For centuries, the ways in which short men have compensated for their vertical deficiency have been documented by historians. Many scholars and psychiatrists have concluded that the 5’3” Napoleon Bonaparte, considered one of the greatest military commanders of all time, was driven to dominate Europe in the early 1800s to compensate for his lack of stature.
Humans are not the only species affected by tape measure trauma, or Napoleon complex. Our Haflinger horse, Starski of Marsoe, formerly known as Peanut, stopped growing when he reached 13.2 hands high. He began to exhibit symptoms of short horse syndrome as he approached middle age.
Affectionate and especially clever, he was a well-adjusted colt. He was so cute, with his flowing white mane and tail, and large black eyes that peeked out through a wavy forelock, that nobody noticed his stubby little legs. He played the cute card expertly, and carved himself a niche as the neighborhood chick magnet.
But as he approached maturity he began to show signs of what horse folk describe as ‘ponytude,’ code for stubborn, sneaky and generally devilish behavior. Ponytude, equine psychologists now suspect, is really a form of short horse syndrome.
Looking back, I can see why he drifted into delinquency. His herd mates, Mr. Bill and the Bluester, tower over Starski and are not above bullying their little buddy when he gets underfoot. On the other side of the fence are super-sized Warmbloods and Thoroughbreds, who look down their well-bred noses at him when he runs to greet them.
I compounded the problem by nicknaming him ‘Peanut.’ How insensitive. Would Napoleon have risen to become emperor of France if his generals had yelled “Way to go, shorty!” on the battlefield?
Historians will no doubt describe the middle chapter of Starski’s life story as “Peanut’s Revenge.” Some horses get mad, this pony got even.
He focused the first phase of his rebellion on escaping. He soon learned to open stall doors fastened with slide bolts and clips.
Then he turned his attention to fences. The thought of frustrating both his full-sized pasture mates and his human caregivers inspired him to work long hours into the night loosening a bottom rail on our wooden fences.
We found him, one glorious morning, grazing on virgin grass outside the fence, inches away from his frustrated friends. Each bite of dew-laden clover was accompanied by loud sighs of satisfaction designed to drive his companions, imprisoned in their barren paddock, to fury. The madder they got, the noisier his nibbling became.
Even on his short little legs he easily outran me when I tried to bring him back to the barn. He evaded capture all day, but spent the night within sight of his herd.
The next morning, an exceptionally cheerful Starski was discovered back with his buddies inside the fence, which was then fixed.
Why did Starski, now known as Napoleon, do it? To prove that he could.
Contact Anne Patterson at accidentalrider@yahoo.com
