The Five Roles of a Master Herder. Linda Kohanov

      When people learned to till the soil, as any modern backyard farmer knows, they had to contend with all kinds of animals sneaking into those primal gardens. It wouldn’t have taken long for fleet-footed herbivores like cattle and horses to begin orbiting around the edges of human settlements that planted grains. Yes, of course, these animals were hunted as well, but they were used to living with predators. They knew how to assess the moods of lone hunters as well as those that prowled in groups. Herd members in their prime were also confident that, working together, they could sometimes drive the aggressors off. When faced with the choice of eating low-nutrition forage in lion territory or nibbling on fields of wheat and oats in human territory, well, you do the math.

      Without sturdy fences, early farmers needed to guard their crops during the growing season, though luring large animals close to home was an added benefit. Still, settlers found themselves shooing off more individuals than they killed for meat, and a new pastime emerged. Farmers and herbivores were both benefiting from agricultural innovations that satisfied their basic needs. In times of plenty, people and animals became interested in one another for reasons beyond sustenance.

      Somewhere between the safety of the village and the unknown reaches of pure wilderness, adventurous members of the two-legged and four-legged clans met on fertile ground. More confident and gregarious animals approached humans who had a similar orientation. As these early naturalists looked at their wary neighbors with calmness, curiosity, and wonder — rather than fear, desperation, and predatory intent — horses and other large herbivores sensed that subtle yet crucial difference, and they relaxed and lowered their heads to graze. Feelings of fascination and accomplishment motivated these people to sit quietly at the edges of fields and invite the braver animals to take a few steps closer still. Eventually, someone held out a handful of grain.

      Once the increasingly trusting animals were amenable to touch, oxytocin would have flowed between everyone involved in much higher doses. The effect of this contact high would have kicked in as individuals amenable to being stroked and groomed by another species returned to the herd and interacted with their shier companions. This more subtle release of the hormone would have encouraged the larger population to buffer the fight-or-flight response and begin to take social risks as well.

      There were at least two other significant benefits for the human contingent: a rise in self-esteem and increased admiration from the tribe. In Made for Each Other, Meg Daley Olmert cites a study on this effect by zoologist Dale Lott, who surveyed visitors to a national park where hand-feeding wild mountain sheep is “a favorite pastime”:

      Lott was interested in discovering why so many tourists were drawn to engage in this close interaction with wildlife. Overwhelmingly, those who fed the animals told Lott that they wanted to see the animals up close and find out if the animals could trust them. When questioned further, they reported that they actually felt better about themselves when a wild animal would eat from their hand. They also said they thought more highly of other people who were trusted by the animals and that they felt their self-image was elevated in the eyes of others when a wild animal trusted them.

      Here we begin to understand the simultaneous rush of connection and elation our ancestors would have felt under similar circumstances. But that was just the tip of the iceberg, as it turned out. Because those who were subsequently inspired to explore relationships with ancient horses and cattle would have found that they needed to move beyond the initial thrill of contact to become acutely aware, responsive, and powerful in ways that few people, even today, can fathom.