Egypt: The Carriage Horse

I. Carriage Horse - Egypt

Morad called and said he had a surprise for us. "Come to my house!"

Maryanne and I walked on the trails between the fields of berseem to Morad's house. Four of Maryanne's dogs came along and ignored us, running amuck, chasing chickens, and barking at gamoosas. One dog fell in one of those black water canals, and scrambled out dripping and slimy. She proudly presented herself to us, and we ran away from her screeching as she shook the canal goobers all over us.

Morad had talked about buying a horse carriage, and now, here was one parked in front of his house, with the owner-driver, and an attached horse. The dogs barked at the suspicious contraption.

"Get in!" Morad said. "He'll take you for a drive."

Maryanne and I and 3 of the dogs (sans the slimed one) climbed in the charming yellow two-seater covered carriage; and the gorgeous little black stallion in harness took us on a twenty minute ride around the village of Abu Sir. He knew his job and he did it with purpose and power, stepping along smartly, throwing his weight into the harness when he had to pull us over bumps in the road, or when he had to pull the carriage from a stop. The carriage driver did not use a whip, but only his voice and light hands on the reins, to communicate with the horse. People who knew Maryanne waved and called to her from the doorways of their huts. She answered them in Arabic. I felt rather special, riding beside Maryanne, in a lovely carriage pulled by a beautiful horse, a sight not often seen in this village.

Though he was a 'baladi' stallion - an unpapered country-bred lowly beast from a poor neighborhood - there was no mistaking he was a proud horse, carrying himself gracefully, graciously: generations of indisputable desert royalty flowed beneath his roughened hide. We could have been Queens in Egypt the way he nobly pulled us and his carriage along.

Returning to Morad’s house, we climbed out of the carriage. I walked up to the little black stallion to thank him for the ride. He had a hideous raw spot on his face where a previous nose strap had rubbed a big open sore; at least this bridle didn’t have a noseband. I ached for him, but his proud eyes acknowledged no wound, nor my pity.

I looked back over my shoulder at him as we walked away.

He stood quietly, patiently, awaiting his next job with dignity.


II. Cart Horse - Egypt

Driving in the backstreets of Cairo, we turned off the main road, onto a path lined with trash and rock rubble.

Blocking the road was an emaciated gray horse hitched to an appallingly heavy and overloaded cart full of boulders. His front knees were so crippled they hadn't approached straightened in years. My heart felt ripped in two. I couldn’t look, but I could not peel my eyes away.

The cart driver took his sweet time, throwing one rock at a time off the cart, while the old horse stood bent, unmoving, as if a part of his load, petrified to stone.

Four men came to help dump the rest of the cart-load over. It was so heavy they almost couldn't do it. The horse felt the pull of the cart on his harness, and as he was taught, he braced against it, but as the cart tipped over, the heavy load jerked him cruelly backwards, almost dropping him in his traces. I flinched in the car. I could almost hear his moans of pain.

Then the horse was asked to pull the cart back upright. He threw his crippled legs and withered body forward into the harness like he was told, straining, struggling, finally pulling it upright, where it settled shuddering onto its four wheels and yanked him backwards again. He barely kept his feet, and stood there trembling.

His eyes were dull, his head drooped, and those legs - those crippled legs bent over at the knee as if he were about to kneel before his Savior - cried in agony.

The man stepped in the cart and snapped the reins.

The horse limped onward, back to work.

Don't Shoot Me: I Drove a Horse Carriage

Sunday January 12 2014

'Slim' was his name. He was a well-cared-for, well-treated draft horse in his late teens that I drove in Seattle over a Christmas holiday many years ago.

Slim was not abused. He did not work every day, and when he was finished at night, and on his days off, his owner hauled him home (an hour or so away) and turned him out in his pasture with his herd-mates.

His 'beat' was approximately a 20-minute route in downtown Seattle, from Fourth street to First street near the Pike Place Market and back. He didn't work on steep hills; he didn't gallop along the streets till he was lathered up; he didn't pull 20 people in his carriage at a time. He was offered water between his rides (which he only rarely accepted). 

He's one of the best-trained horses I've ever worked with, regardless of discipline. He was utterly unafraid of traffic, or street people who sometimes got in his space. He was very willing (no, I never had to use a whip on him), and he was smart enough to read the traffic lights that told him when to go and whoa.

He'd stand between his rides parked at a curb at rest, with his head lowered, hind leg cocked - the same way our horses in the pasture stand at rest, when they aren't doing anything. Horses spend most of their resting and sleeping time standing up due to the handy locking mechanism in their legs (horses don't lie down to sleep much, because they don't need as much REM - rapid eye movement - sleep as other species, and because lying down for long periods of time will interfere with their blood flow because of their weight). Slim wasn't hanging his head from exhaustion, or cocking his leg from lameness. He was dozing, like horses do between periods of activity.


Horse abuse does exist, in every discipline, and in no disciplines. It can exist in a neglected horse in a pasture. One might argue it even exists in the wild when a wild horse starves to death. But abuse also exists in other animals: dogs, cats, rabbits, whether they are working animals or pets. Abuse exists among humans.

Horse abuse itself can be subjective. Most abuse is obvious: the soring practices in Tennessee Walker show horses; positive dopings in endurance horses in international races that have come to light of late, rollkur in the show ring when taken to extremes, among many other disciplines.

Some people say that making a horse do anything outside letting him exist is abuse. The converse of that is: letting a horse exist, stand in a pen and eat all he wants, and not asking him to work, could be considered abuse.

Using a horse for "work" does not automatically mean the horse is abused. There is no reason a horse can't be put to work, whether it be riding, competition, carriage pulling, ranch or farm work. In fact, I say that work is good for a horse, physically and mentally. Yes, abuse exists, but work does not always equal abuse. A real horse person can look at a horse and see the difference between 'work' and 'abuse'.

I haven't laid eyes on the carriage horses in New York whose fate appears soon to be determined by politicians. Therefore, I can't say if each or any of those horses are abused. If the horses and carriage drivers are like any of those I worked with in Seattle, it's very possible the New York horses are working horses that are not abused.

From personal experience, and as a horse person, I can say with certainty, that just because a working horse is pulling a carriage does not mean it is abused. Just because a carriage horse is standing with his head down, eyes closed, leg cocked, it does not mean it is abused.

Slim was a working carriage horse who was not abused, and who acted like a horse - while pulling his carriage, and in between his routes. Slim was an awesome carriage horse I was proud to learn from and drive.

My next post will give you a completely different perspective on carriage horses: two working horses in Egypt, a country where animals are used daily as a means of existence in the lives of the fellahin.