As the weather has warmed, Gus’s agreeability has cooled. These days his only interest is in cropping the fresh green grass, all the time, no matter what. Games and treats and walking together and ear scrubs? Meh, he says; outta my way, I’m going grazing.
Today in the indoor arena, he pretty much blows me off whenever possible. As he lowers his head to pick up a cone or a ball, he catches a whiff of something far more interesting and runs his nose over every millimeter of arena dirt in the general vicinity.
Even when we walk along together, with lots of direction changes to keep his interest, I lose his interest. He plods slowly, rubbernecking and air-scenting rather than focusing on me. We walk from wooden mat to wooden mat, and at least he willingly keeps his nose off the ground. But he also willingly quits when it’s time to end our session.
I bring him out of the arena, and he peremptorily cranks his neck and barges away from me, to the very patch of grass I’d thought of leading him to. Little Caesar. I brush the mud off his neck and legs while he grazes, but he’s so greedily ripping into the grass that he can’t be bothered to lift a foot for me to pick out his hooves. Ingrate. I soothe my savage breast by watching how the breeze riffles his long fur like a Nebraska wheat field.
After 20 gluttonous minutes, I suggest we repair to his paddock, but he pulls away again and trots off, taking his pissy attitude with him. Over the next 20 minutes, he gets away from me five (5) more times. Each time I regain his lead rope, he walks along with me for a brief distance, but then YANK! and he saunters onto the barn owner’s forbidden lawn, or runs along the geldings’ paddock fence to lure them over to graze alongside him, or trots down the driveway closer and closer to the gate at the busy, 45-mph road. I don’t want Gus hit by a truck, but I want very much to kick his sassy ass. Trip to the moon: Pow! Zoom!!
Truth is, I know from disappointing experience that resistance is futile. I can punish him with a really hard, two-handed jerk on his lead line, and he’ll act chastised and demure for about 30 seconds. But after that, I’ve got no bigger guns in my arsenal, and I haven’t disarmed his own battery of weight, muscle, and cussedness. I’ve shot my wad, and he knows it.
I sit crosslegged in the driveway, hoping his curiosity will draw him toward me. But Barbara reminds me that I need to follow and stay near him in case a car arrives and opens the gate. Fine, I’ll stand there impotently, while he stands there imperiously and fills his idiot belly. A car does enter, and I nudge him off to the edge of the driveway. He’s so grass-crazed that he barely notices.
Eventually, I manage to redirect his escapades closer to the barns. I get him to walk into the barn that isn’t where his stall is, and I bung him into an available stall, which happens to belong to a spectacular, 17-hand thoroughbred who’s out in the pasture for now. Sated and exercised and triumphant, Gus now dozes contentedly, as if dreaming sweet delusions of thoroughbred grandeur. The incongruity of that majestic thoroughbred’s nametag next to Gus’s lowly donkey-snout does make me laugh.
I still want to punch his lights out. Which would only fracture my knuckles. Damn donkey wins every time.
Today in the indoor arena, he pretty much blows me off whenever possible. As he lowers his head to pick up a cone or a ball, he catches a whiff of something far more interesting and runs his nose over every millimeter of arena dirt in the general vicinity.
Even when we walk along together, with lots of direction changes to keep his interest, I lose his interest. He plods slowly, rubbernecking and air-scenting rather than focusing on me. We walk from wooden mat to wooden mat, and at least he willingly keeps his nose off the ground. But he also willingly quits when it’s time to end our session.
I bring him out of the arena, and he peremptorily cranks his neck and barges away from me, to the very patch of grass I’d thought of leading him to. Little Caesar. I brush the mud off his neck and legs while he grazes, but he’s so greedily ripping into the grass that he can’t be bothered to lift a foot for me to pick out his hooves. Ingrate. I soothe my savage breast by watching how the breeze riffles his long fur like a Nebraska wheat field.
After 20 gluttonous minutes, I suggest we repair to his paddock, but he pulls away again and trots off, taking his pissy attitude with him. Over the next 20 minutes, he gets away from me five (5) more times. Each time I regain his lead rope, he walks along with me for a brief distance, but then YANK! and he saunters onto the barn owner’s forbidden lawn, or runs along the geldings’ paddock fence to lure them over to graze alongside him, or trots down the driveway closer and closer to the gate at the busy, 45-mph road. I don’t want Gus hit by a truck, but I want very much to kick his sassy ass. Trip to the moon: Pow! Zoom!!
Truth is, I know from disappointing experience that resistance is futile. I can punish him with a really hard, two-handed jerk on his lead line, and he’ll act chastised and demure for about 30 seconds. But after that, I’ve got no bigger guns in my arsenal, and I haven’t disarmed his own battery of weight, muscle, and cussedness. I’ve shot my wad, and he knows it.
I sit crosslegged in the driveway, hoping his curiosity will draw him toward me. But Barbara reminds me that I need to follow and stay near him in case a car arrives and opens the gate. Fine, I’ll stand there impotently, while he stands there imperiously and fills his idiot belly. A car does enter, and I nudge him off to the edge of the driveway. He’s so grass-crazed that he barely notices.
Eventually, I manage to redirect his escapades closer to the barns. I get him to walk into the barn that isn’t where his stall is, and I bung him into an available stall, which happens to belong to a spectacular, 17-hand thoroughbred who’s out in the pasture for now. Sated and exercised and triumphant, Gus now dozes contentedly, as if dreaming sweet delusions of thoroughbred grandeur. The incongruity of that majestic thoroughbred’s nametag next to Gus’s lowly donkey-snout does make me laugh.
I still want to punch his lights out. Which would only fracture my knuckles. Damn donkey wins every time.
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