15. Talk, talk, talk

I’m reading Wilsie’s book closely (and repeatedly) and am really eager to incorporate some of her tips into my donkey handling.  One day, for example, I arrive just after hay was thrown into the paddocks, so I let Gus munch while I use Wilsie’s horse-speak to commune quietly with him:  I stand next to him, not facing him, and I cock a hip to rest more on one leg.  I drop my shoulders a bit, I look down, I sigh heavily and express a vibe of having zero agenda.  When Gus lifts his head from the hay pile for a moment, I offer him my fist to nuzzle.  I sigh some more.  Eventually I scratch his withers a bit and then flop an arm over his neck chummily.  He accepts that, so I leave him awhile, honoring Wilsie’s reminder that, so unlike humans, horses value space more than touch.  When I go back to the paddock, Gus is happy to come away with me into the arena.

But even though — or because? — we were communing, both of us at a zero level of intensity or intent, once he gets into the arena, he kinda blows me off; he just wants to sniff the ground independently.  I give up on the chair and the traffic cone and the beachball, and we do some new training from the Wilsie book.  I walk alongside him with one forefinger draped over the noseband of his halter, and with my other forefinger touching his side (where a rider’s heels would be); it’s a very controlled little pas-de-deux designed to rate his speed and orient his body just so.  He’s willing and interested enough, but when I pause at all, he goes back to his distracted sniffing.

As Gus’s pasturemate Henry comes in with Barbara, his owner, I’m running out of treats, which tells me it’s time to end my session with Gus.  I put his blanket back on and then stand a minute with him, breathing heavily and relaxing us both down to zero — Gus’s eyes are soft, his ears nearly limp, and his lips drooping.  We leave the arena in this mellow state, but at the barn door he refuses to go outside toward his paddock and pulls me toward his stall.  I take him there and groom him while he chomps his hay.

I leave him for awhile to go watch Henry in the arena, but soon Gus realizes he’s alone and bleats a booming hee-haw and butts his chest against his stall guard.  I return to his stall and lead him out, but again he won’t go past the barn door, and this time he hauls me to the arena gate.  (I don’t always let him choose his destinations, at least not without a fight, but I figure he needs to get his way sometimes.  He’s a donkey, after all.)  We stand at the gate, spectating fixedly.  Watching Henry move around and receive treats doesn’t get Gus at all excited; yet he can’t take his eyes off the action.  I blow deep breaths, chill out, and take him with me down to zero.  His gearshift is firmly in Park. Occasionally he jostles the gate with his nose, but he doesn’t try to barge under it (at which he’s an expert), and I get him to leave the gate alone with a little re-mellowing.  Such a polite audience we are.

After a good ten minutes of stationary observation, Gus seems finally to be getting bored, just as Henry’s session is ending. My scheme is to get Gus to follow Henry in an exeunt omnes, but instead he scoots into the arena as Henry leaves it.  I immediately turn him to tag after Henry, which he does for a few paces into the outdoors — until Henry disappears into his own barn, whereupon Gus stops short, pulling the lead rope tight behind me.  I stop but don’t let up on the rope, which Gus defies by thrusting his head high and backward, which yanks my shoulder, which makes me mad, which makes me instantly give him a hard retaliatory yank, dammit. That seems to chastise (or at least nonplus) him ever so slightly for a nanosecond, and now I go right back to zero, reconcile, and offer to continue leading him.  Nope!  The only place he’ll consent to go is back to his stall, so I take him there, shut him in, and go home.  Little shit.