Equu-librium

Looking back to when I first graduated from veterinary school, prepurchase examinations were refreshingly simple. Horses fell into three clear categories: those with no apparent problems, those who were actively lame, and those who were what we called "serviceably sound." That third category has practically disappeared from modern veterinary practice, and I believe we're all worse off for it.

Serviceably sound horses weren't perfect specimens. They might have shown a little stiffness in one direction or carried themselves differently than a younger horse would. But these horses had been reliably doing their jobs for years, and there was every reason to believe they could continue for years more. Today, in our era of exhaustive radiographs, aggressive flexion tests, and what I affectionately call Scientific Wild Guesses about the future, I find myself wondering what happened to simply accepting a good, working horse for what he is.

The transformation hit me hardest about two years ago when I became the fourth veterinarian to examine a twenty-year-old warmblood mare. This horse had been subjected to every diagnostic tool modern veterinary medicine offers: MRIs, bone scans, ultrasounds, and radiographs of virtually every skeletal structure in her body. Multiple specialists from prestigious hospitals had weighed in with their professional opinions. The consensus was unanimous and dire: this mare should never be ridden again. The diagnostic reports left no room for interpretation.

When the owner called me, I honestly questioned what unique perspective I could possibly offer after such thorough evaluation by my colleagues. Still, I went through my examination process. I ran my hands along her legs and felt the subtle swelling in her stifle joints. When I flexed her legs, I noted the expected stiffness. Throughout the entire examination, this gentle, patient mare cooperated completely, never resisting or objecting to anything I asked of her. Then I requested to see her move. Her gait certainly wasn't expansive or effortless, but she moved forward willingly and, if I'm any judge of equine demeanor, happily.

I turned to the owner and asked a question that apparently none of my predecessors had considered important: "What do you want to do with her?"

The owner, who had clearly invested enough in diagnostics to fund a small developing nation, replied that she hoped the mare could give lessons to children.

My response was simple: "Why don't you give it a try?"

The owner's brow furrowed with concern. "But what about all of those reports?" she asked, gesturing to the stack of dire professional opinions.

I looked at the mare, then back at the owner. "Don't let her read them."

Three years have passed since that conversation, and that supposedly unrideable mare continues to give lessons to children regularly and happily. She doesn't move quickly or for extended periods, and she benefits from occasional pain-relieving medication. But she has a purpose, she's adored by countless young riders, and by all observable measures, she's content with her life.

Another case stays with me just as powerfully. An eighteen-year-old gelding had been through the complete diagnostic circus: MRI, nerve blocks, radiographs, medication trials, and therapeutic shoeing adjustments. All of this was in response to a hoof issue that caused a slight forelimb lameness, particularly noticeable when circling. I drove well beyond my normal practice area to evaluate this horse and review the mountain of accumulated data. After my examination, I asked the owner about the horse's current use.

"I take him out for walks on the trail two or three times a week," she explained.

My recommendation seemed almost too simple: "Why not give him a small dose of pain reliever before your trail walks and let him enjoy walking around this beautiful arena the rest of the time?"

The owner's immediate concern revealed how deeply the culture of worry had taken root. "But won't the pain reliever destroy his stomach?" she asked anxiously.

"No," I assured her.

That conversation happened four years ago. I encountered the owners at a lecture I presented about a year later, and everyone involved was thriving. As far as I know, the gelding's stomach remained intact, and the arrangement continues to work beautifully for both horse and owner.

I share these stories because the commercial side of the equine industry seems determined to convince horse owners that anything less than perfection is unacceptable. Words like "optimum," "ideal," and other carefully chosen marketing language imply that every horse harbors some hidden pathology just waiting to manifest as catastrophe. The message being sold is dangerously binary: your horse is either perfect or doomed.

This relentless pursuit of flawless equine health is, in my professional opinion, largely harmful. The constant anxiety, the hours spent researching potential problems on the internet, the fear of what might go wrong—all of this robs horse owners of the fundamental joy that should come with horse ownership. When a horse glances at his flank, it almost never means he's experiencing intestinal torsion. When a horse receives appropriate nutrition, he's not teetering on the edge of some nutritional catastrophe that only the latest miracle supplement can prevent. Excessive worry leads to unnecessary diagnostic testing, wasted money on veterinary and other services, and a futile quest for reassurance through endless interventions and products.

Understanding and monitoring your horse's health is certainly important. But there's a vast difference between reasonable concern when your horse shows signs of illness or injury and perpetual anxiety about potential future problems. Constant worrying about a healthy, normal horse creates problems primarily for the owner, not the horse.

