Susanne Neubauer
I was not born into an animal family. My family is a working family, not working poor, but working. My grandmother used to kill newborn kittens and my aunt managed to find a hunter to shoot the family dog when it was his time. This must have happened in Upper Bavaria shortly after WWII and before I was able to judge and speak. My first contact with animals was through fairytales. I was a child who did not speak at all, but I made drawings of trees and horses.
During a school holiday, when I was about eleven years old, my mother agreed to drive me and my younger sister to a pony stable which we passed in Upper Bavaria regularly. We grew up in Switzerland as an emigrant’s family and our short times in Bavaria was like being home.
My Icelandic horse was a grey one. I was drawn to horses as many girls are in their early teenage years. I remember winter and snow, cold feet, and the shaggy fur of stoic little horses. They did their job. I cannot remember if they were beaten or not (yes, they were, we had small whips, the teacher longer ones, to make them move faster.) It was absolutely normal in kids’ and in animals’ lives in this time, the ’70s, to be beaten.
Strangely enough, my dreams of horses were stronger than my wish to have them in my reality. I was the girl who snuck into a rider’s shop and who walked around silently hoping that nobody would discover her. I remember that I bought a book how to obtain a rider’s brevet, but it was a purely theoretical thing for me to read it, and reading it was like going into a dream. I was scared of horses.
When I was older, I stopped riding. I was terrified of their big bodies. Some attempts in Switzerland made me feel awkward as I saw mistreated horses with wounds on their back where the saddles went. This definitely broke my heart. A family album photo shows me sitting on a Haflinger in Southern Tirol when I was about fifteen years old. Then my horse connection broke apart. I did not feel safe, neither did the horses. Life went on in other directions.
Dogs became more important for me as they were more reachable. Our first family dog was such a long anticipated wonder, I jumped into reading every kind of dog book I could get. It was not a collie we got – but a terrier mix called Scotty, a rescue from American soldiers stationed in Bavaria. They planned to shoot him if there was no family who would adopt him. And we were there, for God’s sake, to do so. He was the best ever dog you could imagine. He turned 18 years old and died when I was 30.
Animals lived their lives next to us. They were members of our family and we cared for and loved them. It was a natural way of living together with domestic animals. I chose a life as an art academic with precarious future prospects. My years went by writing articles and publishing books only a few people would read. I felt the long lasting disconnection between my brain and my body. I also felt a sort of dependency on others for what I really liked to do which made me depressed and unhappy. This was the moment when I adopted my dog Polly. This moment also correlated with my father’s cancer diagnosis which changed my life in another aspect. I remembered the strong power of women in my family and the hidden talents of herbalist knowledge of some of my ancestors. I dedicated my new way to the idea of healing, healing of myself and healing of others.
I studied animal communication and when I started a course on animal shiatsu, I was sure I would treat dogs. Horses still scared me. I could not take a lead rope and walk a horse. I learned to touch them and it felt good, but not yet satisfying. I could not connect to the horse, I was so used to the talkative faces of dogs that a horse’s head would not say anything to me. This changed rapidly when I encountered a mare called Perline. The owner allowed me to practice shiatsu with Perline and I bought riding lessons (three of them!) on her as an exchange. First, it felt good, and me being on top of her in slow movement was fine. But as soon as she changed gait, my confidence flew away and I felt a disconnection which didn’t seem right – right from my perspective. My riding skill was not nearly enough for this sensitive mare. And there was another thing, her owner planned to sell her again as she couldn’t get connected to her.
As a future therapist, I suddenly saw her as a sentient being wishing for a place to stay. The mare was torn out of a half-wild herd in France and brought into a small stable somewhere in Northern Switzerland. She was a mixed breed, she was the result of an idea from a drunken stupor, according to the owner. Perline changed my way of looking at horses enormously. I felt what it means to connect. I also felt the little jealous of the owner for noticing this. Soon later, they moved stables and I did not see her again.
After my exams as a shiatsu therapist, I went to another stable, this time for former racehorses. Again, I offered my free service to do shiatsu treatments in the hope of gaining more experience. The stable’s organizer needed some days to consider and then accepted me as a new volunteer. This is how I came to meet Dylan, my 8 year old white foster horse.
I was introduced to all 16 horses and Dylan was the only one who stood alone by himself. He was considered aggressive and in pain. I did not think a lot but said, “this one.” Since then, Dylan has been the first horse I truly made friends with. In the past, he was meant to be euthanized for many reasons – colics, ulcers, pain. In communications he always said, no, I want to live. It is as if he had not given up hope to find his forever friend. As a highly sensitive horse, he teaches me how to touch him, how to wait for him, how to consider my own emotional state. I teach him to develop his sensitive side. During the last two years we had our ups and downs, but mainly ups. Sometimes he just ignored me. Today he manages better and better to cope with changing situations, and physically he is much healthier. I am glad he is free and is not ridden. His aggression diminished tremendously and he is now playing with the other geldings. Still, he is one who will unexpectedly jump or kick, for me this stems from his still-active PTSD.
My modest way of being with him is simple. I do not tie him up or use a rope, he is absolutely free to approach me or not. I have learned to wait, thirty minutes, an hour, until I seem to be ready for him and he comes to me, until his hay is less important. He invites me more and more to explore his body sensitivity, touching his eyes and his forelock, combing his mane. He teaches me how to communicate at a distance. He looks at me and then goes into action and it is clear I should watch him.
As a highly sensitive person myself, I cannot stand when the play shifts into hierarchical mini aggressions. I then need to turn away and disconnect. Averting my gaze always makes a change of the horses’ interactions. I am sure there is a lot of mental connection, too, which I am still learning to feel and dive into. There are moments when I see him seeing me and I feel a strong pink wave of love coming to me. The most precious moments are the stillness, the joining of breaths, when he puts his long head onto my back or my head and I feel his warm breath on my skin and hair. A horse in this position can break your neck. I do it because I feel safe and connected. There are many other interactions where I do not feel safe with him and he feels not safe with a human. These areas are explored, bit by bit. Trauma needs a lot time to heal. The starting point is the connection of the nostrils and the exchange of smell. Everything starts with the exchange of smell.
