Wild or Tame: Trust Actions Above Words

This is my neighborhood. That’s Pikes Peak peering over the horizon, exactly where it was when I bought the farm. It feels like everything else has changed. Now high-tension power poles are cutting an ugly swath across the land from the wind turbines twenty miles east of here. I’ve given up photo-shopping them out. The pond used to be filled with birds, but only a fraction still come. Can you see the deer reflected in the pond? They are new, too. Crowded here by urban sprawl. 

The thing I love best about living here is the invisible line between wild animals and tame ones. By invisible, I mean nonexistent.

This morning, I was up early mucking before breakfast. Three does and six fawns were moving single file from the pond across the pasture. Not newborn fawns, but not teenage size. I call the pasture a game preserve because the horses don’t use it, and shouldn’t we tithe back to nature? A huge hawk perched at the top of a nearby pine tree like a holiday angel. 

Then one fawn got hung up on the fence. Her body dangled from the fence, with a hind leg caught high enough that only her front hooves touched the ground. Was that thin hind leg broken? Fencing is always the killing danger for animals escaping fires. And urban growth has a wildfire quality. So many fences, so close together.

I hurried across the pasture, but as I got closer, I slow walked an arc, careful to stay in her vision. It’s what I teach people to do around horses. She had passed her hoof through two squares of the fence, above one wire and below. The compression of her leg was like a Chinese Finger Trap. There was no blood yet, but it got tighter when she pulled. I took some deep breaths, letting her hear me exhale and kept my hand soft. She was calm as I tried to work her leg free. I was thinking Chinese Finger Traps really do teach you everything you’d ever need to know about life.

Her leg wouldn’t move. I stepped away, and she screamed. Deer screams are haunting. Think Silence of the Lambs.

I started back for wire cutters, but the Dude Rancher was on his way out with them. He asked if I needed help, and I said no. The last thing any frightened animal, wild or tame wants is more humans around. We are predators, after all.

Again, approaching in a slow arc and audibly exhaling, I steadied her leg, and positioned the cutters. She was completely still. I cut one wire, and she pulled free, screaming and dragging her leg. By the time she caught up with the others, she was pogoing with her hind legs. I think she’ll be sore, but okay.

On the way back to mucking, I smiled, thinking I’d handled a little fawn just like a thousand-pound horse. I didn’t talk because breath is more powerful and universal. I didn’t pet her or coo to her. What might soothe us would scare an animal more. My goal was to be the least intrusive human I could be. After a lifetime studying animals, it still comes back to simple breathing. 

Do I sound like I’m bragging? I wasn’t born this way. When I was young, I’d kiss a dog’s snout while looking at the whites of his eyes. I’d hug cats until they went limp as an octopus to escape me. With horses, I was even more disrespectful. I held that lead with a death grip as I cuddled and chattered, asking them questions they never answered. Like would-be animal behaviorist Gary Larson’s famous cartoon, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, Ginger…”

We try so hard to help animals, but in that process, overwhelm them. Some barns play classical music overnight. Research shows it doesn’t soothe horses, but instead stresses them as they must listen through the music to the outside noises. How many times do I hit the mute button so I can hear better? 

We teach riders to sing around horses if they are afraid, and it might relax the rider, but the horse knows they aren’t breathing. It’s hard to tell who makes who more nervous. And humans pick notoriously terrible songs. 

We hush the emotions of our dogs, constantly correcting them. Especially if their natural behavior is inconvenient. We yell at dogs for barking, but isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?

Animals don’t share our language. Not that they can’t learn words, but they use a universal body language called Calming Signals. As the theoretically more advanced species, shouldn’t I learn their language? Breathing is a universal calming cue, if only we’d go slow and remember.

My first step was to shut up. Not that I didn’t understand why my donkey brayed. And of course, I thanked my dog for barking. His hearing is better than mine. It wasn’t easy to muffle my blather, but the reward was immediate. Holding my words focused my mind. It was easier to hear what wasn’t said. It meant more honest communication because bodies don’t lie. My horse training skills took a giant leap, reactive horses settled, dogs liked me more. I liked myself more. Decades later, I even understand humans better. All to say, what if animals have been right all along?

After I finished chores, I tidied myself up. It was the anniversary of the day my dog Mister and I met on a hotel sofa three years ago. He is the Cardigan Corgi who traveled 23k miles with me in an RV. Mister would tell you I wrote a book about him called Undomesticated Women, but obviously he’s exaggerating.

Our date: Mister isn’t the outdoorsy type. I knew he’d want a truck ride, with my hand on his head and three air conditioner vents on him. I drove us to the farthest spa. This public dog bath works like a two-minute carwash, and Mister says the faster the better. And there are treats at nose level all the way to check out. But just as we got to the front door, an employee baby-talked to Mister and his belly hit the ground. High squeaky voices hurt my ears, too. I put a finger to my lips, the employee nodded, and after a breath, he stood up and bravely walked to the wash area, passing other dogs without a glance. I swear, wild or tame, human or animal, the power of breath.

Dried and fluffed to twice his normal girth, and having chosen a few treats, we paid and went back to the truck. But on the way out of the parking lot, we saw some shady trees over by an empty storefront. I’m not ashamed to say it. We parked. Mister finished his liver snack, and our silence deepened into a brief nap. On the way home, we stopped for a pup cup from Starbucks. It was a perfect day.

Why does quiet make humans so nervous? Is all silence awkward, in need of filling with chatter? See it from the animal’s side. To a terrified fawn or your heart’s companion, words are noise. Silence has room for understanding. Silence is peace. Isn’t that the sign of a true friend? 

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Available Now! My new travel memoir is Undomesticated Women, Anecdotal Evidence from the Road. Ride along on a clinic tour through 30 states, 2 oceans, and 14k miles with me and my dog, Mister. It is an unapologetic celebration of sunsets, horses, RV parks, roadkill, diverse landscapes, and undomesticated women. Available now at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and signed copies from me.

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