Reno, The Horse That Started It All
This story was written by Cindy "Hawk" Sullivan, Co-Founder of the Equine Sciences Academy, where I received my Equine Sciences Degree, Natural Hoof Care Certification and serve as a Field Instructor.
He was captured by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) in 1997, in his 6th year of life - a fully mature stallion, yanked out of the only world he knew and thrown into a world of fear, pain, confusion and chaos.
When I met him, he was in a small pen with at least ten other horses. He was shoved to the back by the others, pressing into a corner, covered in bite marks - some old, some very new. People stopping to look at the horses in that pen pointed him out saying, “Don’t get that one, he’s a fighter!” I knew better. I saw his body language, his posture, his head hanging down and I knew he was a victim; he was a low man, getting picked on over and over by the others. Those weren’t scars of battle, those were scars of assault. There he was, pressed into a back corner of that small pen with nowhere to go, unable to get away from the equally frightened and lashing out “bullies.”
As I stood there, looking at the captives within, his head came up and he looked directly at me over the backs of all the others. Our eyes met and locked. I felt, with everything in me, a gentle spirit filled with despair and I saw troubled and defeated eyes looking back at me. He was trapped in a world he did not understand and fearful of what might be coming next. I felt it from him like a kick to the chest.
I had not come to the auction to get a horse. I had no intention of getting a horse; I was there to establish a business relationship with the BLM agents on behalf of a company I worked for at the time. But when I met him, the silent pleading in his eyes roused the rescuer in me. He won my commitment and my heart in an instant. A dear friend who was with me - a wise and astute woman - saw this silent exchange between us and said “Oh my!! He just picked you! You’re going to get that horse, aren’t you?” The spell broke and I turned to her – a bit dazed - and said, “Oh wow…yeah…I guess…” immediately followed by a confident, “Yes! Yes I am!”
This particular BLM sale was lottery style, meaning all the horses were the same price and the buyers were given a number. Numbers were picked at random. When your number was called, you simply picked out the horses you wanted, paid, and off you went. Number after number was called and as each number was called; I held my breath, praying that my boy would not be chosen by someone else. I could not see his holding pen from the audience seating area, so I had no idea what horses were being chosen, loaded and leaving. Having made friends with several of the BLM workers, they knew how much I wanted him and they knew my number, so when each number was called and it was not my number, and after each person made their pick, one of them would come over to me and whisper, “He’s still here.” This went on for several agonizing hours. At long last, my number was called. I was the LAST number! A BLM worker ran over to me, very excited and shouted, “HE’S STILL HERE!”
I couldn’t believe it!! He was mine, or more appropriately, I was his! Talk about “meant to be!”
Since this was so last minute, I did not have a trailer with me; I didn’t even own a trailer at that time. I had to drive back home (4+ hours away) and borrow one (thank you, Pete Ramey, for the loan of your trailer all those years ago). There was not enough time for me to go and get back before everything closed, so I had to leave him there, overnight. Other buyers had to do the same, so I knew he would not be there alone.
Upon my return, it was heartbreaking to watch the BLM workers chase him into the trailer with plastic bags tied to the end of whips. He was terrified, wild-eyed and shaking and still had a four hour trailer ride to endure all alone. Once I had him home, in a small corral with free-choice access to an open stall, he just stood there, outside, trembling. All I could do was be there, offering a quiet presence with no demands, giving him time, letting him decide what if any interaction we would have.
He had been trucked to Georgia for the sale, but was captured in Nevada, so I named him Reno.
The first month was spent providing clean hay and water daily, cleaning up after him and just being present with him, trying to gain his trust by showing him that not all humans were going to scare or hurt him. It took some time for him to get used to the human version of horse food. He didn’t know what a carrot was, or an apple or anything out of a bag called “horse feed.”
I observed everything about him and his behavior, trying to learn, letting him lead and I asked nothing of him. Eventually, he allowed me to touch him and soon after discovered the wonderfulness of a human finding that hard to reach itchy place. Our friendship starts.
At this point, halters and ropes were out of the question. He was terrified of ropes. In conversations with the BLM folks I had friended, one gal told me that he had been roped and thrown more than once. She said some of “the guys” liked to “practice” roping and throwing the wild ones from horseback. She didn’t like that, didn’t understand why others thought that was a good idea, felt powerless to stop the practice, but – for some reason - felt compelled to tell me. Reno’s rope fear was extreme. Every bit of trust gained would be set back if I showed up with anything resembling a rope. I had to abandon my notions of “normal” horse handling with a halter. God only knows what they did to him with ropes.
