December 18, 2005

Old married couples, long acquainted with one another’s thoughts and external representations of those thoughts, communicate masterfully. Often, they don’t use words. I’m that way with Preacher. That’s important, because Preacher can’t speak and can’t understand when I speak.

Preacher is my horse. We bird hunted all day today with a long column of hunters. Dad, who handles the dogs, directs the hunt from the head of the column while Preacher and I function as a kind of satellite. We rove from side to side locating missing dogs or move up and down the column visiting with guests. Such roving is tough for a bird hunting horse. Most horses walk with the rest of the herd behind the dog handler. Asking a horse to move away from his fellows stresses the mind of a creature hard-wired by eons of evolution to stay with his kind. Horses are afraid. Many horses become unmanageably afraid when riding alone. Preacher doesn’t like splitting off, but our communication is sophisticated enough, and effective enough, that now he and I can ride away from the herd while I look for dogs, keep in visual contact with Dad and find a route through unroaded terrain at the same time.

At one point this morning I moved up through the column of riders all the way from the rear to the front. I rode alongside one of our guests for awhile, then I passed him, waited for a wide spot in the trail and threaded between two other horses to move up. Eventually I rode abreast of Dad. When I reached the head of the column I realized that I hadn’t consciously told Preacher to do anything.

The signals he interprets are subtle. During the rest of the day I glanced occasionally at my rein hand to see what I was doing. I rarely moved anything but my fingers or wrist. A flexing of the fingers could stop Preacher, and hold him, no matter how anxious he was to move. Preacher turned in response to a lateral bend of my wrist and tender pressure on the reins sufficed to move him from a lope to a rack. The slightest nudge along his right ribcage got Preacher started and a shift of weight could signal that he should accelerate.

The communication runs both ways. I often know when Preacher will speed up from a walk two steps before he does it. I can feel it when he prepares to sidle and I know when he thinks I’m holding his reins too tight. I know when he wants to slow down, when he’s contemplating sneaking a bite of nearby greenery or when another horse’s proximity makes him nervous.

There are probably means and subjects of communication between Preacher and I still don’t recognize, even after cogitating on the subject. It’s not only possible, but probable, that he and I both recognize signals so idiosyncratic that no other horse or rider would use or recognize them. Our evolved communication obviates not only words, but sometimes intent.