They make’m uncomfortable. Even though everybody tells ’em it’s for their own good, they’d lots rather be someplace else. But, in the case of the horse, you can’t really blame them. Most every time I have to handle a horse, it’s to stick something in him like a tube or a shot or a plastic sleeve.
And, they remember you. I’ve seen horses go bug-eyed and snorty at the sight or smell of a vet truck. The only way you could give’m a shot was to sneak it to the cowboy and let him do it from horseback.
Years back I went to a lecture and demonstration on “horse psychology for vets.” The gist of the whole philosophy says it is a matter of wills. Since the horse is a social animal, each band has a pecking order. It’s not always the strongest or fastest or biggest that’s the leader. It’s the one with the most dominant personality. So every time a person meets a horse, one has to dominate the other.
Well, I took the schoolin’ seriously and came back ready to test my new horse psychology skills. I practiced on several “bronc-y” ones before I tried it out on my archenemy. He was a dark brown, non-descript, bad-headed, ill-tempered, big-footed, long-haired typical Nevada-raised feedlot slogger named Scrap Iron. In six years I had never tube-wormed Scrap Iron or given him so much as a vitamin shot. He wouldn’t let me within 20 foot of him.
Following my instructions, I crouched real low and approached him. He mistook me for the ferrier and let me pick up a front foot. I buckled on the one-leg hobble and stood up. He realized immediately the trick I pulled on him and promptly went into his “bad actor” routine. He ran around the corral on three legs, he reared, rolled, snorted, slobbered, kicked, fell, cussed and generally just made a fool of himself. Which, of course, was the plan.
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