Boldly go, p.5
Boldly Go, page 5
That property has become part of our family, our gathering place. It’s on a wild river with no neighbors for miles, and it’s where I keep most of my horses. It’s part of the Shatner family, and all because I happened to spend some time raising money for a Shakespeare festival (which, sadly, lasted only a few years and then closed). But my connection with that area endured and it became part of my life. Somehow, the universe had put me in the right place at the right time, and all I had to do was say yes to begin this great adventure.
Okay, so I’ve got the land. How did I get the horse, you ask? I’m getting there, I’m getting there.
There was a small tract house on the land, which I rented to a local fellow I thought would take good care of the property, which he did. Later, we put a fence around the whole area, and the renter suggested, “Why don’t you run a horse?”
“Great,” I said, “I’ll get a horse.”
Now, how does one get a horse? At auction, apparently.
By this time, on my trips back and forth, I had met a very rich hotelier, who had a son named Phillip. Phillip was eleven or twelve years old and was something of a savant with horses: he could communicate with them on an entirely different level from the rest of us. This boy couldn’t pick up on regular social cues that you and I might take for granted, but there was a bond he shared with horses; somehow he knew what they wanted and how to take care of them. When we went to a local auction several miles away, Phillip was there, examining the horses, talking with the locals, and having a great time.
We settled in, and at one point, a striking quarter horse came up for auction. Phillip caught sight of me in the audience and waved. “Mr. Shatner, you should buy this horse.” I smiled politely. This was my first rodeo; I didn’t want to get into things too hastily. I wanted to relax, see what it was all about, make an informed decision—
“Mr. Shatner! Mr. Shatner! You should buy this horse!” Phillip exclaimed. Trying to be polite, I waved him off—
“Going once… going twice… sold!”
I smiled and clapped at the auctioneer’s gavel. Someone had just bought this lovely animal and was presumably going to enjoy a wonderful time bringing it into their family.
And that someone was me!
You see, when I had waved politely to Phillip to indicate that I wasn’t going to jump into the bidding, I was inadvertently raising my hand, which the auctioneer took as a bid. That sold! was directed at me, the guy with the surprised, goofy look on his face. It was embarrassing, a TV trope that has been done to death—the schmuck who accidentally wins an auction. And I was that schmuck. I had just won a horse I hadn’t actually bid on!
I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, struggling with the thought of what to do next, torn between the embarrassment of saying, “Sorry, I was actually just waving to my friend’s kid,” and buying this horse and bringing it home. I chose the latter.
That horse was wonderful. He was the first of many more to come. This happy accident led to a part of my life that has brought me so much joy I can scarcely believe it; it sometimes makes me cry just to think about it. Today, at ninety-one, I am a better rider than I’ve ever been. Perhaps it’s because I know that I have well and truly entered the final chapter of my life, but I am more focused when I’m riding than ever before. I am getting better each day, reaching my apex.
It has been said that one of the secrets to staying alive as you get on in years is keeping busy. I am one busy dude, so I confirm this is the case. I work every day, and even though I’m an early riser, unless I have specific commitments, my actual workday usually begins after lunch. In the morning, after my regular ablutions, I head out to my horse trainer’s farm to work with one of several horses. If I’m lucky, I can go out there six days a week, and I try to do that anytime I’m not traveling. I’ll work with a horse for two or three hours and only then come back to get ready for the rest of my day.
But to me, this is much more than keeping busy. It is not a function of scheduling. I have to commune with my animals. I have to learn from them, just as I hunger to learn in every aspect of my life. My work schedule often takes me away from my home, but I always endeavor to hurry back as soon as I’m able. If I am not sitting on a horse at least once or twice a week, it feels detrimental to my heart. These animals are capable of communicating with pure love, just as that tiger shark was in those moments when I stroked its belly and caressed it. There is something unifying in that love, that energy. It gives me life and keeps me feeling younger than I have any right to feel.
Horses are incredible creatures. Our history is filled with stories of humankind’s connection to these stately beings and their capacity for love and kinship. There was a horse during the Korean War who traversed a mountaintop ridge over fifty times to drop off munitions and collect wounded soldiers to transport them to safety on her return journey. In the midst of exploding shells, in the deadliest throes of battle, this horse continued in this pattern of going up and down the mountain. She wasn’t led or ridden; she just did this for her people. The horse was later made a sergeant in the Marine Corps—they named her “Sergeant Reckless.” It is a well-known story of the war, and so sad that it has to be associated with such a bloody and violent time, but I do believe it speaks to the innocence and innate compassion of these creatures. They want to help us; they want to experience a connection with us. The eminent Sergeant Reckless, a true American hero, has been the subject of numerous books, both for adults and children of all ages.
