Today I bring Gus’s surcingle and driving reins to the outdoor arena. It’s warm and he’s half-suffocating under his long, thick winter coat, but he’s a trouper. He marches off along the arena fence — that is, until he’s unable to resist dropping his head to inhale the information trove of a fresh pile of manure. I give him a few seconds and then jiggle the reins and tell him to walk on.
On our second circuit around the arena, I aim him (still zigzaggedly, but my steering skills are improving under his tutelage) at the wooden bridge, and he steps onto it, walks its length, and trots off it. Click! and a big treat-fest. Only problem is, because he’s short, his first step onto the bridge puts his hoof at an angle that can make it skid forward, and he hates that. The next couple of times I try to send him over the bridge, he veers around it instead. So I gather up the long reins to lead him in hand, and luckily his hoof doesn’t slide this time. I let him stand on the bridge while I blitz-click and treat six or eight times, trying to impress upon him what a grand and glorious place this bridge is. Next try, I succeed in driving him over it again.
I also send him through the arch of tarp strips, and he barely hesitates — except one time when the breeze goes calm and the strips hang vertical and together. Good to know: he prefers erratic flapping that puts daylight between the strips, rather than stillness that presents them as more solid.
Some friends stop by, and we unclip the reins to showcase our cone-fetching trick. Once Gus picks up the cone, I run backward and in circles to make him follow me all over, his teeth staying firmly clamped for as long as it takes to catch up to me and flop the cone into my hand. When we stop for a minute while the humans chat, Gus nudges the cone and looks for a treat. So my friends take turns tossing it for him, and he promptly fetches it and delivers it to whichever of us holds out a hand. They’re enchanted to take the deliveries and to dispense the treats. Gus gets high marks for “plays well with others.”
____________________________________
For a reward, I take him outside the ring to graze on the fast-sprouting spring grass. Standing next to him, I fall into almost as deep a zone of relaxation as he’s in. He occasionally takes one or two steps forward — never lifting his muzzle from the ground, lest he miss a morsel on the way — to reach another patch of lawn.
When Gus finds some very lush, wide-bladed grasses, I remember that too much rich grass can be harmful to horses if they aren’t used to it after the winter. I give him only a minute or two of chomping the big blades before I take up the lead line and ask him to come along. He does briefly, but then YANK! goes his head, I have to let go of the rope and fling it over his back so he won’t step on it, and he canters away, looking for more good eats behind a barn. Sigh . . .
I walk around and meet him, gather the rope again, and cross my fingers. I swivel and lift the rope near his halter to raise his head, and I use my maitre d’ arm gestures to invite him forward with me. And along he comes like such a good boy! I click and treat a couple of times as we make our way back to his paddock, and he walks right in.
On our second circuit around the arena, I aim him (still zigzaggedly, but my steering skills are improving under his tutelage) at the wooden bridge, and he steps onto it, walks its length, and trots off it. Click! and a big treat-fest. Only problem is, because he’s short, his first step onto the bridge puts his hoof at an angle that can make it skid forward, and he hates that. The next couple of times I try to send him over the bridge, he veers around it instead. So I gather up the long reins to lead him in hand, and luckily his hoof doesn’t slide this time. I let him stand on the bridge while I blitz-click and treat six or eight times, trying to impress upon him what a grand and glorious place this bridge is. Next try, I succeed in driving him over it again.
I also send him through the arch of tarp strips, and he barely hesitates — except one time when the breeze goes calm and the strips hang vertical and together. Good to know: he prefers erratic flapping that puts daylight between the strips, rather than stillness that presents them as more solid.
Some friends stop by, and we unclip the reins to showcase our cone-fetching trick. Once Gus picks up the cone, I run backward and in circles to make him follow me all over, his teeth staying firmly clamped for as long as it takes to catch up to me and flop the cone into my hand. When we stop for a minute while the humans chat, Gus nudges the cone and looks for a treat. So my friends take turns tossing it for him, and he promptly fetches it and delivers it to whichever of us holds out a hand. They’re enchanted to take the deliveries and to dispense the treats. Gus gets high marks for “plays well with others.”____________________________________
For a reward, I take him outside the ring to graze on the fast-sprouting spring grass. Standing next to him, I fall into almost as deep a zone of relaxation as he’s in. He occasionally takes one or two steps forward — never lifting his muzzle from the ground, lest he miss a morsel on the way — to reach another patch of lawn.
When Gus finds some very lush, wide-bladed grasses, I remember that too much rich grass can be harmful to horses if they aren’t used to it after the winter. I give him only a minute or two of chomping the big blades before I take up the lead line and ask him to come along. He does briefly, but then YANK! goes his head, I have to let go of the rope and fling it over his back so he won’t step on it, and he canters away, looking for more good eats behind a barn. Sigh . . .
I walk around and meet him, gather the rope again, and cross my fingers. I swivel and lift the rope near his halter to raise his head, and I use my maitre d’ arm gestures to invite him forward with me. And along he comes like such a good boy! I click and treat a couple of times as we make our way back to his paddock, and he walks right in.
No comments:
Post a Comment