12. Incidents happen

One rainy day (and I know Gus hates rain and puddles), I approach his paddock with my usual whistle.  No donkey.  His halter is hanging on the fence rail, but he isn’t.  He’s unsinkable, so I’m not really worried, yet I can’t help imagining Bad Things that could have befallen him.  In the slushy snow, with his pasturemates following me lazily, I slog around the entire perimeter of the paddock, looking for any broken fencing or broken donkey.  One low fence rail is missing, and I recall Sandy saying, “Gus is like a mouse. He can squeeze through the tiniest holes.”  He’s certainly in the wind now.  

I trudge all over the farm, around the other paddocks, off into the far fields, behind the old equipment barn . . .  Finally I check each stall in each barn, and there’s Gus lounging in his pasturemate’s unoccupied stall and eating his hay.  “Oh, hi,” he says.  “Here to play?”

Gus magnanimously teaches me how to lead him around in the arena.  He wants clear cues, and if I fail him, he lags behind or crosses behind me to my other side or arcs across in front of me.  Thanks to him, I’m getting much better at knowing when and how much to pivot my head and shoulders for a turn and to lean back a bit and clomp my feet to a halt.  We have moments when he and I are both in the zone and we can walk some off-lead circles and figure-eights in pretty close ranks.

                                  _______________________

When winds rattle the arena doors, Gus gets distracted but not afraid.  Until.  A very blustery day, and Gus can’t get those doors off his mind.  He resists going near that end of the arena, and I agree to stay away.  Far from the doors, but with our backs to them (human error #1), we begin walking side by side, with him on the inside of the arena and me next to the wall (human  error #2) — and he suddenly loses it.  Before I know what’s what, he’s jostling my elbow and hip, ramming me from behind, scraping me against the wall.  He’s genuinely panicked, but I can’t get out of his way, and I do not want to fall down ahead of him, so I dance as fast as I can.  Rolled between wall and donkey, I get spun around, run backwards a few steps, trip over his feet, twirl again . . . and finally he’s blown past and is galloping free ahead of me.  Luckily I’m still vertical, and therefore unhurt.  

It’s the first time I’ve ever witnessed Gus violently spook at anything.  But he calms down quickly, having put some real distance between himself and those doors.  I collect him, exhale softly by his face and relax, and we resume our session.  All’s well, etc.