Horse Training and PAP Smears By Kris Garrett If you’re a guy, you might as well move on to someone else’s blog. You’re not going to “get” this. If you’re a woman of a certain age, you’ll get it. Read on. And yes, I really did title this one, “PAP Smears.” What the heck does horse training and a pelvic exam have in common? More that you might think. Perhaps I found a connection because my mind is still cooking what I’ve learned from Tom this week. Whatever the reason, his horse training concepts are coating everything in my life like cold winter ice on the branches of a pine tree. There are few things more unpleasant than submitting oneself to a PAP smear. I personally have a phobia of the procedure. So much so that I’ve not had one since my son was born, and he’s a couple of months away from being able to legally buy whiskey. I wasn’t sure where my phobia came from until today. I’m not feeling well, and I finally submitted my name to doctor’s scheduling book. On the way to the doc’s office, an unwanted memory cracked through the wall of my resolve and left me shaking and nearly in tears. I wasn’t kidding when I begged John to turn the car around and take me home. It was thirty years ago. I was young and brave and determined to save the world. It would be many years before for my rosy-colored glasses were to be cracked beyond recognition. I was going to make a difference. I wanted to be important. I was going to do something that mattered. I was good at taking employment tests, and was offered jobs by three police departments at the same time. Aurora P.D. was first on my list, so I showed up at Aurora Presbyterian Hospital for my pre-hiring physical, very fit, excited, and ready to go. Thirty years ago women cops were as rare as buckskin Andalusians so it was not surprising that people stared. Back then, even other officers stared. The waiting room stank with testosterone from the fourteen male recruits as they gaped at the one female recruit walking to my place in line. I turned my attention inward and ignored them. The Doc must have been former military. He marched in all serious and ramrod straight like a drill sergeant. He shouted out names and broke us into groups like we had just arrived for boot camp. One group was to get chest x-rays. One group was to get blood drawn. One group was to get a treadmill ECG test. Once done, we would then switch. He walked down the line of nervous young cop wanna-bes, handing out medical orders printed on yellow paper. Then he came to me. “Hummm..” he hummed, brow pinched. “I guess you should have a breast exam and a PAP. You want me to do it, or do you want a female nurse?” “Ah…uh a nurse, I suppose,” I stammered. I was not prepared for this. Treadmill, sure. Blood, sure. But spread-eagling to a total stranger had not been on my mental agenda for the day. But I was young, determined, and mentally tough, so I buried my angst and squinted my eyes to a single narrow slit. I could do this. I’d just suck it up and deal with it. I’d prove to them that I was as tough as any guy. I’d be a “man” about it. I was pulled from the line and led to an exam room just off the waiting room. The foot stirrups poking out of the front of the table made it look like a medieval torture rack. My breath stuck in my throat. I pushed my anxiety a little deeper into my body. ”Take your clothes off and I’ll send in a nurse,” the Doc demanded as he stuffed my file in the plastic holder on the door. I found a too-small gown on a shelf and slipped it on over my nakedness. I could feel sweat running down my bare sides, even though I was shivering cold. A woman walked in, introduced herself, and told me to lie back and put my feet in the stirrups. With a gulp of air, I promptly did as ordered. She quietly poked and prodded while I stared at the ceiling counting the little holes in the tiles. I was trying hard not to hold my breath. Suddenly, without a knock or warning, the exam room door popped open. I didn’t mean to squeal when I saw the Doctor standing in the doorway, my knees framing his surprised face. Behind him was one of the groups of young police recruits, several with virginal eyes popping out of their heads. “Oops. Sorry,” the Doc muttered as he quickly closed the door. I went numb. I was so horrified, I refused to even think about what had just happened. I stuffed the humiliation deep inside my mind where I didn’t have to feel it. I clasped a chastity belt of steel over my reeling psyche. In a few minutes I’d have to stand in that line again, face those men eye to eye, and I could not afford to show that I’d been damaged. I had to stay anesthetized to my shame. I stopped caring if I held my breath or not. I don’t recall the rest of the day. Not one minute of it. I know I passed all the tests, but when it came time to pick a job, I did not pick Aurora. I picked less money, less prestige, and a lousy retirement plan, but I picked a place where my face and my private parts were unknown. Thirty years later, I still can’t bear the thought of being hung in a doctor’s exam table stirrups. Even going through childbirth and all the unavoidable exams and drama that entails did not acclimate me to that most vulnerable of positions. I’d rather be dragged through the desert cactus from a dangling