2. Don't risk getting hurt

Session 1.  Sandy hands me Gus’s halter and lead rope, and I enter the grassy, sun-soaked pasture he shares with several gelding horses.  He’s loafing at the far, far end, so I walk and walk.  As he notices me approaching, he glances my way but keeps his head down and his mouth munching.  I offer him my fist to sniff and greet him by name.  I feed him a little hay pellet, and slowly slip the halter over his nose.  He suddenly jerks back and trots a few paces away.  I wait a beat, follow slowly, and try again.  This time he accedes, and we take the long walk back to the pasture gate.  He’s pretty gentlemanly.  So far, so good.

In the dim, cool indoor arena, Sandy offers me two important tips:  Reward him often, and if he “sets his neck,” resist the instinct to pull back on the rope but simply drop it and let him run off.  “Don’t risk getting hurt,” she says.   

As with any clicker training, the procedure is to make a click (like most horsepeople, I use my tongue rather than encumbering a hand with a mechanical clicker) to mark the instant we see a desired behavior, follow each click promptly with a treat, and ignore any unwanted behaviors.  

Me and Gus (not from left to right)

We start with some tricks that Sandy taught Gus in years past.  He eagerly drags me to the big pedestal and pops his front feet up on it.  I click and treat.  After a few seconds, I ask him to back up and step down, but he refuses.  I step up onto the pedestal too, so I’m up on his level and close to his chest, which I poke firmly as I say “ba-a-a-ck” right into his face.  Nothing.  Harrumph, we agree. 

I drape the lead rope over Gus’s shoulders, step off the pedestal, and wander halfway across the arena.  I make a show of relacing my boots, I paw through my carpenter’s apron of hay pellets and other treats, I clear my throat, I sigh.  He affects grandiose indifference.  Finally, I sit down in the dirt, and he can’t resist his own curiosity:  he steps down and strolls toward me.  He gets a click just before he reaches me and the treat follows as he arrives in front of me.  Now he’s away from the pedestal, and I’ve regained his attention and his lead rope.  He seems pretty content, despite his evident doubts about who the hell I am or what I think I’m doing there.

Next we walk some circles and figure-eights, and I click and treat every moment he’s in a good position right next to my shoulder.  We’re not great at staying aligned during the turns, but he’s making good-faith efforts.  After a few minutes, I lead him to a stack of miniature orange traffic cones.  I hold one out to him, and he duly touches it with his nose.  Click!  We do that several more times.  Sometimes he drops his head and sniffs the arena floor — horses are in here all the time, and their humans sometimes fumble bits of treat.  I let him explore the aromas awhile and then make kissy noises to coax him back to focusing on me. 

Sandy brings us a thin piece of plywood maybe two feet square, and the minute she lays it on the ground Gus plants his front feet on it.  Click!  From this mat, he’s willing to back away when asked, so we’re able to walk around it and step on it again.  

After a half-hour or so, we end.  As it’s nearly time for evening grain, Gus comes along into his stall without demur.  Sandy tells me that he always likes being groomed, so I brush him all over, pick out the bottoms of his hooves (gingerly, since he doesn’t always like letting a human lift and hold a foot), and then rub his ears — his improbable, balletic, autonomously automated ears [see below] -- until his eyes glaze and his bottom lip dangles in blissful relaxation.