At liberty, with no tack or controlling gadgets, Geronimo dances a flamboyant flamenco with me. He pushes, pulls away, stomps, head tosses, teases, and pouts. He feigns indifference, imperialistically glares and elongates his nostrils in haughty disdain, then his muscular neck curves around my human torso in a graceful arc and his liquid eye is full. An odiferous vortex of gamey earth and fresh manure engulfs our graceful embrace sealing the finale.
Humor and playfulness are the only two ingredients needed for an equine flamenco production. Rather than stumbling through complex dance sequences, we trust our instinctual physical-energetic banter. Which game would you choose: flamenco or lunging endlessly in a circle? The answer is probably the passionate dance over rote discipline. When my daily drills of inane tasks for horses to learn, causes plush lower lips to dangle in stupefied boredom, it sends me over the edge into snorting chortles and my buddies instantly perk up; their human friend has returned to sanity.