And so, Nube [pronounced new-bay] retired in limbo. Undiagnosable. Sometimes, the solution for a long-running struggle is to just stop the fight. No answer is an answer. Let it go because peace was better than the ugly struggle of focusing on what was wrong.
Let the anxiety of multiple vet visits stop and the desperate internet searches rest. Most of all, let my hopes and plans, the way I felt in the saddle, all the adventures that were not to be, fade like light on the prairie. We can learn to love the dusk.
It’s valuable to look up a word, even if you know what it means. Retire is a verb, as in; to leave a place or responsibility. Synonyms include to depart, pull out, relinquish, retreat, separate, surrender, and withdraw. Each of these words stabs me. Not to kill me, but to leave a scar. See how I am? Nube’s retirement was all about me. I needed to turn that around.
Nube didn’t like the idea of retirement. There was no cue for it. We had a habit over the years, and we liked it. I didn’t come for him now. He pawed and pushed his chest against the fence panels, anxious when I was with other horses. He watched me like a stalker. Nube had always been an emotional horse. It fueled his brilliance under saddle and his intelligent curiosity. Now it made for explosive reactions and dark secrets. It was impossible to separate his feelings from his physical condition. His energetic gallop from his brutal collapses. There’s always a balance of dark and light, the yin-yang of being alive. Now his extremes were too unpredictable and dangerous for either of us.
We couldn’t find the medical reasons, so all I could do was retire him from any extra daily stress, even if it was me. I still let my hand trace his flank when I passed, breathing with him as always. But the halter was never in my hand. The tack was never on the rail. We might chat around the muck cart, but I didn’t mention our favorite topic. It was like asking politicians to not talk about politics. I made sure that my thoughts, the pictures I showed him, were of our happy life.
So, I taught my body to hide the truth. Humans are transparent and horses can read us without trying. Our anxiety and worst fears echo inside of them, added to their own feelings. I excused my thoughts, so I’d never show my disappointment. It was the only way to let him be free. I learned to control myself, to turn down my body volume to a quiet, safe place. It’s probably what horses like about me now.
Letting go of work is easy for a horse who suffered harsh training. The way Nube and I worked was light and conversational. Affirmative Training is the fine art of saying yes. It has always been more than a slogan. Now I made myself distant. Our conversations were all small talk. I gave him back to the horses.
I already had four other retirees in my herd. He was in good company. Over the next few months, Nube’s body softened and some of his symptoms lessened. Now that his pain was less and his bravado had relaxed, he looked fragile. All horses are fragile.
Too often, a relationship with a horse is based on what they give us or how we use them. Sometimes we ask them to play the human role of a therapist, child, or patient. We race into the barn as if those few hours we spend with our horses are the pinnacle of their day. Ironically, the quality of a horse’s lifestyle outside of work is the best indicator of their confidence on the job. Horses need horses. Depressing, considering the per-hour cost of one horse.
For Nube to have the best retirement, I thought of the things he could surrender, like trying too hard to be perfect. He could withdraw from my endless scrutiny of his health. I hated it, but I hoped he’d retire from all unnecessary human interference.
Now I evaluated each interchange: Did he need to do the thing I asked for his well-being or to please me? If you read calming signals, horses are honest about how they feel about over-care by cloying humans. I abhor neglect, but micromanaging is a fault, too. Call it sweet benign neglect. Short of routine care, I let him be. Because our job is to give horses the most natural life possible.
Besides, there are good reasons to roll in mud and it isn’t so they can spend an hour having us primp them clean. For all the elder horses with a manure stain on their hip and crud in their mane, glad you can lie down and get up again. Glad you had a good nap. I let Nube be dirty, lowering my prissy standards in trade for my horse living his best life. And somehow his gray turned to silver.
Nube was seven when he retired in 2010. It was also the year I started writing this blog. It wasn’t a coincidence.
Nube was thirteen when my Grandfather Horse died. He glided into the sage elder position in the herd without so much as a ripple. One big gray gelding traded for another, happy to carry the Grandfather Horse legacy forward. I ached to watch the herd acknowledge the change. Nube was old before his years, but those years had been good ones. Retirement had been the cure. I hope one day it will be mine, too.
This is always our question. When the vet tells you your horse is fine, but your horse tells you he is not, who do you believe? Will you trust the well-meaning veterinarian’s opinion, or remain adrift in a nebulous swill of unanswered questions?
Nube got to rest, but I chose the swill. Maybe the greatest lesson horses teach us isn’t about what they give us, but who we need to be for them. Maybe navigating nebulous swill is a more valuable attribute. With all I learned while researching and studying, I could qualify as an amateur vet, which is the same thing as becoming a better trainer.
Nube was the most brilliant horse I’d ever owned. I didn’t know he could fail. It broke me. My plan was that we would ride up the dressage levels, laughing all the way. Instead, I learned to listen calmly to things I didn’t want to hear. To spare the horse more anxiety, I put an accepting half-smile on my lips and cocked a hip at bad news. With a nod to Nube, the horse who taught me to not ride.
[Fourteenth in a series called Nube’s Story.]…
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