Horses talk, but not like Mr. Ed. A horse may be trained to respond to “whoa” and “giddy up,” but if you speak to a horse, you’re not speaking in horse. They converse mostly through body language, and their most visible correspondence is a sign language of ears.
Horses can flip and flick their ears 180 degrees. Ears pricked forward is a horse’s smile. Tipped back can mean boredom or displeasure. Pinned to the skull, that’s fury. Ears akimbo, and a horse is daydreaming, thinking nothing much at all or maybe everything.
In the herd, horses turn and wheel across a field like larks, guiding each other with shoulder and flank, ear and eye. Observe the dynamics — the solicitousness of the studs, the defiance of the mares, the submission of the spindly foals. They are communicating nonverbally in a clear system of gestures.
Monty Roberts, the legendary trainer and best-selling author known as the “man who listens to horses,” calls this system “Equus.”
“I’ve tried to stop calling it a language,” he said to me. “We think way too much about words and alphabets and stuff like that,” he added. “That’s not horses.”
Mr. Roberts, who is in his 80s, spoke to me from Flag Is Up Farms, his ranch in Solvang, Calif., which he’s run since 1966. He trains problem horses around the world using a technique he calls Join Up, which, essentially, asks the horse to work with the rider as a member of its herd, rather than as its master.
I had reached out to Mr. Roberts to learn how horses communicate, how prey animals stay safe in a world out to get them. But as our conversation unspooled, I realized I was asking the questions not to understand horses, my singular obsession since I was 2 years old, but to understand myself.
Mr. Roberts told me he had a little shadow at his side. It was a West Coast mule deer he found still wet with amniotic fluid in a stand of grass, a runt with little chance of surviving.
Raising the fawn deepened Mr. Roberts’s understanding of how horses communicate. He views deer as an equine exemplar; to him, they are the raw, wild prey creatures hyperattuned to their world for sheer survival that horses once were — before domestication bred the edge off. The Cervidae are Equus at their most elemental.
The deer’s name was Benediction.
“I worked with a lady in England named Elizabeth; she’s the best namer of horses I’ve ever met,” Mr. Roberts said. “So I emailed her and asked what I would name him. She emailed right back. She didn’t say ‘I suggest,’ or ‘I think.’” She said, “His name is Benediction.”
I wondered where the segue about naming this little slip of a mule deer was going. Then he landed the punchline: “Queen Elizabeth can sure name a horse.”
He added: “And a deer.”
“What a horse does under compulsion he does blindly,” wrote Xenophon, an ancient Greek cavalry master. “And his performance is no more beautiful than would be that of a ballet dancer taught by whip and goad.” Far better, he wrote, “that the horse should of his own accord exhibit his finest airs and paces.”
A pupil of Socrates, Xenophon survived the battles of Sparta and died in 354 B.C.E. His treatise “On Horsemanship” is one of the earliest surviving works on the art of the equine. “The majesty of men themselves is best discovered in the graceful handling of such animals,” Xenophon wrote. (I’d like to add, “of women” too.)
Taming a horse, gentling it, or, crudely, breaking it, involves messaging more than anything. A horse may be 1,200 pounds — so huge that no amount of force a human could use can truly push it around. Horses are ridable at all, in a way that, say, lions and tigers are not, in large part, I believe, because equines are prey animals, bound to the herd. Horses are genetically inclined to accept a boss.
The phrase “broke to ride” used to mean the animal’s spirit was broken so the shell left behind would submit to human will. In modern equitation, the process is something more like recalibration, convincing a horse that you run the show. Done well, submission is rebranded as alliance; the mount and rider, a herd of two.
Mr. Roberts has had a lot to do with that shift. When his first book came out in the 1990s, the radical departure from the prevailing discipline earned him enemies. There were even death threats, according to Mr. Roberts, leading to the arrest of at least one person.
“You’re telling them that everything that they’ve done in their life is wrong,” Mr. Roberts said, trying to make sense of why he was so hated for saying simply, be gentle.
