He was the ugliest male I had ever seen in my life. He had a bloody wound on his nose, hair six inches long on his chest, and he weighed about 700-800 pounds—400 shy of his best weight. His name was Hawkeye, and he was my partner for more than 14 years. Hawkeye was a mustang horse, and it was he who taught me what it is to trust.

Horses, in my opinion, given good care and a little attention, are high up in Maslow’s hierarchy. Since everything they need is provided for them, it is easy to achieve the self-actualization level—if you’re a horse. Not so for me. It took me more than 12 years to “get it.”

When I met Hawkeye, he was standing in two feet of manure, starving, and wounded. The only good thing in his life was a companion in the form of a burro. It was raining when I went out to see him. I stayed twenty minutes, only long enough to satisfy courtesy. I came back the next day to take him away from his desperate situation. I had no idea that this epitome of ugliness would teach me some of the really meaningful things in life like: running, kicking up your heels, and being wild just because it’s fun; greeting your friends with a hearty bellow every morning because you are happy to be alive; and standing still as long as it takes while your friend cries on your shoulder.

Hawkeye was seven years old when I took him home. He seemed pretty calm considering his world had just been turned upside down. Movement in the saddle was really scary, and the western way of loose reins didn’t give him enough security to move forward freely. To better aid him, I took up English riding. I thought I was doing it for him. In reality, it was his way of teaching me cooperation, patience, and perseverance. Essentially, we learned how to communicate. I learned that asking is far better than telling, and he learned that food, water, and a good scratch would always be provided. Time passed.

One day, I went to ride Hawkeye and we couldn’t communicate. He was horrible and I wasn’t any better. There were many epithets issued on both our parts, his in the form of trying to remove me from his back. Four or five years passed before I realized that I had to work for Hawkeye’s trust. I beat myself up a lot at first. I didn’t understand that trust comes from both partners in a relationship. I still had a long way to go. Slowly, very slowly, Hawkeye taught me to trust, and with trust comes love.

I started trying to find things that Hawkeye liked to do. We tried three-day eventing. He loved it; I was inept at the jumping. We tried just the dressage part. I loved it, he hated it. Finally, we settled on driving and endurance—big hits for both of us. After training, we tried to go on a 100 mile endurance ride in 24 hours. We made it to the 51 mile mark in just over six hours. When were both tired, but I knew I could have asked him to continue and he would have, just because I asked. Instead, I pulled him from the race and took him home. He trusted me.

I have come to realize that Hawkeye was the most inspirational teacher I have ever had. Every time we had a disagreement, I learned something. Every new thing we tried allowed me to grow as a person, to understand not only him, but also myself and others I care about. Though Hawkeye is gone now, the lessons he taught me live on, because trust is the greatest gift any living thing can give to another.

Karina Benish is the "Hoofprints from the Heart" honoree for April.
To contact Karina, e-mail [email protected].

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