Ah… Interesting but not an unexpected response. Forgive me if I assume formal logic was not your primary academic discipline. It wasn’t mine either, but I did glean the basics.
The anecdotal Oak Creek narrative was intended to describe the insularity of tribal cultures. Unless the undergraduate’s assignment was to submit a paper containing true premises leading to valid conclusions, the submission would stand as what it was intended to be—an anecdote from one’s experience in a mountain community. (The anecdote, by the way, is 100% true. One of my most treasured memories.) I knew when I mentioned inbreeding the tribal knee-jerk response would be automatic. Tribes, in my experience, generally, illogically, gleefully in some cases, perceive insult from whole cloth.
Also interesting that the horse becomes tantamount. So, let us spend some time on the horse.
As I noted, the old woman kept horses as some folks keep cats. She was a collector. When I visited up there, her herd was probably close to forty or fifty animals. Maybe more. Incidentally, I didn’t go there on a lark, but was told by a close friend who’d grown up in the area and whose family still lived there, that he knew of a woman who had to get rid of some horses because the state was after her to thin out her herd. He told me—and I saw it for myself—she had not yet had the wherewithal to construct adequate facilities for the herd, and mares and stallions mixed freely throughout the year. He said there was inbreeding going on but so far he hadn’t seen any “…two-headed horses, but you could probably get one for a pretty good price.”
I picked out a small boy, a quarter horse with a white pastern on the left rear side. He was four years old, still a stallion, his hooves had never been clipped, he’d never had a single inoculation, he’d never been socialized to people, and he’d never been haltered. He’d let the woman get near him, but he’d shy away from anybody else. That’s why I named him Shy. He was green as could be, and I didn’t fully realize the implications of that. This was the first horse I’d ever purchased.
The vet situation in the area was precarious. I was told they were itinerant, traveling the area on iffy schedules. One vet even flew a small plane from place to place. This was, of course, an important concern—I couldn’t move the horse until the brand inspection and other requirements were completed. The initial vet who cared for Shy in Denver had been one of those itinerants who had intimate knowledge of the Oak Creek area, and repeated the homey lore of the place with a smile and a wink, including the inbred comment.
Suffice it to say, preparing Shy for transport to Denver was a long-distance nightmare. I relied on the elderly woman to arrange for gelding, and to transport Shy to Craig where I’d hired a trainer to gentle him as much as she could, and coordinate all the State Ag requirements for transport.
“What is my experience with mountain horses?” There you have it. I won’t go further into the Shy saga, but will tell you Shy was a fine horse—he was smart, tough-as-nails, and a gentle soul who captured my heart. Inbred? Hell, I don’t know. And it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference anyway.
I’ve noticed the tribe rarely acknowledges the veracity of non-tribal commentary. That is after all in my experience one of the main components of tribalism.
“I was a boy, and I believed deeply in the sightedness of horses. I believed that there was nothing that they did not witness. I believed that to have a horse between my legs, to extend my pulse and blood and energy to theirs, enhanced my vision. Made of me a seer. I believed them to be the dappled, sorrel, roan, bay, black pupils in the eyes of God.”
‘Where Rivers Change Direction’ – Mark Spragg