The Walrus on My Table: Touching True Stories of Animal Healing

By Anthony Guglielmo and Cari Lynn

Several years ago, massage therapist Anthony Guglielmo got a call for a strange appointment. "Will you massage my horse?," one of his clients asked. And so began Anthony's strange and wonderful adventure into the world of animal massage.

In The Walrus on My Table, enter a world where dolphins line up to take turns for their massages, beluga whales lean in for better contact, and high-strung horses grow calm and manageable under Anthony's soothing touch. Discover animal friends you will never forget. Meet:

* Nuka, the 1,800 lb. walrus. A series of injections left Nuka's muscles severely constricted on one side of her body, and this gentle animal could no longer swim.

* Molly and Josephine, two playful elderly dolphins. Though at first reluctant to allow Anthony's touch, by their second session these two line up impatiently, eager for his attention.

* Mambo Point, a racehorse who just couldn't win. Mambo's owner knew that this horse had potential... so why wasn't he performing up to his ability?

* Rudy, the hump-backed penguin who wasn't expected to live. Born with a life-threatening condition that made breathing difficult, Rudy's future looked uncertain...

* Reddog, who loved to sleep on his owners' forbidden bed-until a sprain got him caught in the act.

* Mickey, an independent Tabby, who relaxes so completely under Anthony's hands, she topples right over!

* Tab and Presley, the prankster bachelor dolphins of the aquarium, who love to play tricks on their trainers.

* Baby, the recipient of the first ever shark massage.

So, dive in and romp with Nuka and friends...and enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Apr 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780312271756

Anthony Guglielmo

Anthony Guglielmo is a New York State licensed massage therapist specializing in sports and medical massage, and a certified equine massage practitioner. Besides running a very successful human massage practice in Long Island, New York, he is one of only a handful of massage therapists worldwide with experience working on both exotic and domestic animals. He lives in Lindenhurst, New York.

Book preview

Prologue

Animal Kneads

The field of massage therapy has gained acceptability in America only within the last fifteen years or so—even though it’s been practiced on humans for the past 4,600 years, and for nearly as long on animals. Although no official record exists, animal massage is believed to have begun in ancient Thailand, where it was used on tigers and leopards: in fact, the royal family had their own animal massage therapist. Massage quickly caught on and spread throughout most of Asia.

In the United States, animal massage has been used sporadically (although it’s rumored that the Barnum and Bailey circus animals have regularly received massage for decades). Anyone who has ever handled an animal has probably, to some extent, used some massage techniques—except horse trainers might call it grooming, and cat owners might call it petting. The truth is, animals’ bodies require maintenance just like our own— especially animals who are in captivity and who work for a living by performing.

In my animal practice so far, I have done massage therapy on over a dozen different species—from mammals, to birds, to fish. One very dear dolphin named Cindy is the animal that’s mostly responsible for my work in this field. If it wasn’t for Cindy, and for the empathy I felt for her, I may never have pursued animal massage.

But it was a long road to get to Cindy—I had to prove myself first. I did that with another of my favorites, Nuka, a nearly two-thousand-pound, middle-aged walrus who had lost the use of her rear flippers. Nuka’s dramatic, documented response opened the door for me to work on other ailing animals.

After Nuka, I was able to fulfill my boyhood dream of working with dolphins, some of the most elegant creatures on this earth. I massaged Tab and Presley, two very rambunctious, energetic male dolphins who often took to one-upping the other; then I worked on the Golden Girls, two female dolphins in their forties (old for dolphin years) who had lived through shark attacks.

There were plenty of horses along the way, including one racehorse who consistently placed poorly—until his owner discovered the benefits of massage.

Then there’s Kathy, the oldest beluga whale in the world living in an aquarium, who has given hope to this nearly endangered species; plus, many other animals, including Rudy the penguin, Reddog, and Baby the shark.

I receive calls from around the world to help injured or traumatized animals, or to lecture. I recently gave a lecture to a group of veterinary students at Cornell University; I spoke to a packed lecture hall, filled with students who were there out of their own interest (none had been assigned my lecture as part of a class). After I spoke and showed slides of some of the animals I had worked on, I was bombarded by questions. When the professor of the next class began flicking the lights on and off, I was followed out of the room by a line of students, asking when I would be back again. It made me optimistic to see the next generation of veterinarians so curious about alternative forms of therapy.

