After spending several days sitting in the paddock with our little rescue horse Teyla, in an attempt to gain her confidence, we were ready to move on.
I haltered her and led her over to the round pen for a simple join-up exercise. I was not prepared for what happened.
The moment I unfurled the rope in a low, soft arc, Teyla exploded. The appaloosa mare coiled up like a spring and shot towards the corral panels, sliding to a stop just short of the fence, hooves splayed, haunches squeezed beneath her trembling body. She looked to the left and then to the right, frenzied, eyes rolling, certain I was a mountain lion that was going to eat her up alive. She rose back off of her freckled hindquarters and made a couple of false starts at jumping the corral panels from a standstill.
I let the rope fall to the ground, and remembered to breathe, slowly and methodically so that maybe the little horse would remember to breathe too. It was heartbreaking to see a horse so traumatized by something about which none of my other horses would think twice. I began to mentally berate myself for allowing this to happen. What had I missed, I wondered? What puzzled me was that the panic didn't fit with her behavior of 15 minutes prior. When she resisted being caught in the paddock, I 'd "chased" her slowly to get her feet to move and have her think a little bit about the prospect of being caught. She'd responded with a few laps at a mildly concerned trot and then decided it was easier to stand still than to be chased by a woman swinging a rope. She’d allowed me to halter her.

And now here she was—scrunched against the fence, head wrenched away from me, eyes glazed. Perhaps the round pen had triggered something? Maybe I'd been too aggressive, although I'd barely let go of the rope before she panicked. Whatever it was, the horse was terrified. I took a few steps back away from her, giving her room, hands down, speaking softly, and telling her everything was going to be OK. The knotted muscles beneath her poor coat began to unwind. I think a few of mine did as well.
I dropped my head and slowly turned away from her. I walked away to the center of the pen and stood still. For a long time.
Then I heard it.
One tentative hoof in front of the other until I felt her near, breathing in and out through her whiskered nostrils, then a sigh, waiting. I searched the ground for her shadow to try and figure out how close, but the sun was too high, so I turned around slowly to look at her. The horse’s ears were thrust in my direction like large, spotted antennae. She stood square on all fours, tail swishing, expectant. I could feel the smile bursting across my face. "Good, Teyla!" I said. “Good!” She let me rub her neck and shoulder.
I took a stroll around the pen, Teyla following closely. When I walked, she walked. When I stopped, she stopped. We did figure eights, serpentines, voltes. We stood perfectly still together in the silence, an invisible silk thread between us. She lowered her head and licked her lips. I guess she decided I was OK to follow.
Then I picked up her halter and lead rope and slipped the halter on her, told her what a genius she is, and was rewarded with the softness in her eye that comes from the horse's acknowledgment and acceptance of your praise.
This horse rescue business was a lot more complex than I’d thought.
Flickr photo credits: Room With a View; Room With a View; bodhi47