bothering you, so they lick one of their strange fingers and bring it to your eye.
You do not stop them, even though you could. The pad of their thumb is soft, but tipped with a claw. But they are careful, and the thin claw maybe skims your brow, but it does not harm your eye. Maybe you squirm, because it’s not exactly comfortable, but you do not struggle or stop them, you do not run away.
Because you trust them. Trust that they will not hurt, only help. That they will be careful with you.
You blink, and your eye is clear. The crust is gone, and that strange hand with the opposable thumb is petting your head, your ears, your back.
You all know me here for my love of dogs and dog training, but I am a certified all-around animal nut. I did my degree in fisheries and wildlife, focusing on reptiles and amphibians (specifically North American herpetofauna) but also had the opportunity to work with owls, eagles, hawks, vultures, wolves, possums, and a host of other non-domesticated species. My passion for animals and animal behavior and training really started, though, with my love of horses.
I have been riding and working with horses since I was eight or nine years old. I have always been an awkward, anxious rider; I am afraid of heights, I have scoliosis so my back is never straight, I am not pretty on a horse and I get bored going in circles so showing was never for me. Despite all of this, I also had a distinct reputation for loving “problemponies” - does your horse bite? Does it kick? Does it run off? Does it stop in one spot and never move? Does it literally lay down mid-ride and roll on you? Sweet glittering baby Jesus come to daddy. I accepted that I would never be a “good” rider, but I was excellent at working through issues and improving behavior in “troublesome” horses and that’s what I loved most.
When I was around 15, I had a terrible fall off of my own horse, Grace. She spooked as I was getting on from the mounting block, my foot got caught in the stirrup, and she dragged me across the arena. She ended up stepping on my thigh and breaking my hand, and I was (understandably) traumatized. In retrospect, I absolutely have PTSD from this incident. For months after I would panic at the mounting block; I felt like I was having literal heart attacks, and sometimes would vomit due to anxiety.
My mom shows horses in a relatively high-strung discipline, and the adults around me during that time, including my mom, were vicious to me. They told me I was being a baby, I was stupid, I was a terrible rider, I needed to show her who was boss and if I wasn’t going to ride we should just sell my horse (whom I’ve had since she was a yearling) and be done with it. Shockingly, none of this helped my anxiety, and it quickly sucked the love and joy out of horses for me. I stopped riding altogether by the time I was in college, still keeping my horse Grace but only as a pasture ornament. I blamed myself for being “too cowardly” and not being able to “cowboy” up and just get on and MAKE my horse do what I wanted her to.
A few years ago I had the opportunity to visit the director of the ranch where I learned to ride. I idolized her growing up, and I still think she is one of the most gifted horsewomen I have ever met. I told her I was no longer riding, and hadn’t in years, and she told me that out of all the people she every worked with, she fully expected that I would have had a career working with horses. I was shocked and asked her why she thought that, since I had spent literally my whole horse career having people tell me what a bad rider I was.
“You’re not a good rider. You’re a great horseperson.”
What others (and I) read as timidness, she saw as the patience and flexibility to work within a horse’s comfort zone. Where others saw bad form, she saw mixing techniques from different disciplines to communicate in a way that worked best for each individual. And where everyone saw a coward who gave up riding, she saw someone who still loved horses, despite the trauma, despite the resentment, and despite the fact that many would consider an unridden horse “useless”.
That conversation fundamentally changed how I see myself, and it also explained my history with animals. It explained why I would pursue a career with animals that I can’t even pet and why I’m drawn to the misunderstood critters (possums are my absolute favorite animals, with snakes a close second), and it also explains what brings us all here to this blog today: why I would take a chance on a little deaf puppy with no eyes, and how we could work together to create a happy, functional, incredible little dog - not in spite of her limitations, but in celebration of them.
You cannot bully any animal into a partnership. Not a horse, not a rattlesnake, not your dog, and not people. You can bully them into compliance - which is toxic, fear-based, and usually temporary. A partnership grows from seeking to understand your partner instead of trying to make yourself understood; from finding or creating ways to meet each other where you’re at; and finding joy in the unique journey that you embark on together, even when it’s difficult.
I have been riding Grace again, alone, just the two of us with no one to criticize or antagonize, and our relationship has never been better. Some days we ride through the desert. Some days I spend an hour getting on and off from the mounting block. Some days I get too anxious to get on at all so I lead her up to the patio with Pinkman and Bitsy and we watch Australian 60 Minutes and split a beer. We’re doing things I never dreamed of because she trusts me and I trust her, and I have learned to treat myself the way I treat my animals: with kindness, patience, flexibility, and compassion. I will probably always be a timid, awkward, ungainly rider, but Iam an excellent horse person and no one will take that away from me again.
Oh, and if you hear of a crabby, stubborn, willful horse with a bad attitude, let me know - I’m in the market.