saddle stirrup attached to an angry wild mustang. Cervical cancer is less frightening to me than a PAP test. For two decades I’ve simply refused to submit. So what does this have to do with horse training? With my dear hubby holding my hand, I made it to the Doc today. I was x-rayed and ECGed and poked and prodded. When the young, dewy skinned nurse asked how long it had been since my last PAP, I blushed. “Oh, about twenty years or so.” “Well, we should make you an appointment for that,” she said through a smile as she checked off something on the chart. “Our nurse who does that will be here next Monday.” “I thought that was part of today’s exam,” I stammered, feeling a sense of both panic and relief. I had been dreading that part of the exam for weeks, and now I just might be off the hook. But, that meant another wait, and another week of dread. “Oh,” she replied. “I guess I can do it. I have time today,” Panic returned. I steeled myself. “Okay, let’s get this over with.” I knew if I left without getting the test, it was not likely that I’d be seeing her pretty smiling face again. Ever. One doctor’s visit a decade was my limit. What I didn’t’ realize until we began was that she was as nervous as I was. She was shy and hesitant with her verbal requests and her physical movements. She fumbled with the instruments. She asked me over and over if I was okay, as though she was not sure that she was okay. She moved excruciatingly slow, like a predator sneaking up on its prey. When we finally got to the point where I was counting holes in the ceiling tiles, I realized that this must be how horses feel when the person who’s supposed to be in charge is nervous and unsure. I had accepted that the nurse was in charge, I gave her power over my body, she had me in a completely defenseless position, and SHE was the one who was afraid. It was sheer torture. Her angst was amazingly contagious. I wanted to get up and leave. I wanted to kick her in the head and take back my personal space. I held my breath and counted holes, losing count over and over. Her hesitation and insecurity really scared me. Did she actually know what she was doing? What if she did something wrong? Did she have any clue what was going on down there? I found myself wishing that she was stronger, would move faster, and yearned for her to demonstrate some confident decisiveness. Only then could I trust her to take care of me. As I lay back in that most vulnerable of positions, I gave up counting holes in the ceiling and closed my eyes tight. I floated away to another place and time, far from pokes and prods and cold metal instruments. I thought about my horse Feldspar and how nervous he got if I took him away from home. I remembered that I was always nervous too, away from the safety and familiarity of our private arena. Perhaps if I had been stronger, more decisive in my actions, more assertive in my commands, he’d have felt like I knew what I was doing, Perhaps if I’d had some self-confidence, it would have rubbed off on him. I was a street cop for ten years. I was afraid, plenty. I won’t deny it. But I learned real quick not to show it. I got really good at stuffing how I felt. I had no idea how much damage that was doing behind the strong brick emotional wall of my mind, but that’s another story for another time. My job was to be the safe harbor in the storm, the rock, the one the public could count on to make it all okay. When I was in uniform I was the very symbol of safety, security, and protection. And people in trouble clung to me like a lifeboat in a hurricane. It became more than just pretending to be brave. After a few years and some pretty intense successes, I WAS brave. My confidence grew with each triumph over evil. My self-assurance rose with each victory over the bad guys. Even being shot at (he missed) and then catching the guy myself as he tried to run, made me feel strong and absolutely invincible. For a while, I felt like I was WONDER WOMAN! I could do anything! Could I find a way to be that again, only this time for my horse? Could I resurrect the cop-me to be present for my four-legged friend, or had age and too many disappointments and failures killed off that brave young woman? Surely that part of me is still alive somewhere deep in my psyche. Surely I can mentally put on my make-believe gun and my pretend bullet-proof vest and take charge when my horse feels threatened, be it real or imagined. In the mean time, my once every two decades PAP test is done. My heart indicates I’m going to remain on this side of the grass, at least for a while longer. Now I just need to work on making that grass a bit greener so I really WANT to stay on this side of the roots. I believe that will require the presence of horses. -Kris