Freestyle it is!
After getting him hooked on treats (he discovered carrots and apples are super yummy!) I was able to negotiate with him for things like getting brushed and handling his feet; in fact, long before I was able to get anywhere near him with a halter, I was trimming his feet. It had to be done; he wasn’t running miles a day over rocky ground any more. Now he was on the often wet, soft earth of North Georgia. He needed several trims long before he was “halter broke”.
Those feet!
Beautiful massively thick and smooth walls, thick soles, wide robust frogs, nice concavity. At the time (this was 1998) the “barefoot movement” was virtually unheard of, certainly I had not heard of it back then. I did keep my horses barefoot, but mainly because they all did well without shoes. Even if I wanted to shoe them, I couldn’t afford a farrier back then and having been trained by several when I was young, I didn’t have any trust in my ability to drive a nail…my spirit recoiled at the thought. So, I trimmed them myself and all was right with the world. Now, I am looking at these incredible mustang feet and comparing them to the feet of my domestic horses, who all had “good” feet by conventional standards, but nothing like what I was seeing on Reno. Questions began to race through my mind:
Why?
Why does this horse, who had not had the “benefit of human intervention”, have feet so much better that my diligently cared for domestics? Is it just him, or do all wild ones have feet like that? If they do, why?! Why don’t the domestics have that?
Thus began my search.
I stumbled upon Jaime Jackson’s work on wild horses in his first book, “The Natural Horse: Foundations for Natural Horsemanship”. My eyes were opened…wide! Shortly after that I stumbled upon a website talking about a “natural” hoof trim (thank you Gretchen Fathouer). I got excited, grabbed Jackson’s book, printed out everything I could find online and ran to my friend (who lives only a few miles away), to share. ”Look at this!! It makes perfect sense!” Like me, he immediately grasped the concepts and the long term benefits.
During the early days, I was very mindful of how Reno’s feet looked, and tracked any changes now that he was living in a domestic environment. Certainly he wasn’t the very first horse with an owner who awoke to this paradigm shift in hoof care and horse management. Reno was, however, the one who sparked the delivery of that information to me and then from me to my friend. Who is my friend? Pete Ramey.
In those early days of discovery and study, I shared everything I learned with Pete and we collaborated as often as possible. You may not know me, but most of you likely know Pete. We both launched into what would become the modern “barefoot” or “Natural Hoof Care” movement that spread around the world, bringing about massive changes in equine husbandry and benefiting countless numbers of horses and the people who love them.
The rest - as they say - is history.
All because of Reno.
Fully a year later, I still couldn’t get near him with a rope or a halter, but he would stand quietly while I trimmed and studied his feet. We were bonding and he trusted me with most things, as long as I presented everything as an offer that he was free to decline and gave him time to think about it. I made him a promise that I would not try to take the “wild” out of him. I promised him that he would never be ridden, never be asked to serve me other than to, please allow me to observe his behavior and everything else about him, so I could learn from him in comparison to the domestic horses he now had to live with. I kept that promise his entire life.
Reno lived at my small equine rescue. He was my personal horse, not part of the organization, but living here, he had to adjust to different horses, donkeys and mules over all the years he was here. He never really bonded with any of them and would always remain on the periphery of the herd, or off to himself. It wasn’t that they didn’t accept him; he just didn’t seem to care to connect with any of them. He was fine if they were close, but didn’t look for them if they weren’t.
The differences in Reno’s behavior compared to the domestics was interesting, instructive and often amusing.
Sometimes he would stare in what I imagined was disbelief as the domestics would pee and poop on the hay they all shared. I could imagine him saying, “What are you doing??! That’s our FOOD!” and they would say, “Chill dude, the humans will bring more.” Perhaps it was that having lived wild to adulthood, he knew that food was not guaranteed, whereas the domestics grew up on “welfare” not having to, or even knowing how to fend for themselves.
