How a pit bull attack led me to liberty and taught me what I know and don’t know about fear, trust, and transformation.
I never expected that one split second would rewrite my entire relationship with horses.
But that’s exactly what happened on an ordinary afternoon in 2010.
For years, I’d ride trails with my paint horse, Ollie. I bought him when he was two years old after a trainer told me he was so gentle and calm that a child could ride him. The moment I met him, I knew he was mine.
Ollie was everything that trainer promised, gentle, patient, and steady. We rode together for years, sometimes with a saddle, sometimes bareback. I trusted him every time we went for a ride.
Then everything changed in the time it takes to draw a breath.
We were waiting for family members to mount their horses before heading out on a trail we’d ridden dozens of times. Nothing felt unusual. The day was calm.
And then a pit bull appeared.
No warning. No growl. Just sudden, explosive violence.
The dog being friendly jumped and touched Ollie’s chest, then his brain switched and he lunged for his heart, the vulnerable spot just behind his front legs. It was a full attack, primal and relentless.
My body curled instinctively into a fetal position as I gripped the reins and pulled them tight, trying desperately to hold Ollie together. My calm, steady horse, the one I trusted for years shifted instantly into pure survival mode.
He bucked. Crow-hopped. Spun in tight, frantic circles, and kicking at the dog.
I tried to stay on.
And then I wasn’t.
I was thrown into the air like a rag doll, kicked hard on the inside of my thigh, and slammed into the ground.
I stoop up immediately. The pain didn’t matter. My only thought was Ollie.
I watched him run, as the dog continued to attack him and concerned he’d step on his dragging reins and injure himself further. The put bull was relentless, wouldn’t stop.
That’s when I realized how badly I was hurt. My right wrist, and hand was broken. My thigh, badly bruised from the brunt force of being kicked in mid air. My body, covered in scrapes and contusions.
I was rushed to the hospital for surgery to repair the broken bones in my wrist and hand. Ollie was transported home for emergency surgery to close the open wound near his heart and repair injuries to his legs. I was out of commission for three months. Ollie stayed with his herd, healing quietly the way horses do.
But the physical injuries weren’t the hardest part.
After the attack, I developed post-traumatic stress disorder, (PTSD). My nervous system was completely dysregulated. Fear lived in my body in a way I’d never experienced before.
To this day, I haven’t ridden Ollie off of my property. I only ride where I feel safe.
And yet, this story doesn’t end in darkness.
Because of that attack, I began asking the question that changed everything.
Is there another way to connect with horses, without always riding?
That question led me to liberty work.
I started watching trainers who worked with their horses at liberty, no ropes, no restraints, just connection, communication, and movement. Horses and humans moving together in a dance of trust, softness, and calm. I was mesmerized.
I traveled to liberty shows, attended clinics in other states, and immersed myself in learning. I knew, deep in my bones, that this was the path forward, for me and for my horses.
Around that time, my oldest mare was aging, and I knew it was time to welcome another horse into the herd. My dream of owning an Andalusian became reality.
But I also knew I needed help. Liberty was a new language, and I wanted to learn it well, all of it. So I asked my niece and trainer, Amber DeAmico, to guide me. She supported my dream and helped me face my fear of being hurt again.
Now, with Caprio, my young Andalusian, I spend my time in groundwork and liberty partnership. I love the freedom of sharing space with him, being in the same energetic bubble, connecting through movement, feeling his presence beside me and at a distance.
Through him, and with Amber’s support, I’ve learned so much, not just about horses, but about myself at a deeper level.
Caprio has helped me heal my PTSD. The fear hasn’t disappeared completely, there are still small shards that surface, but now I know how to listen to them. I know when to stop or slow down. When to pause or start over. To be aware of how I feel, to remain calm and steady, and visualize myself as being rooted into the ground like a tree.
That’s one of the gifts of liberty work. It teaches you to regulate your body, your breath, your awareness. It reveals your patterns, your emotions, your energy. And it invites you into a deeper relationship with the horses, and with yourself.
This journey wasn’t one I chose. But it’s one that transformed my life.
It taught me that safety doesn’t come from control, it comes from an attuned connection. That healing isn’t linear, a quick fix. That fear can be a teacher helping you to step outside of your comfort zone, and that is where a new journey of self-discovery and experiences begins.
And it showed me that sometimes the worst moments of our lives become the doorway to our greatest gifts.
For more of Pam’s story read her blog post dated December 21, 2017, Frederic Pignon Horse Training Clinic – What I Experienced and Learned about Horse!
Frederic Pignon Horse Training Clinic – What I Experienced and Learned about Horse!
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