It Depends… By Kris Garrett “It Depends…” are words that live in a world of gray. The left-brained, analytical side of me hates gray. Black and white makes sense and is easy to visualize. Black and white represents yes and no, good and bad, always and never. But gray? Well, it depends…. I asked Tom a lot of questions yesterday. Too often his answer was, “it depends.” It got to be somewhat of a joke, so a snicker and a grin often preceded his words. I found myself giggling just about the time my question left my lips, instantly knowing what two-word answer was about to be floated back across the arena dust. When the skills you’re hoping to learn depend on so many diverse factors, they can be tricky for the mind to grasp. I figure that’s why, after watching Tom work horses for several months, I’m just now starting to comprehend the big picture regarding what he’s been trying to get me and his other clients to understand about the minds of horses. A few dozen horses and a tall stack of videotapes later, I’m just starting to recognize the power of his work. And I really do mean just starting. The more I learn, the more I realize that I need to learn. I’m a novice, a baby, a slab of cold wet clay waiting to be molded. I humbly admit that hanging out with horses on a daily basis for the past 45 years has not made me a true horsewoman. But at least now I know that I don’t know. I grovel at my Master’s feet. My cup is empty. There is no better, and in reality - no other, place to begin. Predator and prey. Those words are fairly black and white. Horses are prey animals and humans are predators. No secret there. But how does a human predator step fully into the mind of the prey animal so we can understand what they are thinking? Many people believe they can do this through the intellect. Our big human brains have enough computing power to analyze the evidence and figure out, almost without fail, how a horse is going to react to the specific stimulus we offer. Many people call this “whispering,” and have hung their shingle on the doorway of understanding without fully entering the building. At my encouragement, a good friend agreed to let Tom help her with her lovely and very sensitive half-Andalusian mare. I could tell my buddy was a little hesitant, but she trusts me and let me set it up. I promised to film the event, no charge. Just let me be there. I figured her concern might be because Tom is not a dressage rider and has no “level” or fancy credential attached to his name. He doesn’t fit her usual mold of “horse trainer.” He’s a quiet, self-assured Eastern Plains rancher, usually found in a dusty feedstore baseball cap and blue jeans. He prefers the company of mules to that of horses. I assured her there was little chance that Tom would actually ride the horse so there was no worry that he didn’t understand her style of training. Riding was not the point. I’ve known this gal for over ten years, and I have always been impressed with her riding skills. She’s had tons of formal instruction in dressage and jumping, as well as the natural sensitivity that allows her to be light with her hands and kind to the horse. She rode my horses for many years, helping me keep them fit while her own were still at her folk’s ranch, a mountain range away. My Andalusian mare, Lumina, consistently trotted up to the gate whenever her car pulled into the driveway. This spoke volumes to me. If my horse liked to be ridden by her, she certainly had passed the hardest test I could offer. It ‘s clear to me now that good technical riding instruction and years in the saddle do not always equate to a good equestrian experience. The lovely and talented mare my friend recently purchased has had tons of training, but like so many Iberian horses, is incredibly sensitive. Educated hands and a quiet seat are not enough for a hyper-alert horse like this. More lunging or roundy-round the arena kicking up dust at an energetic trot is not going to make things better. Neither was sending the mare off to another trainer. No doubt, the horse would benefit and come back with more knowledge, but more of the same kind of training was not going to fix the dangerous crack in the foundation of their personal relationship. The first issue to be healed requires building a strong bridge between my friend and her mare’s very dissimilar minds. That bridge, that understanding, is the basis for everything else. It’s personal. Another trainer showing the horse what kind of horse/human relationship was possible was invaluable. But my friend also needed to reestablish her own position in the relationship. Without that, another trainer’s work would be almost useless. “She’s a piece of popcorn ready to pop,” Tom explained as he held the end of the long leadrope, the float of the rope lying quiet on the ground. His personal energy and his calm voice was as low and relaxed as he could make it. The mare was stock-still in her body, but her eyes were wide and concerned. She was frozen with tension. Tom knew she could blow at any minute, and in any direction. Tom had watched my friend handle her horse before touching the leadrope himself. She moved the horse’s feet, backed her up with a side-to-side shake of the rope, Parelli-game style, and calmly moved the mare’s hind-end away with a waving hand, pivoting around the front legs in a decent turn on the forehand. When she stopped, the mare walked up close and nuzzled her chest. My friend stroked the mare’s soft nose contentedly. Obviously they had great affection for each other. My heart swelled at the touching tableau, recalling my own moments of snuggly affection with my beloved horses. Tom praised my friend for her clarity of the requests. But I knew what was coming next. I’d seen I before. “Your horse just ran over you…” he’d