8. Driven

No, this is totally not us.  But this is!

Sandy has brought out her long lines and showed me briefly how to walk behind Gus and steer him.  She doesn’t say “gee” or “haw,” but I’m starting to say them (that is, in the very few, sporadic moments when I know my left from my right) as I practice stepping wide or straight, and pulling or giving on the reins.  I’ve never done this before, and I’m terrible at it.  I keep losing contact with one or the other rein, letting it go floppy while the other has probably too much tension.  On a straightaway beside the arena wall, we do OK, but down the middle of the open arena, I drive poor Gus in a zigzag [to witness the ineptitude, click link in caption above].

With long-lining, more than with other activities, he’s polite and patient, and he’s a gifted teacher.  When he veers off erratically or stops or circles, I only have to look to my weight and hands to realize that I’m screwing up.  When I can keep all my parts steady and subtle, he rewards my correctness by marching ahead like a good soldier.  In fact, for the first time since I’ve been working with him, he looks businesslike, as if proud to be doing a job that he regards as meaningful.  His ears aim forward, his feet move rhythmically, his rump engages, his mind focuses, and he doesn’t stop until I say “whoa.”  He’d look good in a necktie.

(Of course, having a job is what donkeys were bred for, lo, these many centuries.  They’re tough and hardy beasts of burden.  I’m sad that in the developed, mechanized world, donkeys are no longer needed.  Their only role may in fact be as novelties for nativity scenes.  All I can do for Gus is keep him busy with stupid pet tricks — and try my best to become a better driver, so that he can experience some job satisfaction.)

A couple of weeks later, Sandy unearths Gus’s surcingle.  It straddles his shoulders and straps under his belly, and, because he has such a fat, flat barrel, it also has a crupper, which loops under his tail to keep it centered on his back.  Threading the long reins from his halter through the rings on the surcingle keeps them up along his flanks so they don’t droop under his feet by accident.  

Nevertheless, clicker training while driving is a tad awkward.  When I click, Gus stops and I have to walk forward to feed him, which means I coil one rein on his back and flop the other ahead of me so it’s not under my feet or his.  To resume, I have to pick up the rested rein and step back behind him.  By which time, he’s usually begun walking forward again with great purpose.  Memo to self: teach him to remain halted until I give him the go-ahead.