On the flip side, the traditionalists can often be quite close-minded. Immediately after the lecture at Cornell, a woman silently handed me a piece of paper, then turned and hurried away. It was a notification from a veterinary society that warned that it was illegal to treat animals without a veterinary degree. I knew I had nothing to worry about—I always work on animals under the supervision of a veterinarian. Yet, the refusal of some to explore new, nontraditional methods continues to frustrate me.

Luckily, some of the nation’s best zoos and aquariums are open-minded and have contacted me to work on everything from an elephant who couldn’t lie down to a shark with a back condition called scoliosis.

I’m still amazed how similar the animal world is to our own. I never thought I had much in common with a shark or a ferret—but I do, we all do. Regardless of the creature, there is the universal language of touch. Touch is one of the simplest pleasures we know; it is also one of the most underestimated. Science fails us when it comes to the power of touch, of contact between living beings. No study can precisely explain or document the effect touch has, but we all know that it is powerful, healing, and that, above all, it feels good. After all, who—great or small—doesn’t love a back rub?

1

Champ: Nag’in Pain

About a year after I opened my own medical massage practice—humans only—I receive a phone call from the mother of one of my patients.

Debbie’s mother, Sylvia, has been in my office a few times with her daughter so I have met her briefly before, but her call is still out of the blue.

Anthony, she says. Could you take a look at Champ?

Who’s Champ? I ask, trying to remember if her husband or son has such an unusual name.

My horse.

"Your horse?"

Oh, he’s beautiful, you’ll love him—everybody loves Champ—he’s a big bay, white socks, a real sweetheart—

I try to interrupt. Sylvia, I’m sorry, but I don’t—

Champ was abused. Severely.

I don’t know what to say.

In a pinched voice, she goes on, "I didn’t know when

I bought him, but his previous owner had tied him up and beat him before competitions. Don’t ask me why; we don’t have any idea. It sure isn’t a way to train a horse. But he’s so tense when I ride him—I thought that maybe a massage could help him relax. Anthony, I don’t care if he ever becomes a top show horse. I just don’t want him to feel scared."

My heart goes out to Champ, but what can I do?

Sylvia, I say, I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to massage a horse.

I think you’d be great at it, she says, her voice perking up. I’ll call you next week after you’ve had a chance to mull it over.

I hang up the phone, knowing full well the next time we speak my answer will still be no.

True to her word, a week later, Sylvia calls me.

Champ has been asking about you, she says.

Little do I realize, but there is a whole world out there devoted to horses and massage therapy. In equine circles, massage therapy is not necessarily viewed as cutting edge or alternative—it is an accepted, and even relatively standard, practice.

That night, as I flip through the American Massage Therapy Association Journal, I catch an advertisement I’ve never noticed before: Become certified in equine massage. Learn how to practice the art of horse massage for performance and well-being.

I can’t believe there is actually a school for this.

The next day I call the number in the ad to find out more.

Equine massage has been practiced for years, the school spokesperson says. "It gives the horse the edge in competition. Think of it this way: in your human practice, if you treat an athlete or a dancer they will find that massage enhances their performance—why wouldn’t the same hold true for a horse?

We feel our program is one of the top in the country. We offer a certification course and teach you how to set up your own equine massage practice—how to recruit clients and market yourself.

I certainly am not interested in the business plan aspect—I want to help Champ and then get back to my human practice. Still, the notion that my field is practiced on animals intrigues me, so I arrange for the school to send me a brochure and a videotape.

The massage I see on the video is not what I hoped it would be. I don’t know a lot about horses at this point, but I don’t like how they are fidgeting back and forth. The therapists seem competent enough, giving thorough explanations as they work; maybe this is how animal massage is supposed to be. If it is, I don’t like it. The horses are pulling to the ends of their lead lines and pushing away from the therapists, as if trying to avoid the contact.

On the video, the massage therapist is pressing firmly into the muscle groups—so firmly that it seems impossible for the massage not to be uncomfortable—even painful—for the horses. I picture a person on my massage table who jumps when I hit a sore spot. Do I keep pressing into that spot? Of course not. So why are these therapists?