begin. While he didn’t mean it literally, he did mean that the mare’s thoughts, her energy, had just figuratively trampled over my friend. When that mind-set was accompanied by a startle or spook, the horse’s thousand-pounds of flesh and bone most likely WOULD go right over the top of my pal. And for us fragile humans, that could mean severe injury and even death. Tom took the leadrope and began the process of establishing his own personal space. He didn’t do so by become overly protective of himself as much as making a clear decision in his own mind and indication to the mare where a good, quiet , safe place would be established for the horse be. When she was in that space, all pressure from him stopped. If she moved toward him and got in his space, he used just enough energy through his body and the leadrope to make it uncomfortable for her to stay. “She always has the option to leave…” he’d say, over and over again when the horse took a step toward him. “…but she must leave going AWAY from me. And I have to give her enough rope to do it.” Teaching the horse that he or she always has the option of leaving is one of the first foundational pillars of the mind-bridge. Knowing that there’s always an option of a way out that fits the prey animal’s innate need to flee, establishes that first keystone of trust. A hungry wolf would not give the struggling mustang, held tight in his bloody jaws, the option to leave. It would hold on tight and try to make the horse stay in one place until it was dead. If fight and flight are both denied the horse, he’s either going to have to shut down in shock and “die”, or explode beyond the predator’s ability to maintain control. Tom calls it the “door” in the “box.” We put our horses in the “box” when we ask them to let us ride them or otherwise control them. The simple act of picking up a foot to clean it out is a type of putting them in the “box.” We take away a leg, and therefore diminish their ability to flee. We confine them in a box with our reins and seat when we ride, asking them to give up control of their bodies to our every whim. To the horse’s mind, a “door” that allows him the ability to flee must be left open for him to tolerate and submit to our control. Once he realizes that his natural desire for flight is still an option, the beginnings of trust in the human handler take root. The presence of the door is the very thing that gives the horse the ability to not actually need to use the door at all. This perceived trustworthiness and leadership of the handler is what gives the horse the security to willingly stay in the box. Some horses live in the box easily. They rarely, if ever, challenge their rider or handler’s control. But sensitive, insecure horses, like the one my friend now owns, become worse and worse as the box tightens in around them. Harsher bits, tie downs, increased feelings of confinement, and abusive physical punishment only exacerbates the problem. These sensitive horses often end up being sold again and again, many times leaving a long line of injured and frustrated owners in their wake. The mare Tom had at the end of his rope HAD to know that she could leave, that she had the option to escape the human imposed box, or she would continue to escalate to her much more dangerous “fight” behavior. To her mind, she had no other options. Flight or fight. That’s it. Once she realized she could flee if she had to, her mind would then open to a third possibility. Only when she knew that she had the ability to escape, could she calm her own mind enough to confidently hand over leadership to a person who she believed would keep her out of harm's way. By letting her leave when she needed to, Tom assured the mare that she was not trapped. She was able to keep her mind working and make good choices. Leaving doesn’t mean running away and going back to the barn, it means leaving the immediate energy of the stressful situation. If a horse decides to leave, Tom lets him or her go. He couldn’t physically stop them anyway. If the horse continues to leave to the point he or she hits the end of the long leadrope, Tom does not let go of the rope, he simply redirects the horse’s body and changes the direction the horse is going. He may let the horse hit the end of the rope hard, but he doesn’t pull back and hold. This would create a brace or a fight. He may draw hard on the rope to turn the horse’s head so the horse changes direction, but then he releases the pressure and lets the do whatever it takes for the horse to satisfy his need for movement. This adrenaline release lets the horse calm down on his own terms. When he’s ready to look for another option, Tom is still there, quiet and consistent. Tom never snubs the horse tight or demands that he or she stay. He lets them out the “door.” There is one black and white rule to this door in the box. The horse can jump and kick and blow off adrenaline with as much activity as needed as long as the energy is going AWAY from Tom’s personal space. If the horse comes at Tom, he makes himself big by raising his hands and the flapping leadrope toward the animal to say, “Not toward ME!” He uses his own body language and energy as loud as necessary to change the horse’s direction. “I’ll be just as rude to the horse as he is to