Likewise, there is a beautiful story of a horse trained to compete in equestrian reining competitions who, in his later life, was renamed “Blind Justice” because he had gradually lost his sight. And yet he was known for running into the arena, his owner on his back, and sliding to a complete stop at a certain point. It was a move he’d learned in his youth from his owner; they had done it so many thousands of times that even as he lost his sight, the horse continued to execute this maneuver flawlessly and without even an iota of lost confidence in his ability to slide to that stop in exactly the right place. So completely had he given himself to his rider, it seemed, that he knew that no harm could befall him while his rider had the reins.
These stories are plentiful. These types of interactions occur on a daily basis if we are lucky enough to open our eyes to the possibilities, to witness and receive that love.
Through my work with horses, I have seen that love up close. I have seen it transferred to others, and it is a miracle to behold. Many, many years ago, I had been at a horse show that raised funds to benefit a hospital in downtown Los Angeles that employed therapy horses in treatment. That year, the lady directing the event said that it had become too difficult and expensive to continue. In my usual impulsive way, I volunteered to take it over, and the Hollywood Charity Horse Show has been running and raising funds for horse therapy ever since. Through this charity work, I have seen things I had not believed were possible. Perhaps the most profound was when a six-year-old girl who had been born without arms and with only one leg rode one of our horses. The therapy team—it takes at least three people in a case like this, due to the physical labor involved—led the horse with this child on top of it. She gripped the reins with the toes of the one foot she had, and the most unbelievable smile broke out across her face. For me, it was another one of those wow moments; for her, it must have felt like she could fly.
I’ve been asked why horses can have such a profound effect as therapy animals. Although other animals, particularly dogs, are used for therapy purposes, there is something about the majesty of horses that seems to invite patients to come out of their shells. If one has a physical, mental, or developmental disability, or is otherwise unable to experience events the same way those without disabilities do, there is something about the regal bearing of a horse that can open up the mind and the heart. It is a chance to experience basic connections and interactions that may have otherwise been elusive, and it occurs on such a primary level. You can watch one of these horses and imagine it sweeping across prairies; they are such stunning animals that many patients cannot help but become enthralled by their beauty. Once they are astride and seemingly in control of them, they feel an amazing power. For someone who may experience challenges in their daily life, to experience oneness with such a large, dynamic creature can make them feel ten feet tall.
The experience goes beyond riding. In therapy sessions, patients are given the opportunity to interact with horses in every aspect of their lives. They feed them, bathe them, and scrub them, and as you can imagine, an animal responds to that love. It gives love back. It nuzzles, it whinnies in appreciation, and the patient receives that love, a love that reminds them that there is more to life than any limitations they’ve previously held on to. The transference of that energy is so powerful to behold: one giving love and being loved in return.
In horse therapy, we have begun to do what is called “therapeutic vaulting,” which is essentially having a patient, usually a child, perform simple gymnastics while the horse trots lightly around a paddock. There are adults in front and on the sides for support, but these children are doing something they’ve likely never dreamed of in their wildest imaginations. I have seen it on their faces, that look that perhaps things they didn’t think could be possible might just be. I have seen kids who couldn’t walk take a few steps; others who wouldn’t talk speak a few words. It is the most miraculous sight to behold, and I promise you, you do not need to have children to look on in awe and wonder. The symbiotic effect of two of Earth’s beings meeting and gaining love from each other is extraordinary.
I have found that bearing witness to these events activates a bond deep within me. I feel, in just a small part, that I have been a guardian figure to both the horses and those incredible, beautiful people who sit atop them. It renews my spirit and reinforces my feeling that we really are all connected to each other in some indescribable way. Human beings, animals, the earth on which we tread, the air we breathe: we were all made for each other, if we could only grasp and remember that notion.
The application of horse therapy has had profound effects not only on children with disabilities, but on returning veterans traumatized by the terrible experiences only war and combat can bring. We used to call it “shell shock,” but it is now known as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). These wounds are not the physical kind, but they are often the ones that are most difficult to heal; in many ways, they simply never do. Certainly, there are degrees: a soldier who is surrounded by love and family likely has a better shot at getting through the rest of their days than one who goes without that love. Sometimes, the best therapy is with animals. There is something they know that we haven’t quite figured out. I believe it is that they know how to love unconditionally.
In therapy, these veterans—often people without limbs, or with profound PTSD, who find it difficult to interact with people, or even leave their homes—get on a horse, and once they do, they encounter an experience completely different from the rest of their lives. Sitting astride, they find themselves moving effortlessly. They’re higher up, they’re moving; it’s almost as if they are on a different plane. A veteran who can’t walk feels as if they can glide. The look on their faces is one of unmistakable joy, of unbridled enthusiasm and happiness. These men and women, who have returned from horrendous conditions in which their everyday tasks were to stay alive and to be prepared to kill, can suddenly relax in a way they had never imagined. It doesn’t last forever, but for those moments, it is pure love; it is everything.
