So Long, Jack Tripper

This story was written by a friend, Terri of Good Hands Horse Training & Sales (see her blog here). I like to bring awareness to some of the unpleasant circumstances in which good horses may find themselves (see the story of Clever Allemont, a Graded stakes winning Thoroughbred). Jack could've been someone's "forever" horse, but he fell into the wrong hands. As a result, Jack suffered severe psychological trauma that he could never truly overcome. He was humanely euthanized last week.

A couple days ago I put to rest a fine young horse. No catastrophic wound, no terminal illness. No external reason to let him go. This horse was Jack, the rescue horse. Some of you have followed his story, since that icy February day, two years ago that he arrived in Sioux City, via Nebraska Humane Society stock trailer, some from even earlier when he and several other horses were seized by the Nebraska Humane Society from a North Omaha barn the previous spring.

Jack had been used as a trip horse in a backyard Mexican rodeo. For you not familiar with the sport, it is something akin to our American calf roping event, only it’s a horse that’s hazed down an alley and then is caught around the front legs and brought to the ground, at speed. He survived that experience with minimal physical injuries but was left with a deep and abiding panic disorder and it was that which would be the end of him. The authorities were only able to seize the horses after they were discovered emaciated and on the edge of death by starvation, as there were no ordinances in place at that time in the city of Omaha, banning the sport.

I had warned the NHS officers if they brought me a nutcase, we’d soon be euthanizing or I’d have to be free to dispose of him as I see fit. I grew up in rural Northern California ranch country and while I love my horses, I do view them as livestock. With that view, I believe responsible horse owners should be able to dispose of their livestock in the manner they see fit, and I made that very clear. The horse that came off the trailer was not remotely what I was expecting. Scared, yes, but humble and hopeful, he took a good look around before carefully and sanely depositing himself on the ground. I had a good grip on the halter rope, the thought he might want to leave the country, me skiing along behind was large on my mind.

Then, as almost always, Jack was light and respectful on the leadline. I have worked with a lot of horses in my life and you don’t get that kind of response without someone putting in some intelligent effort and hours into a young horse. The fellows running their rodeo had purchased their stock from a killer buyer, but I’ll lay good money whoever brought this colt to auction had no idea of his more than likely end. He was intact, maybe had his papers, maybe did or did not ride . . . There’s too many of those in the world right now for the people we have available that are able and willing to bring them along and horses with more opportunity than Jack have gone down the long road on a truck.

Jack blew up the second day I had him. I had been told he could stand tied, and rather than check that out for myself, I tied him. That’s when I first got to witness his panic in full color as he blindly fought and struggled to free himself. Once he’d tangled himself enough to choke himself down, I was able to cut the rope and get him free. From that point on, I took nothing for granted with this horse, and spent the next two years, breaking his training down into as small pieces as I could think, trying to reach into that damaged mind and bring him back.

There were many signs along the way that this could be a very successful journey. What happened to him destroyed his confidence, but it did not destroy Jack’s play drive. A horse that will engage and play can surely be saved, I thought. We established a “rope game” that we would play when Jack was stressed and it would help him gain his composure. I found that game by accident. Not surprisingly, after he’d beat his face against the side of a barn, Jack was none too keen on wearing a halter and it took some doing to get one on him. I won’t ever force a horse but attempt to build their willing cooperation, and there was not much coming from him on this score. Into the round pen we went, him on a neck rope made from my 22’ line. I looped it over his neck, crossed it under and stood back at a safe distance, should he strike at the offenders, which could includeme. I would gently flop them a little, letting him feel the lines softly on the sides of his face. The aim was to desensitize him to touch on his face and let him know that could happen without pain or fear. Much to my surprise, Jack reached for the lines and would bump them with his nose. I’d flop them at him; he’d bump them back at me. He’d even mouth them, shaking his head, creating a similar ripple effect at me that I was sending at him. From then on, when Jack had trouble, he’d ask for the rope game and we’d take a moment and play til he could move on to the next step.

The horse put me in tears every time I worked with him in those early days. I am no maudlin ill informed animal rights sympathizer. As I said, I love my horses and they are also livestock, intended to do a job, as well. This horse had as much heart and try as any I have ever laid my hand or eye on. There would be times what I would ask him to endure would be very hard for him. He’d been whipped, as he’d soon learned if he run, he’d be thrown and he’d apparently tried to refuse to run until his back was opened up, and he had no choice. I asked Jack to allow my to put my stick and string gently all over his body, including around his legs, neck and back. I started far back, just moving the stick and string on the ground, many feet away from him. He would tremble and snort, and sometimes would retreat inside himself in an almost catatonic manner. I know, once a thing is begun, you have to see it through to not leave a horse in doubt which only creates deeper fears. I would reduce the stimulation while continuing to engage him, and he would come back to himself, blinking, licking and chewing. One day, the yawning began. People often mistakenly believe horses yawn when they are bored, it is actually connected with an adrenalin release. Jack would yawn until his eyes rolled up in his head and tears from his damaged ducts would roll down his face. They were matched by my own. He would focus on me with both ears and both eyes, would take steps toward me, and reach for me with his nose. I reached right back with all the heart I have for a horse.