me,” Tom says. “It may look big and scary, but I have no interest in beating up on the horse, I just want to direct his energy away from my space. He can go any other direction, just not toward me. I make this very clear. I don’t lie to the horse and let him trample me one time but not the next. I’m honest with him. I never lie.” Eventually, the signal to the horses that says, “you’re in my space,” is as subtle as a blink of Tom’s eye or a raising of the energy in his body. Sometimes he lifts the leadrope an inch, changing the weight of the float in the rope. All of these messages are a type of “pressure” that require the horse to think about a response. The smaller the effective signal, the “lighter” the horse. Never does Tom take up contact with the halter and physically push the horse way. “The horse has to be responsible for the decision to move. I don’t move the horse. I give the smallest signal I can to tell the horse to move away from the pressure, and stop asking the moment he decides to do so.” In the beginning, it rarely looks “light.” The horse may not know what to do other than run away. And that’s okay as long as it’s away from Tom’s space. Once the horse uses up the flight adrenaline, Tom goes back to asking him to move his feet to reestablish leadership. He “speaks” in the horse’s own language, which is “he who causes the other guy’s feet to move, is the leader.” Of course, Tom doesn’t always get the answer he’s asking for. He doesn’t make a big deal about it, he calmly starts over wherever they left off. When he gets the answer he’s looking for, he stops asking and waits. It’s the magical moment of nothingness. This release of pressure is where learning really occurs. A lot of time is spent in quiet stillness as the horse “bakes” the new information in his mind. It doesn’t take long before the horse realizes that it feels safer and more comfortable to simply give leadership to the fellow at the other end of the leadrope than it does being hyper-alert and reactive. Tom teaches the horse to FEEL CONFIDENT in him, and therefore safe in letting that him fill the role of dependable leader. His directions are clear and consistent. It’s the very best kind of carrot one can offer a prey animal. A horse who’s trained though fear, force, and suppression of his fight or flight instincts will almost never become a true partner. We’ve all seen those numb, glassy-eyed horses who’ve been forced into submission by violence and domination. They may seem quiet and safe to the untrained eye, but the energy of fight or flight is never truly extinguished. Having submitted and shut down as a way to survive the intense pressure applied by humans is only temporary for most of these poor beasts. If they wake up enough to spot an opportunity that reignites their natural instincts to fight or flee, they can become the most dangerous horses of all. These numb, equine-robots just might be tightly packed kegs of dynamite, waiting for a match. Tom taught the mare that there was a good feeling place to be. Then he asked my friend to take over. The horse obviously liked my friend a great deal, but she just as obviously didn’t respect her as her leader. Not owning that respect caused the mare to lack confidence in her human partner’s ability to keep her safe. So she took on that role herself, becoming more and more hyper-vigilant to protect them both. This looks like spooking and overreacting to the human partner, but it was simple survival instinct to the horse. The realization that our horses don’t respect us tends to hurt us humans, as lack of respect equates to rejection to our human “predator” minds. But to a horse, it’s simply a matter of herd hierarchy and perceptions of safety. Someone needs to be the leader, and if the human is not up to the job, the horse is going to take over. I watched through my camera lens as Tom and my friend took turns “talking” to the mare through alternating requests of movement, and releases of quiet stillness. I could tell my friend was a bit overwhelmed by the shear volume of information she’d been challenged to understand in a short couple of hours. I felt her pain. That’s why I’m videoing Tom any chance I get. He’s not so sure this work will translate well to being shared in books or videos, because each situation and each horse is so different. There’s no pat answer or black and white response that fits every circumstance. “It depends…” is much more common a remark than, “this is what you do…” But after a lifetime of frustration that’s left me wondering where I went wrong with my own imperfect interactions with horses, I’m not about to let this information go unshared. Tom was very resistant at first, but my friend Melanie and I convinced him that not sharing his work was unfair to all the misunderstood horses in the world. Tom may hesitantly tolerate my desire to create media with which to share this work, but he’s certain he’s not interested in being put in a box. I make sure I leave a door wide open where he can stop my camera from rolling at any time. And that open door is why he continues to let me follow him from horse to horse, watching, filming, and learning. Will this collection of “Tom” videos I have stacked on my desk be available to everyone someday? Well, that depends… .