Not long after Reno arrived, we brought in a new horse, a young gelding, named DJ. This horse quickly earned the nickname “Over domesticated Sissy Boy.” Having been raised in a barn and spending much of his time in a stall, coming here – with no fancy barn, no stall, just “thrown out in the pasture”, produced a “deer-in-the-headlights” expression as he faced what in his mind must have seemed like “the wild.” He attached himself to Reno (much to Reno’s chagrin) and followed him everywhere. I think Reno thought DJ was a bona fide idiot. He was probably right.
DJ was one of those horses who often peed and pooped on the hay to Reno’s dismay. He would stare at Reno eating leaves from low hanging branches and what most would consider weeds in the pasture. “Ewwww, you EAT that? Why don’t you just wait for the human to bring the good stuff?”
That first year, I observed their interactions and the vast differences in the way they interacted with the environment. I noticed that when the season was dry, Reno would wade into the pond to drink. When the season was wet, he would stand on the edge, feet out of the water and drink. I assumed that he knew when his feet needed more moisture and when they did not.
DJ? Well, he would stand a few feet back from the edge of the pond, regardless of season, lean forward and stretch his neck, then lips, as far as he could to drink, making certain to never step into the water because… you DO know there’s horse-eating demons in that water, RIGHT?!!
Probably one of the more humorous examples of wild versus domestic horse was one winter day when the small pond froze over. That doesn’t happen often in Georgia, but it did that winter. The pond was set up so that they could walk into it to reach a water bucket on the other side or use the pond for their drinking water. DJ was thirsty and already very unhappy being “out in the cold”, without a blanket no less! I happened to be standing near the pond as DJ came over and started licking the ice. He would lick and lick, then look at me. Lick and lick, look at me again as if to say, “Can you fix this for me?”
“Too bad, sissy boy” I told him. “Figure it out.”
This went on for at least 20 minutes. No way was barn-raised, hot-house flower DJ going to put a hoof near that water tantalizingly just out of reach under the ice, much less walk on it to the bucket ...a foot might get wet! Eventually Reno came over to get a drink. He looked at the pond, looked at DJ, then looked at me. Without hesitation, he slammed a foot onto the ice, easily broke through, got a drink and walked away. DJ looked at the hole, swung his head around to watch Reno walking away, and then got himself a nice long drink. Well! Had Reno just taught DJ how to break the ice to get to water?
Nope.
Multiple times after that event, I noticed DJ would walk to the pond and if it was frozen, he would go find Reno. I don’t know what he would “say” to get Reno to come with him, but come he would and break the ice. Maybe DJ wasn’t such a dummy after all?!
Reno became my best buddy. When he saw me come outside, he would come up to me, giving me deep soft, throaty nickers. Wherever I walked, whether it had anything to do with him or not, he followed. Including, on more than one occasion, up the porch stairs and into the house! Reno became quite comfortable with domestic life.
Over the years, no matter how many times or how many different equines came in and out of the rescue, he never got excited as did all the others. Those of you with horses know full well the big hoorah that kicks up with the established herd whenever new horses come to the property. That happened here as well with everyone, except Reno. Most of the time he didn’t even bother to pick up his head from grazing to even look.
When the rest of the herd were zipping around, vocalizing, bucking, etc. with the new arrival, even running right past Reno, he kept eating, or doing whatever he was doing before. Never got excited, never said a word…no whinny, nothing…ever. The ONLY time he engaged with a new horse, was not by his choice, it was when the new horse decided to target him. On one such occasion, I was standing in the pasture to make sure a new introduction went without injury and that horse targeted Reno. Reno bolted. He ran … circled … then stopped … directly behind me, literally looking over my shoulder as this “mean” horse came running straight at us, ears pinned. I shooed that horse away and everyone settled. I then realized that Reno had just let me (expected me?) to be the buffer. I turned around and gave him a “Seriously, dude?” look. He did the horse equivalent of “shrugging shoulders” and went back to grazing.
In the 22 years he was with me I had kept my promise, he was never ridden, never asked to “do” anything other than stand for hoof trims every few weeks. Beyond that, he was free to be himself doing (or not doing) whatever he wished.
Reno lived to be 29 years old.
It was a good death.
That’s something you don’t hear often, if ever, about a beloved animal. All of you, who have loved and been loved by animals, know that agony when they are at the end of their life. Their body is failing and you are faced with “making the call.” Running a rescue and sanctuary, puts one in that position more often than most people will ever experience. A great many of the animals we take in are already quite old, with various degrees of damage from their past. Many of them are not adoptable and essentially come here to live out whatever time they had left. We do everything in our power to heal what we can so they can have that time in comfort, knowing they are loved and safe from want or harm. If we cannot relieve them of their pain or when they have come to the end of their life and are “done”, we help them cross the Rainbow Bridge, painlessly, peacefully and surrounded by love.
