After our next session, Gus again refuses to return to his paddock, so I pop him into his stall and step away. As if on cue, not five minutes later he’s agitating to bust out. When I arrive at his stall, he reaches over the stall guard, grabs his halter from the nearby hook, and literally flings it at me. Well, I can certainly parse that message, I tell him with a laugh. When I pick it up off the ground and offer it toward him, he shoves his face into it urgently. This time he walks along to his paddock with only one hesitation — a chirrupy “walk on” from me suffices to unglue his feet — and we enter the pasture amicably.
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Another use for horse-speak, according to Wilsie, is to act as sentry so that other herd-members feel safe. The sentry horse pricks its ears, stiffens its body, and looks toward any sudden noise or odd sight or other danger; it often snorts emphatically; and when the risk is past, the sentry noticeably relaxes again as a way of sounding the all-clear.
When I first try the stare and snort, after I notice Gus prick his ears toward a noise, he doesn’t fall for it. In his experience, no creature can be a better sentry than he is, and my play-acting leaves him cold. Far from being impressed by my guardianship, he almost seems embarrassed for me, as if I’m the one who’s the ass in this duo. (OK, that’s probably me being embarrassed for me. Projection, anyone?)
Soon after, one breezy day in the arena, Gus’s ears spring forward at a rattle of the doors, and I try again. I stop and stand up very tall, drop his lead and march at the doors, slap and tap various parts to demonstrate their stability, and tell them to settle down and stay there, you bad doors, you. Then I come back with relaxed shoulders and exhale low and slow to Gus, and damned if his ears don’t noticeably wilt and his lips relax. And we continue with never another concern for the doors. Maybe I'm badass enough after all.
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