Last year I wrote about the Trust Technique, a form of meditation that helps you reduce your thinking levels. Animals sense this calm and, in turn, relax and release their own stress. Over the past year, I’ve applied the Trust Technique in many situations, both in my work and while teaching it to owners who want to deepen their connection with their animals.
In December 2017, I was at my family’s farm in the middle of a nature reserve in South Africa. The farm is home to several horses, which are ridden only a few times a year to help with counting wildlife and herding cattle. The rest of the time they roam freely. They are checked regularly, their hooves trimmed, and they’re wormed annually—but otherwise, they live off the land.
Phantom, an old gelding, had lived on the farm even before my family bought it. By now his teeth were worn down and he must have been around 25 years old. Just after Christmas, I found him among the trees. He had separated from the herd, was lame, and far too thin. At first, I feared he’d broken something, but after a closer look and soaking his hooves, it turned out he had laminitis. In one foot, the coffin bone had begun to sink through the sole—an extremely painful condition. His coat was rough and irregular, and all the signs of Cushing’s disease were there.
There was no good outlook for him, and proper care—with hoof boots and special feed—was simply not feasible in this remote place. The farm is far from town and the vet. We decided to let Phantom go the next morning. Our manager would be the one to shoot him.
But making that decision and carrying it out are two different things. What I hadn’t fully realized was that even for our experienced manager, who was a hunter, this would be emotionally difficult. I couldn’t sleep that night. The weight of responsibility felt heavy. But then, everything I had learned from James French came together.
That morning we walked out to Phantom. I explained to the manager how the Trust Technique works, and together we joined Phantom in this quiet space. Slowly, everything became still. Phantom began to doze, and I felt our emotions settle too. We stepped back and waited for the right moment. It had to be a precise shot at close range—done properly and done once. Everything was calm: the sun was shining, birds were singing, and Phantom was peaceful. He was loose in the field and chose to stay with us. He seemed to understand what was coming and gently turned his head toward the rifle. Because we were so calm, Phantom felt no fear and died peacefully.
