Breakfast With Mama

By Kathy Johnson, Executive Director, MHP

Mama's road to Medicine Horse Program was a twisted and tortured one. With the help of Snowy River Animal Rescue, we saved three bay foals from the "purse truck." They were sold at auction to be shipped to the purse factory in Mexico. Together, they traveled the auction circuit, being fattened up like beef cattle. The young horses, with their tender meat and black hides, would be sent to the purse factory to become belts and purses. The older horses were sent on the killer trucks, to be slaughtered for meat, and shipped overseas for human consumption. The trust driver for Snowy River, Rope, watched as Mama was sorted to the killer truck. Her daughter, who was still nursing, was slated for the purse truck. Mother and daughter panicked, the mare screaming, the filly throwing herself over backward.

Mama, a tough range horse who had been living on her own for years, reached a point where she could neither take care of herself or her foal. It scared her so badly, she almost killed herself trying to escape. Separated abruptly from her daughter, so terrified, so traumatized at the auction house, she tried to jump an 8 foot panel. She took down the fence and was lucky she wasn't severely injured.

One of our major sponsors, Myra Eby, was so moved by the story, she asked if we could find the mother and save her too. When we approached Snowy River with the idea, they were amazed. In 10 years of rescue, no one ever tried to save a broodmare. We tracked her down to a feedlot in Texas, then Myra bought her at meat market prices. They loaded her once again onto a stock trailer, and she began her trip to Colorado.

Day 1 - The Reunion

Mama was too frightened to get off the trailer. Mama had not been an ideal passenger. She had tried to kick her handlers. She kicked the mare she was loaded with. She wouldn't eat out of a trough or eat out of a bucket. She spun her haunches and threatened to kick when frightened. She wouldn't enter an enclosed space without panic. The truck drivers wished us much luck and unloaded her gladly and gracelessly. With a loud neigh, she spotted her daughter, now named Sasha. Sash ran to her. They pressed noses through the fence. Whickers, whinnies and joyful touches ensued. They not only knew each other, but were both calmed by being together again.

Week one - Empathy

Mama came to us with gashes, scars and brands on the outside, and just as many wounds on the inside. Perhaps the only time in her life she was touched by a human was when she was branded with the Navajo brands on her left side. She had windknots in her mane so twisted, they looked like dreadlocks. Fear radiated from her in shimmering waves.

Every morning I went out to the barn, sat beside Mama's run and drank my coffee. In the beginning, if I looked at her too long, she dashed as far away as possible. If I spoke, she ran from the sound of my voice. Any amount of pressure sent her running to the farthest corner of her paddock. I sat outside the fence, because if Mama couldn't run away, she wheeled and kicked. She would not enter a run or a stall, but stayed as far from everything, except her daughter, as possible. I tried to feed her treats by tossing them in her hay, but she turned up her nose, ran to the water trough and rinsed her mouth out. Then she glared at me from a distance and would not return to her hay. I pulled fresh grass from the lawn, and threw it to her. She accepted it. I moved the grass closer and closer until she would come up to me, very reluctantly.

Over the next week, we taught her filly, Sasha, to eat grain. I tried everything with Mama, grain, oats, pellets, and she wouldn't touch them. But, in a strange reversal, she learned from her filly. When I finally hit upon the right mixture of Senior, molasses and maple syrup, Mama watched Sasha eat it, and then took a nibble. She dove right in. Mama had a sweet tooth!

From that day on, I brought Mama her sweet feed in a bucket every morning. One morning I left my hand on the bucket. I did not touch Mama but let her touch me. When she felt my hand, she tore off like she'd been shot. But, she came back. I assumed she had been shocked by a cattle prod on the feedlot. She reached in the bucket, touched my hand unwillingly, and jumped back. Every touch, her reaction grew less. Within a few days, I reached up to touch her face. Again, she shot off. But she came back. Within another two days, I was able to stroke parts of her face while she ate.

When I tried to touch around her ears, near her brain, her instincts took over. She wheeled and threatened to kick. I noticed that if I tried to touch her ears with the same intention that I have with the foals, "I will touch the left ear, then the right ear," Mama ran away. If I touched her ears with love, thinking, "oh, I love your ears," then Mama stood quietly.

I called to Mama every day. I said her name, just as I called all the foals into their runs by name. Mama entered a run and ate there, but I still haven't closed her back gate. I don't ever want her to feel trapped again. I want her to feel that if she needs to leave, she can.

Week two - Reflection

Every year, I gave the foals a theme song. Every horse had a song. I sang in the rhythm I might stroke them, the same rhythm their mother might lick them when they are newly born. The first year, the song was "Hakuna Matata," no worries for the rest of your life. The second year it was "Que Sera Sera," whatever will be will be. This year it was "The Mockingbird Lullaby." The first time I sang it to the foals, they lay down at my feet and fell asleep. I felt like the Pied Piper.

Over the last two weeks, Mama became more and more accustomed to my voice. She watched me, when I worked, when I drove the tractor, and when I rode another horse. She was the boss mare, a wild alpha mare, a mare who has always had to watch out for herself and her foals. She continued to assert her dominance. Every day, when put out with the new foals, our least threatening herd, she walked over quickly and kicked each one. She always had to be in charge. Surely she was exhausted by hyper vigilance, always wary, always the boss. In the beginning, I tried to act like her foal, staying low beside the fence, hoping she wouldn't kill me because I wasn't a threat. Later, I tried to act like her mother, stroking her face and her ears, as I offered her sweet feed.

One morning at breakfast I sang the Mockingbird song to her. When I began the line, "Mama's going to buy you a mocking bird," she raised her head, looked me squarely in the eye, and walked to me. She knew her name. She let me touch her face. She trusted me to touch her. For this relationship to work, I had to trust her to touch me. She reached her nose out, and I lowered my face. In the universal horse greeting, I blew into her nose. She softly blew back into mine. And I knew I was looking at myself, a mother, a woman who faced too much trauma, a caretaker, and the one who was always in charge. If we didn't form an alliance, there would be war between the two alpha mares. I made a decision to trust her, and our relationship changed forever.

Week Four - Learning to Follow

Mama began to look for me around the barn. She came into the stall when I brought food, and stayed quietly to eat it. After a few days, she began to whinny at me when she saw me on the driveway. The whinny had many syllables. It had the same tones. It was the same whinny every day. In fact, it was the same whinny my Friesian gelding gave me every day at breakfast. They may have been calling my name. And my name, in horse, was something like, "Oh, Boy, Lady Who Brings Food."

Mama no longer looked to Sasha as her sole ally. She began to take care of the smallest filly, Soxx, who was very bonded to her, but Mama no longer ran to Sasha or Sasha to her when they are separated. There is no more screaming or crying.

We rigged up the round pen so it opens into Mama's small pasture. The first day, I opened the gate, grabbed a flake of hay, and Mama followed me right into the round pen. I did not close the door, but left her breakfast in the pen while she ate there.

The next day, I drank my coffee in the round pen with Mama and sang songs while she ate. I left the gate open. The next day, I closed the gate, gathered up my nerve, and prayed that Mama would neither jump out of the round pen nor attack me when I began to work her in the pen. She did neither. She quickly learned to walk and trot in a circle. Then she came to me and ate her breakfast while I sat in the pen with her. The worst, I hoped, was over. She did not spin or wheel at me. She did not panic under pressure. I did not run fleeing from the round pen. But she was still so very scared.

 

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Breakfast With Mama copyright 2011, 2012, Kathy Johnson
Photos copyright 2011, 2012, Tony Johnson