I have learned, tragically, that love alone cannot bring someone back from such trauma, but the kind of pure love that these animals express can go a long way toward some measure of healing. I wrote earlier of the tragedy that robbed me of my wife Nerine, and how I believed that my love could save her and found out that it could not. In the wake of her death, I established what became the Nerine Shatner Friendly House, one of two Friendly House residential programs for women recovering from substance and alcohol abuse. The houses are a safe space for many women, all dealing with their own struggles and looking for a place to feel supported. Since 2018, we have connected many addicted women with horse therapy through our Saddles for Serenity program, a modality based on the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and the use of horses for healing, self-awareness, empowerment, and transformation for sobriety and other addictions. I feel privileged to have heard from many of the women in the programs, who have written to me and spoken about the miracles that have occurred when they work through their afflictions through horse therapy.
To think that what became a lifelong passion began with a simple misunderstanding and a hint of embarrassment is so striking to me. I bought this horse by accident all those years ago, and because of that, I have been blessed so many times over with the love of these animals, and the gift of witnessing that love make its way to so many others. How many other quirks of fate have handed us a lifetime of opportunity, and what is the cost of ignoring these flickers of chance when they appear?
It is one of life’s beautiful synchronicities that love can go both ways. We have all seen stories of abused, abandoned animals, who seem shattered by circumstance and their poor treatment, only to turn into the most affectionate of creatures when given a chance to express their love. I know a young couple with a similar passion for animals who have rescued and re-homed many cats and dogs.
I was struck by one of their rescue stories, in which the woman, Elizabeth, brought home a little Chihuahua/Jack Russell mix. She was eighteen months old and had lived on the street for twelve months and in the pound for six months, alone in a tiny concrete block covered in newspaper. The dog, whom they later named Lola, was understandably terrified and confused. She had been spayed by the shelter while pregnant (which must have been especially traumatic), and because animals tend to react poorly when folks stick their hands into their cages, Lola had bitten a would-be adopter who had come to consider her. As a result, the shelter deemed that Lola was “aggressive,” and she was scheduled to be put to sleep. Elizabeth had been tracking her through the shelter’s website, and when Lola’s last day came, and there was still no one to adopt her, Elizabeth raced to the shelter. She didn’t have a plan for how to re-home this dog; she just knew she could not allow her to be killed.
Dog shelters are heartrending places. The dogs are frightened, and the workers, who deal with so much death and sadness, can sometimes become desensitized and jaded. So it was with Lola: even though Elizabeth had arrived and offered to adopt the dog, the shelter worker told her that the paperwork had already been filed, and thus they could not release the dog, and instead had to put her down as scheduled. Elizabeth raised holy hell; eventually common sense prevailed, and they released the dog to her.
Lola was so terrified that she would lash out at anyone who got near her. To take her home, Elizabeth had to wrap her up in a blanket. For the first four days, it was virtually impossible to get anywhere near Lola for fear of losing a finger. She would not eat and would drink only enough water to get her through the day. And she stank, as you can well imagine. Finally, Elizabeth decided that enough was enough. “To hell with this,” she said to the little dog. “You’re getting a bath.”
Elizabeth filled the tub, again wrapped up Lola (who kicked and screamed the whole way to the bathroom), and got into the warm water with the dog. And then something happened. Something incredible. Once Lola was in the water, everything changed. For this animal, whose faith in human beings had been destroyed, who was on her way to her death, the warmth of that water must have felt like the amniotic fluid of the womb. This puppy was suddenly bathed in warmth, being held, being made to feel safe. She looked up at Elizabeth almost as if to say, “Oh… oh, I’m yours.” From that moment on, she just melted. She realized she was home. She had found her person. She had found love.
Animals can teach you everything about devotion. In some ways, you don’t find them; somehow, they find you. And then they decide that you are linked by an unmistakable, pure love. Dogs and horses and all kinds of animals bury themselves into our hearts, and sometimes our relationships with them are the most meaningful of all. Even the stories of other people’s relationships with their animals can move us to tears. How many hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, have been touched by the statue of the dog Hachikō, who waited every day for nine years for his deceased owner at the train station in Shibuya, Tokyo? It’s a story none of us experienced firsthand, and yet it is enough to bring tears to our eyes because we know that love. It’s almost too much to bear. I have found it difficult to watch the numerous films in which the story of Hachikō has been memorialized.
I once appeared with my surviving Star Trek cast members on an episode of Futurama, a show as truly heartwarming as it was funny and clever. In the same season as our appearance, Futurama aired an episode called “Jurassic Bark,” in which the character Fry (voiced so perfectly by Billy West), who in the show had been cryogenically frozen in the twentieth century and unfrozen in the thirty-first, finds a fossil of his old dog (“Seymour Asses”) and seeks to have him cloned. At the end of the episode, after learning that Seymour, who was three years old when Fry was frozen, eventually lived to fifteen, Fry assumes that his dog ultimately found a new owner and forgot about him. Yet, in a clear homage to the story of Hachikō, the episode ends with a montage of Seymour spending the next twelve years waiting for his owner to come back; tragically, he never did. Futurama is, on its surface, a comedy, but in moments like that, it is among the finest human stories ever presented. Truthfully, it is so emotional that it is almost impossible to revisit.