That first couple of months, I had him not only accepting the touch of that string, but wearing a saddle blanket, a hula hoop, and had very high hopes that the following year we would debut at the Nebraska Horse Expo. I had even picked out the music (Boondocks, by Little Big Town) and was writing the story in my head of the redeemable throwaway horses. Jack would walk over tarps; he learned to tolerate squeezes, which would be terrifying to a naturally claustrophobic animal that had learned just how bad such a trap could be. I thought this would be as fine of an example of why not to give up on a horse as there ever could possibly be.

Never, though, with all these gains, did he get fully calm or gentle. The least noise would send him into a startle, the white would return to his eyes, the tension to his body. Fight or flight was his first line of response and that, I could not change.

I taught him to be caught, worked with him in the round pen, teaching him to disengage his hip at liberty, face up and come to me. I have snotty saddle horses that would make the choice to not, but Jack, anywhere, any time . . . if I could catch his eye, and release the pressure to him as he’d look at me, he’d face up and often as not, come to me on a line straight as a die even with me walking away from him, he’d fall in at my shoulder.

I firmly believe it was this horse’s deep level of trainability that was his undoing. He’d learned that life is unpredictable which is something I teach all my colts, but unlike them, he’d learned it was unpredictable in bad and awful ways and that was entrenched to an instinctive level I guess I had no hope of reaching. I kept trying though, and so did he.

I’d heard he’d jumped a fence at the sight of a mounted rider in his first foster home, and watched with interest the first time I mounted a horse in the round pen with Jack munching hay on a round bale with the brood mares not 30 feet away. As I stepped into the stirrup, his head flies up in alarm. He glances at the mares as if to say “hey, don’t we have to get out of here, and NOW?” Those lazy girls paid neither he nor I the slightest heed and his curious attention went back and forth, from the calm, confident horse I was riding in the pen to the unconcerned ladies he lived with . . . I could soon ride almost close enough to touch him from the saddle. Never quite managed that, though.

There were long blocks of time Jack just got to be a horse. Professional trainer, my projects are back burnered when I have paying horses in the barn, and it works better when I have them there more often than not. Jack babysat my last foal crop and if there were any reason for me to be raising babies, he’d have had a job for life. Kind and sensible with the youngsters, he was a good and steady influence when weaning time came.

Then came the fateful day I decided he was ready to try a saddle. We’d done a lot of good work, seemed to me he was coming right along. A few stutters here and there, but it seemed moving forward was the good and likely direction. What I will say here, is that if I had that day to do over, I’d have done it a little different. Every other step I took with that horse, I broke it down to steps that made paint drying look fast. That day, I just saddled him up. I had already, of course, desensitized him to feeling pressure on his girth and back cinch area, had led him around off the girth rope. What I did not take into account was my habit of releasing to give, and when Jack would come with me, I’d release pressure to let him know he was doing the right thing. Saddles don’t release pressure, and when Jack moved away, and the pressure came with him, I think it blew his mind. I have never, in all my life, and I have seen some bucking, exploding horses, seen a horse react like this. End shot, he took out a couple panels of my round pen, bucked and ran around a three acre pasture (don’t let anyone ever tell you a horse cannot buck and run at top speed, if there was more speed than that, he should have been on the track and wow, what an athlete . . .). I finally got him directed into a pen, and he bucked and charged back and forth in that pen until he hooked the stirrup on a fence post and tore the saddle off. What broke my heart is I don’t think he even knew the saddle was gone. Nothing in his behavior changed, he bucked, kicked and lashed out hysterically, sweat and lather rolling off his body. As he became exhausted, he put himself into small circles, occasionally throwing a buck, or lashing out with a kick, hanging his head, gasping for air, and then off he’d go again.

Sick at heart, I waited until there was life in his eyes and called his name. He wanted none of me, and I let him sit, dragging his halter rope, while I went about my business, checking on him occasionally. By evening, I felt safe to go in and get him caught. We were back to zero. I pulled his halter and walked away. At any point during that terrible wreck, I waited for him to hurt himself, leap through a fence, tear himself open or break his leg. It is thought the grace of God as I understand him that Jack came through with only some minor cuts and scrapes.

How fair was this? How much of my ego was getting tied up in bringing back the dead? How could I ever know, no matter how far I got with him, that something would not set off that blind panic and he’d kill himself, or me or cause death or injury to an innocent bystander?

I worked with Jack a couple more times after this, still thinking . . . maybe. I could do so many things with him! That horse would do flawless groundwork, floating around on a draped line . . . no more pressure than it takes to move the theoretical toy boat in the bath tub. And he would panic.

It was time to stop. This was a great kind horse who should have been someone’s forever not for sale at any price love of their equine life. It was not in the cards for him. I vowed to give him a home in safe pastures as long as I had hay to give. Little did I know that my circumstances would soon change and that would become not possible.

I am one to seek wise council from informed friends and then tend to do what I think best, anyway, but in this case, we were all agreed. It was time to let him go rather than see that fine and damaged horse ever find himself in harms’ way, no matter how well intended, ever again. I opted to not put him on a truck. While I don’t mind that end, done safely and humanely, this horse had suffered enough at the hands of human beings, and deserved his death to be kind, dignified and as quietly loving as I could manage.

Rest in peace, Jack Tripper, and may I never forget the gifts and lessons in spirit, heart and courage that I got from one throwaway bay horse.