Just recently, a seventy-year-old client brought me her nineteen-year-old gelding. She'd acquired him from a riding school and was concerned because someone had mentioned he was limping. I watched him trot and confirmed there was a slight irregularity in his gait.

"What do you do with him?" I inquired.

"I enjoy walking on the trails with him on weekends with my friends. Or maybe every other weekend," she replied.

I palpated his pastern and felt a minor enlargement. I was fairly certain he had some degree of osteoarthritis, commonly called ringbone.

Here's what I didn't recommend: radiographs, bone scans, MRIs, joint injections, joint supplements, specialty shoeing, liniments, platelet-rich plasma therapy, or stem cell treatments.

Instead, I gestured toward her seventy-five-year-old husband Fred and asked, "How's Fred doing? Is he moving around like he did when you two got married fifty years ago?"

She laughed. "No, definitely not."

"Thinking about trading him in?"

"Only sometimes," she said with a smile.

I suggested she continue enjoying those pleasant long walks and perhaps give the horse—not Fred, as I don't prescribe human medications—a pain reliever if he seemed uncomfortable. Several months have passed and everything continues to go wonderfully. I actually saw them both just the other day. The situation is ideal for everyone involved. Nobody moves with perfect soundness, Fred included. But everyone is functional, serviceable, and most importantly, happy.

So what does "serviceable" actually mean? To me, it means the horse can perform the work being asked of him without suffering. Horses typically go out and give their best effort—it's one of the qualities we treasure most about them. Our responsibility is to care for them, but that responsibility doesn't include achieving the impossible goal of perfection. A horse can be imperfect and still be wonderful.

Mark Twain captured a certain wisdom about horses when he wrote: "I preferred a safe horse to a fast one—I would like to have an excessively gentle horse—a horse with no spirit whatever—a lame one, if he had such a thing." (Roughing It, Chapter 64)

I rarely view situations in absolute terms. I believe firmly that the perfect is the enemy of the good. A horse isn't simply good or bad, serviceable or worthless. The equine world is full of wonderful horses who might have some minor flaw or imperfection but who will nevertheless be the best horse their owner could ever hope for. Don't pass by one of these treasures simply because he doesn't match someone else's arbitrary definition of perfection. He might not be flawless, but he can still be serviceable, useful, and even absolutely great.

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Your Horse Isn’t Out to get You

We’ve all heard it before :

•“If you let him get away with that once, he’ll walk all over you.”

•“You’ve got to stay one step ahead, or you’ll lose control.”

•“He’s testing you. Don’t let him win.”

I was brought up in an equestrian environment that lived by and thrived upon these “rules” and sayings. I used to believe it too.

I thought my horse was playing some secret games, always trying to see what he could “get away with”.

Until I learned that this mindset doesn’t come from horses. It’s human made and It’s rooted in fear of losing control as well as in an approach that’s based in an alpha/ dominance mindset.

The biggest problem with it all, it can wreck trust before it even has a chance to grow.

Horses aren’t plotting our downfall. They’re not lying awake at night thinking about how to overthrow your leadership. Are they creative and come up with all sorts of ideas? Yes. But their brains aren’t designed nor evolved in such way that they could think in such complex manner in which they’re being accused of.

They live in the moment. They react to what’s happening right now, your tone, your body language, your energy, they aren’t acting upon to some long-term plot that they’ve create to “overthrow” you.

They might be reacting to some past reinforcement history, habits and patterns that have been created through it. But I can promise you, your horse isn’t out to get you.

Here’s what changes when you let go of “the horse is plotting against me” story:

1.You stop showing up like it’s a battle.

When you come in armored up and ready to “win,” your horse meets you with the same tension. Letting that guises down allows for true connection to built.

2.You see mistakes as questions, not rebellion.

A moment of resistance, a buck, or a spook isn’t him trying to get one over on you, it’s his way of saying, “I don’t get it,” or “I’m not okay right now.”

3.You realize respect comes from clarity, not force.

You don’t earn it by being tougher. You earn it by being consistent, compassionate and clear in your communication.

4.You build trust faster.

When you believe and start to notice that your horse has good intentions, he starts meeting you with more willingness than you ever get through control.

Your partnership isn’t a tug of war. It’s not a “power” match. It’s supposed to be a dance.

This is your reminder that…

• You don’t have to win.
• You don’t have to stay on guard.
• You just have to connect and meet him where he’s at.

When you stop seeing your horse as a malicious being who’s “out to get you,” you’ll start to see him for what he’s really trying to do, trying to communicate with you.