A Ruined Horse

My horse, Meatloaf, is the classic botched 4H project.

I bought him several years ago at a sale in Billings from a Utah family.

When we got home, I noticed he tensed when I saddled him.

He had an indentation in his neck, where it looked like someone had choked him down with a rope.

A rope in my hand caused panic.

He wouldn’t pick up his feet.

He hated men. All men.

Twitches terrified Meatloaf.

It wasn’t hard to piece clues together into a story of a desperate family who had paid too much for a hard-headed yearling.

Meatloaf wasn’t the first victim of starry-eyed, horse-loving amateurs. Yearlings often sell for far more than they turn out to be worth. But those amateurs exacerbated their mistake by employing heavy-handed training techniques.

Like kids and dogs, horses respond differently to training techniques.

Hard-headed and afraid, Meatloaf responded by jerking back, throwing himself to the ground and bucking.  

I compensate for Meatloaf’s fears by taking a long time to saddle him -- slowly, gradually tightening the cinch, gently talking him through his fears. Sometimes, I walk him for half a mile, waiting for him to relax before I step into the stirrup, furious inside at the pain and fear those people created in my horse.

If I saddle him too quickly, Meatloaf lets me know.

A few times, he bucked like a rodeo saddle bronc, head down, rear hooves over his hips, snorting and careening across the pasture.

Once, I left him too long at the hitchrail.

I came back to find him laying on his side, lead rope taut, the saddle under his belly. I cut the lead rope and, after I caught him a quarter of a mile away, I took the saddle to the repair shop.

Once, he bucked so hard that his hind foot caught in the hobbles around his front feet.

As he laid on his side, I leaned over the saddle and sawed off the hobbles.

Meatloaf is athletic and willing on the prairie and cuts calves in the corral as he was bred to do.

The other day, the cows needed to be moved to a new pasture.

My apprentice, Jennifer, and I saddled the horses. Meatloaf kept his fears tucked inside, without offering to test my saddling job.

As we headed out, Meatloaf, as usual, walked like he had springs coiled throughout his body, but he relaxed when he spotted the cows.

The fencing contractor was pounding posts so we stopped to visit for a few minutes.

Meatloaf is like his owner, not particularly good at standing in one spot, but the day was warm and we all enjoyed the conversation.

A little bunch of cows grazed a couple hundred yards away and we eased up to them.

Meatloaf buried his head in the dirt, snorted and sent heals in the air.

I rode the first jump, but knew I wouldn’t make the 8-second ride.

I bailed.

Meatloaf circled, snorting and kicking.

I waved him past before he landed on top of me.

By the time I stood up, the horse trainer’s mantra ran through my head:

Get back on. Run him up the steepest slope you can find. Don’t let him get away with this.

Then came the search for reasons, excuses really.

But this wasn’t fear. This was malicious.

A first.

And last.

Meatloaf will ride back to the Billings sale next week.

If life circles back around as it usually does, Meatloaf will come back to the ranch someday.

Only this time, he will come in an Ol’ Roy bag and my guard dogs will enjoy a tasty meal.