The Mustang Diaries: Cow Sorting with Cash

This last weekend, the round pen was transformed into something different: a cow sorting arena, and Cash was about to embark on his first rodeo, albeit a scaled-down version. The roundpen cow sorting clinic promised a challenge, a test of our partnership under pressure, and a whole lot of learning for both of us.

Cash is a creature of routine. He thrives on predictability, and the moment we arrived at the clinic, being mixed in with other horses and having cattle in front of him, he tensed right up. Upon seeing the cattle's ears perked forward, his eyes widened, and the steady rhythm of his breath quickened. This wasn’t the gentle, familiar roundpen he knew. This was something wilder, more primal. My instinct was to soothe him, to reassure him with gentle words. But the instructor’s voice cut through my apprehension. “Don’t overthink it. Let him figure it out.”

So, I did. I focused on my own breath, on sinking into the saddle, and on using my body language to communicate my intent: to move the selected cow, bearing the designated number, to the opposite side of the pen. The first few attempts were…chaotic. Cash, overwhelmed by the movement and the smell, struggled to differentiate my cues from the general frenzy. We zigged when we should have zagged, bumped into the perimeter, and generally looked like we were participating in a disorganized bovine ballet.

The key, I quickly realized, wasn’t about manhandling the cows, but about understanding their movement and using subtle cues to influence their direction. I had to become an extension of Cash, feeling the shift in his weight, anticipating his next move. And, crucially, I had to learn to trust him. He might not know exactly what I wanted, but he was trying, and my frustration only amplified his anxiety.

Slowly, we began to find our rhythm. We learned to read the subtle signs: the flick of a tail, the shift in body weight, the direction of a cow's gaze. We learned to use our position to influence the cows, to guide them with subtle pressure and release. There were moments of brilliance, fleeting glimpses of the potential we possessed, like when we managed to separate a particularly stubborn cow with a perfectly timed hip movement and a gentle nudge.

We weren’t the fastest team, nor were we the most stylish. But we finished, and that, in itself, felt like a victory. Cash, initially tense and overwhelmed, had started to relax, to trust my guidance, and even to enjoy the challenge. He learned that the cows, despite their imposing size and occasional stubbornness, weren’t a threat, and it seemed like he thrived under the pressure. And I learned that my role wasn’t to control him, but to guide him, to be a partner in this complex dance.

The clinic was more than just a cow sorting exercise. It was a class in communication, patience, and trust. It reminded me that the most rewarding experiences are often the ones that push us outside our comfort zones, forcing us to grow and learn together. And as I led Cash back to the trailer, sunburnt and tired, but with a newfound sense of accomplishment, I knew this was just the beginning of our journey —a stepping stone toward a deeper, more meaningful partnership.