Our sessions are now 40 minutes or so — the time it takes us to work through two carrots and half an apple, chopped into tidbits no bigger than the end of my thumb. I stuff them into a cheap canvas carpenter’s apron that ties behind my back. Gus is a gourmand, but I think he’s reaching the point where he finds the activity just as rewarding as the food treats.
Some days he doesn’t want to stop, and I have to coax him out of the arena. And some days he begins by barging into the arena without first going into his stall for hoof-picking or blanket removal. At first, I tried to insist he go where I choose, but his manners evaporate when his wishes are thwarted — he’ll not scruple to push past and bowl me over. So I began asking/observing to see if I could divine his preferred destination at any particular time, and occasionally I think I can. To avoid any suggestion of forcing him into his stall, I usually plant his brush and hoofpick in the arena first, then go fetch him from the paddock and lead him straight into the Fun Zone. Grooming and de-blanketing still strike him as annoying delays, but at least in this venue he seems reassured that fun will follow.
Nine-point-nine days out of ten, Gus’s first order of business is to roll in the loose dirt of the arena floor. He relishes rolling. After I snap off his lead rope, he’s free to wander around, nose to the ground, seeking the right spot. He snorts and snuffles. He paws and re-sniffs. He walks tight circles. Then his knees tremble, buckle, bend — and he groans out loud as he rolls over, legs in the air. Flat-backed and virtually witherless, he easily turns over and back to rub both sides into the dust. Resting on his belly and folded legs, he pauses and grunts. He rests his chin on the ground and contemplates. He presses the side of his face into the dirt, and then rolls a few more times on both sides. More grunting. At last he heaves his front half up onto his forefeet and hauls his back end up behind him. He shakes his head, spewing a fine brown aerosol, but doesn’t shake his body. When I pat him, clouds of dirt puff out like tiny explosions. The very definition of donkey delight.
Soon, I’m using a verbal cue —“go roll” — as soon has his knees begin to give way. Maybe that cue will someday encourage him to shorten the preliminaries and get the deed done more promptly. Or maybe not.
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