Through Benediction the fawn, Roberts honed further his understanding of how horses communicate. “The ears, the eye, the neck, the lowering of the head, the licking and chewing the tongue, all of the appendages or parts of the anatomy of Equus and Cervidae are put to work to let the others know what the reading of the situation is,” he said. The point is to answer one question: “Is there danger?”
For a year of my life, Equus was my language. Because on Thanksgiving Day 2010, I became prey.
Dawn had not yet broken in my apartment in the West Village. I slept fitfully that night, zapped with excitement for the morning: my first time covering the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade for The Times. As a child I had squished myself among the spectators to watch Snoopy and Popeye float down Central Park West. Later that day, notebook I hand, I would walk beneath the shadows of my childhood icons.
In my dark bedroom, I felt a different shadow.
Suddenly, I was awake and I was fighting, squalling, kicking my legs as fists descended onto me over and over again. I was screaming, but my voice betrayed me, and my throat made no sound. Deep inside me I heard a truth: “This is not a fight you can win. Find another way.” I stopped fighting. I lay still.
The man in my bedroom smelled like smoke amplified, like a thousand stubbed-out Marlboros. He wanted cash, jewels, electronics, stuff, he told me, and instructed me to lay prone as he ransacked my home. I would survive, I decided, by being the most helpful victim of all time.
Confined to my bed, as he rooted around I told him how to find everything of any value. I chided him to get a pen and paper from the kitchen, so he would be sure not to forget my A.T.M. code for whenever he went to the bank to wipe out my savings. When he discovered the only valuables in my tiny apartment were a single laptop and a fistful of costume jewelry, I cracked the New Yorkiest of jokes to appease him: “You know how Manhattan real estate is — we spend all our money on rent!”
The stranger had climbed through my second-story window, detectives would later tell me. He left through my front door. “I swear on my son’s life, I won’t hurt you,” he said when he was finished robbing me, and the lock clicked closed.
That was when I realized he already had.
Alone again, I lay in a pool of my blood; it poured from a four-inch wound in my leg. The man had stabbed me with a box-cutter in that first brutal struggle. In the rush of adrenaline, I hadn’t even noticed. As I watched my blood coursing from the wound, I was terrified, but also elated — my pulse was proof that I was still alive.
It took the police just a day to trace his prints and catch the man. He was sentenced to 17 years in prison, but as I limped around the city and tried to recover, I realized I was also trapped. New York’s cacophony was my childhood lullaby, but suddenly the city was loud, so loud. And suddenly I was hypervigilant to every sound.
I had become the Cervidae.
Like a deer, my body was listening for him, for box cutters bared. Air-conditioners whirring were buzzsaws, made scarier because their white noise blocked me from hearing what else might approach. The grind and hustle of the metropolis was a predatory screech telling me that nowhere was safe anymore.
In horses, hyperattunement to their environment keeps them alive. But it is also why horses can “hear” us humans and respond to our bodies, like the pressure of our heel that says, “Trot on.”
“Everything they do — reading your intention through cortisol levels and pulse rates and adrenaline levels — relates to that,” Mr. Roberts told me many years after my attack.
“Reading that from afar is their way to survive, and they do it better than any human being ever would,” he continued. “Reading it close up — a horse can feel the artery in your inner thigh pulse through the saddle — is why they can be ridden.”
During those loud days of my life, I found safety among horses, those quiet beings. How did I learn to trust the world again? It was the same way a foal learns to stand — in that it doesn’t actually learn. It just does. It gets up, falls down, gets up, carries on, because it must, because that is living.
Benediction means a blessing. And as I kept stumbling on, I felt less afraid, and more keenly the blessing of being here, alive, still, even if it was just to stagger forward. On Thanksgiving Day the next year, I walked down Central Park West underneath Snoopy’s big helium belly, notebook in hand. There in the middle of the parade, the city was no longer so loud.
Unlike a fawn or a foal, I realized that whether to live as prey was a choice I could make, not one made for me by a stranger in the dark.
This essay is adapted from the author’s forthcoming book “Horse Crazy: The Story of a Woman and a World in Love With an Animal.”