4. AWOL

Session 5.  Gus saunters across the paddock to meet me, stands for haltering, walks along toward the arena . . . and whips his head to the side, yanking the rope out of my hand.  He trots defiantly, head high, down the path to a small paddock.  He visits the horses there and lips a few wisps of hay off the ground.  After I walk over and gather his rope, I suggest cheerily that we might consider going to the arena for some Big Fun.  Ya wanna?  His feet say yes and take enough steps to get a click, but he snatches the treat aggressively from my hand and pulls away again.  Now he munches grass idly, sneaking a sidelong peek at me as I re-approach.  I lead him in some tight circles, with clicks and treats, as we work our way nearer the arena.  He walks nicely to the door.  And plants his feet.  Grrr . . .  I wait.  He waits.  Then he “sets his neck” and peels away down the path again.  And again I watch his ornery little rump and that lead rope trailing in the dirt.  

Fine, I say.  You can skip your arena fun and go back to your damn paddock.  Fine, he says, let’s go.  But as I lead him there and put my hand on the paddock gate, doesn’t he wheel away and run off again.  His stall is in the same barn as the arena, so I know I can’t get him to go in there.  It’s getting dark and I need to head home.  Sandy isn’t due for another hour.  Where can I stash this turbulent donkey?  

I lead him into the other barn, where he never gets to go except on his illicit escapades.  He’s so surprised to be invited there that he strolls right in, follows me into the nearest empty horse stall, and I’ve got him!  He revels in victory, scarfing some of the hay meant for the rightful occupant, but only for a moment, until he realizes the dutch-door is latched and he’s trapped.  He tries to ram his head out above the door in righteous indignation, but being so much shorter than the resident horse, he has to tilt his head up and push just his nose out in feeble protest.  Pitiful, but hilarious.  And serves him right.

Before I drive away, I text an apology and warning to Sandy. She won’t be able to bring the horses in from pasture for their dinners until she manages to move Gus into his own stall.  Sometimes, she confides, she has to let him run loose while she completes her appointed rounds; by the time only his stall door is still open, and there’s food in his bucket, he’ll go in voluntarily.