There is a theory held by some of the “horsey types” that all equines are supposed to have jobs. This concept is the topic of many articles and clinics in the horse world, and with little exception is foundational to many in the natural horsemanship movement. In one such article, a fairly well-known author, exposing the importance of horses having jobs and the horseman being the boss of the horse, likened the horse/rider relationship to being similar to the hierarchy of herd dynamics. The article waxed on a bit and illustrated the point by explaining that if a horse was permitted to take a forward step while the rider was mounting, that the horse would lose respect for the rider, and that when leading, the horse must trail behind. The author was resolute in insisting, without exception, that if a horse were to snatch a mouthful of landscaping or rub his head on the rider, that the horse lost respect for the human and saw himself as more powerful or important. The author continued on to declare definitively that horses must have jobs, and that they were not useful or happy without them.

During a recent VIP tour of our horses’ ranch, Brinker, on cue, planted a big kiss right on my lips….and then he repeated the kiss with the repetition of a wood pecker and the crescendo of a tidal wave. I rewarded him, of course, with a few hearty chunks of carrot, and the words of praise which seemed to be even more satisfying. Brinker is one of the few permanent residents at Red Bucket. His fractured knee, jovial enthusiasm, and incredibly poor judgment have not only made him difficult to place, but because of his significant special needs has made him a horse that we could not responsibly re-home. While he cannot be ridden or lunged, or even have a conventional turnout, his life is full. He loves to be groomed, rolls on command, delights in the “find the carrot” game while on his daily walks, plays with his tumbler and, lest I be incomplete, looks after our two two-year-old fillies, Cindy Lee and Tasha. Brinker is also eager to demonstrate his tricks for every tour, and is quick to kiss his tour guide…for the meager price of a carrot, and the warm words of acknowledgment. Brinker has a job, and while it may not be a conventional job of running barrels, jumping, or even trail, it is a job that he understands and finds satisfying. In Brinker’s position, he helps us teach our visitors that horses have worth, and that even the disabled equine can live a meaningful life and contribute to the world, albeit unconventionally.

Turner came to us after having been abandoned. He had been left without food or water, and later we discovered that he had also been abused. In what became a two-year journey to rebuild the little chestnut Quarter Horse, we discovered that his lameness was merely the presenting issue to a deeper host of scars. He would panic when saddled, and while far too good of a boy to protest outwardly, his anxiety and distress mounted an inner inferno that was not worth the toll on his happiness. In the last few years he somehow worked his way into the role of best friend. Jenon noticed it first….he would get along with any horse, matching them as if on the other side of a magical mirror. He was one of the original Knuckleheads, friend to Liam, Knox, Banjo, and later Dr. Seuss. He then became the “go-to” friend when we needed a turnout buddy. He was safe for Legacy who wanted to play…but also needed to be somehow neutralized. He healed a hole in Olaf, who is so tremendous in size, but gentle and vulnerable. They graze together nose-to-nose, in one of the most natural of all horse social activities. Turner gets turned out with my 2 1/2-year-old youngster, who needs a friend, craves touch, and loves to playfully spar with a friend…who is also a professional babysitter. His BFF services are in such demand that he alternates an every-other-day schedule of “A” east side and “B” west side turnouts, and I can only pray that he doesn’t join a union, because we would be sunk.
When Styles died, I thought that for sure we would lose Jack. He had gradually lost all of the friends of his own age, over the course of several years slowly saying good-bye to McGraw, Ledger, Brimer…and then most traumatically, Styles. Jack stopped eating and stopped living, and we tearfully watched him slowly relinquish interest in anything external. When all attempts to seduce him back to the living failed…we gave him Joey, our one-eyed, nerve-damaged rascal of a donkey. To the innocent onlooker, it wasn’t pretty…and it certainly lacked any sort of poetic imagery. It started at the ankles, Jack’s ankles that is…mostly biting, and quite a bit of it. At first the relationship was little more than self defense. Jack, even in his depression, was gentle, shifting his weight or gently shaking Joey off of his large old body, like a swimmer slinging off excess water. The interaction really began after Jack’s fly mask was ripped off one-too-many times…and Jack gave chase, loping around the turnout in a hysterical game involving a fly mask, a donkey, and…thank goodness…a newly discovered will to live. For the first year, it was Jack’s job to stand guard over Joey’s little sleeping self. Joey would lay exhausted, after a day of raising holy heck, in a little heap, stiff-legged, with his one good eye shut tight, and there Jack would stand…stoic, tireless and protective. These days, Joey watches carefully over his aging Pop-Pop, and it is most often Joey who now stands vigil while Jack sleeps, sometimes burrowing up and contentedly snoozing with his very special friend. Recently, a few of us watched through a veil of tears as Joey launched himself on what appeared to be Jack’s last breath, double donkey kicking him and straddling him, and quite frankly (ask Jessica, she was there) turning what we thought would be a last rite into a fight…Jack took a breath and jumped to his feet, saved by a little brown curmudgeon of a donkey, who was doing more than just a job.

Upon the completion of my Saturday ride, I dismounted, and without further invitation my mount gently rubbed his sweaty brow on my hip. He then tugged a bit on the reins and slightly outmatched my pace as he headed knowingly for the long stretch of grass that paved a green, plush path back to the ranch that he owns. As he grazed, his respiration continued to gradually drop…it had been a good number of months since he had also dropped his guard. In our silent partnership, I stroked his beautiful neck as he grazed, playing back the game tape of our evolving relationship in my mind. I strolled beside him, headed for home, breaking yet another rule in the book that I do not own, with one arm draped over his neck, and another tickling his pink muzzle. He is my horse now, I truly love him, and I belong to him.