Every massage therapist has a different mind-set toward therapy and toward treating pain. Many therapists—like many athletes and their trainers—subscribe to the no pain, no gain philosophy: you know things are improving when it hurts, or at least is uncomfortable. For me, massage therapy is a tool used to solve problems; but the problem can’t be solved if the patient is tense, or avoiding contact, or is unhappy or uncomfortable while I’m trying to treat him or her. Even if that patient is hurt—with a torn ligament or pulled tendon, for example—my massage will not be about pain: it will be about relaxing, smoothing away the tension or the spasm, so the patient isn’t bracing against the hurt anymore. And once the patient isn’t bracing—be it physically or mentally—the healing can begin.

As I watch the video, I start wondering if there are similar schools of thought for horse massage therapy. Do other schools teach a different, gentler philosophy? A few nights later, I flip through my massage therapy journals and find another advertisement for an equine massage school in Ohio. As I’m copying down the number, the phone rings. Cathy appears in the doorway.

Guess who? she says.

I put the number of the school on top of my stack of things to do first thing tomorrow.

Our main interest is in the nurturing and care of the horses, Patricia Whalen-Shaw, the owner of Integrated Touch Therapy, says when I call. It’s a week-long intensive class where the goal is not necessarily to help animals perform better, but to help them recover from injuries and feel better.

I want to help one specific horse who’s been abused, I explain. I don’t want to cause him any more pain, though.

We don’t believe that a massage should be about pain. We practice applying massage with a gentle technique. The focus first and foremost is on relaxation. We want our horses to enjoy their massages.

We speak for a half hour, and unlike the other school, Patricia doesn’t once give me the pitch about how they can help me set up my own practice, or how much money this certification will translate into. This is appealing because I don’t want to start a new business venture—I want to help Champ.

I encountered a similar situation when I was figuring out where to apply for regular massage therapy school. Many schools I had looked into had very stringent attitudes—they taught that there was only one right way of doing massage, and that was their way. Of course, I knew that wasn’t true: I knew of at least forty different massage techniques; to really master them, and use them effectively to develop your own style, is an art. I eventually made the choice to go to a school that was farther away from my home but was also open and nurturing.

Patricia’s school also seems small and personal, not a cookie-cutter type of place like the other. The only problem is that it’s in a small town in Ohio, about an hour from Columbus, and that means a pretty hefty investment of time and money—all for one horse and one persistent woman.

That night, over dinner, I discuss the situation with Cathy.

I’ve never known you to pass up a chance of being with animals, she says, and we decide I should enroll.

It’s a ten-hour drive from Long Island to Circleville, Ohio. When I arrive in Circleville, I check into the Travel Lodge, and the next morning, bright and early, I follow the map the school had sent me. At the entrance of a long driveway off the main road is a small wooden sign: Synergy Farm. I follow the drive past green fields, around to a white barn next to a two-story farmhouse. It looks like a well-kept farm, not a school.

I turn off my car and sit staring at the barn. Reality has hit: I am in the middle of a farm in the middle of nowhere. No, correction: there is one main road (with traffic lights), a Long John Silver’s, a Wal-Mart, and an interstate highway exit toward Columbus, which is an hour away. And I am here to learn how to—what else?—massage a thousand-pound horse.

There is no sign of any other human life as I get out of the car and grab the bag with my notebook and pens out of the backseat. I walk toward the barn and notice a side door with a plaque: OFFICE. It is the only indication that there might be a real school here. I pull open the door. Two women are sitting at a folding table.

Are you here for the massage therapy class? one asks.

I nod, then remember my manners and stick out my hand. I’m Anthony Guglielmo.

We’re your classmates. I’m Lisa and this is Heike. We’re from Wisconsin. Three students? The owner had told me they only allowed small classes, but this is personal attention at its finest.

Neither Lisa nor Heike has training in massage therapy, but both work as stable managers, so they have extensive experience riding and taking care of horses. As they talk about their jobs and the people and horses they know in common, I feel more and more out of my element. About the most experience I’ve had with horses was when I was a little kid at a neighborhood fair and I kept hunting for quarters so that I could have just one more ride on a horse who was being led back and forth down a chalked-in