I have had to make that call many times. It is never easy.
Reno had never been sick nor had any significant injury the entire time he was here. In his last two years, his teeth had worn out and he could no longer chew forage well enough for sufficient sustenance. To ensure that he received enough fiber, I prepared soaked hay pellet based meals for him every four hours. EVERY four hours, around the clock (yes that means getting up in the middle of the night) so that his stomach was never empty for long periods, had some small amounts of forage going through his GI tract, which is essential for all equines. No matter where he was, Reno would come to the front door about every four hours to wait for his meal, calling to me with a series of deep throated nickers. After making sure none of the other horses were hanging around in hopes of stealing his food, I would feed him right there in the driveway, a mere 10 steps from the house.
He was old. I knew sooner or later the time would come. While I didn’t obsess over it, I did keep an eye on his weight, energy levels and overall demeanor. When that time came, I wanted to be certain. I didn’t want to wait too long and have him suffer, but I also didn’t want to go too soon and deny him a single day of precious life. I began preparing myself - mentally and emotionally - for the time when I would have to make that call for him. Of all the horses I have had to help move on from this earth walk, I knew he would be the hardest. He was my heart horse.
On January 18, 2020 at midnight I went out to give him a feed. He nickered as usual and dove into the feed pan to begin eating, as usual. As I walked back toward the house, I heard the sound of gravel being scrambled. I though perhaps one of the others had been lurking in the dark and was trying to fight Reno for his food. I swung around and clicked on my head lamp just in time to see Reno getting up to his feet from having fallen, or gone down…I didn’t know what. I thought that he might have been kicking at another horse and lost his footing, but in panning the light around … there was no other horse to be seen. As I was looking, Reno walked straight toward me, then two steps past me and laid down. He didn’t fall, didn’t drop … he stumbled a little bit, then laid down. He was flat on his side. I bent over him and said, “Are you sick? Are you having a seizure?” I looked for whatever might be wrong…he was breathing normally, no tremors; he was not stiff-legged, not kicking or thrashing...nothing. I went to his eye…it was getting “glazed over” and his blink reflex was half of what it should be. The rest of his body was perfectly still. I thought, “This must be a seizure.”
Suddenly, he lifted his head and neck off the ground, looked toward the sky and NEIGHED…loud and long…TWICE. The emotion that hit me was one of great excitement! I was not expecting that, to say the least. Then he laid his head back down and stopped breathing. There was no deep “last breath” there were no involuntary muscle spasms…just complete stillness. He was gone. This whole episode lasted – I kid you not – about a minute. I had not, in all my years and with all the many end of life situations I have witnessed, ever seen any of them pass like that. Never.
What the heck just happened?? With the echo of his last call moving like a wave through my soul, I stood there. I was frozen in place, in the dark, for what felt like an eternity, staring at him. Surely he didn’t just die!? Did he? Those long, loud, excited neighs, which infected me with excitement as well, were the first time I heard his full voice. The very first …and the last… time. I didn’t understand. I was in shock.
Then, just as suddenly, an explanation in vivid imagery, came flooding into my mind of wild horses in the distance, looking toward us. Reno never neighed to any other horse brought to this place in all those years and I suddenly understood why. They were not his people. The wild ones were his people. Why the excited loud calls with his dying breath, as vision left his eyes? I believe he was seeing through the veil. He was seeing his people, his tribe. He was going to join them across the bridge…at long last.
It was a very good death.
Post Script
Reno taught me more than I can express. Not just me…many of you are likely beneficiaries of Reno’s legacy. He taught me. He opened my eyes. He set me on the path of Natural Hoof Care and Whole Horse Rehabilitation based on wild horses. I took that vision and those lessons and shared them with Pete. We connected with a few others already on the same path back when the “Natural” horse movement was in its infancy.
We studied, we learned, we collaborated with others in those early days. Along the way, we taught others who in turn taught many more. We took those lessons across the country and around the world. Pete produced excellent articles, books and teaching videos. I co-founded a school...
…and this is the horse that started it all.
Heartwarming story about Reno. Thanks