A hot, humid day and the still-furry Gus has been braising in his pasture, where the trees aren’t yet leafed out enough to cast much shade. He’s happy to accompany me into the dim, cool arena.
We practice our walking in unison, and he gets into the groove nicely. I use my maitre d' gestures (I still feel a tad ridiculous making them, but I can’t argue with the results) to cue our turns, and soon we're a pair. The more our footfalls sync up, the more his neck relaxes and his head sways (and his lower lip dangles) as he plods along rhythmically.
Next he gamely fetches the traffic cone and brings it the whole width of the arena to place it in my hand; he also carries it onto the pedestal with brio. We walk from wooden mat to wooden mat, where he practices standing, square and firm and patient, until I invite him to move on. When the treats are gone, he comes compliantly into his stall for grooming and hoof-picking. He’s as sweet as sugar.
Now I rig up his over-and-under lead rope and take him out for some grazing around the paths and paddock edges. He bulls his way forward more than I appreciate, but I manage to insist that he graze only where I want him to. For 20 minutes, he tears up and sucks in grass like a high-powered Electrolux.
When I ask him to come away, of course he refuses, and we engage in the customary tugs of war and sumo matches. But as it did last time, the cinching action of the lead rope around his halter now gives me a fighting chance. When I let out too much rope and he pulls to run away, that seems to give me more leverage, rather than less: his muzzle gets squeezed harder as the distance between us widens. When I keep the rope short — for frog-marching him forward — and he counters by plowing into me bodily, a yank or two pinches his nose enough to make him stop. He can drag and barge and twist and shove, but as long as I struggle back, he can’t wrest the rope out of my hand
Today, for the first time ever, he tries repeatedly but doesn’t escape even once. His whole world-view may be shaken and reeling. He might lose his marbles. He might spiral into donkey depression. He might need relationship counseling.
Or probably not. He’s almost theatrically indignant as we make our ugly way back to his paddock. But he seems unbowed as I remove his halter and scratch his face where the straps were. He even deigns to play a little I-step-you-step with me, and I give him a final treat and pat-pat as I leave.
We practice our walking in unison, and he gets into the groove nicely. I use my maitre d' gestures (I still feel a tad ridiculous making them, but I can’t argue with the results) to cue our turns, and soon we're a pair. The more our footfalls sync up, the more his neck relaxes and his head sways (and his lower lip dangles) as he plods along rhythmically.
Next he gamely fetches the traffic cone and brings it the whole width of the arena to place it in my hand; he also carries it onto the pedestal with brio. We walk from wooden mat to wooden mat, where he practices standing, square and firm and patient, until I invite him to move on. When the treats are gone, he comes compliantly into his stall for grooming and hoof-picking. He’s as sweet as sugar.
Now I rig up his over-and-under lead rope and take him out for some grazing around the paths and paddock edges. He bulls his way forward more than I appreciate, but I manage to insist that he graze only where I want him to. For 20 minutes, he tears up and sucks in grass like a high-powered Electrolux.
When I ask him to come away, of course he refuses, and we engage in the customary tugs of war and sumo matches. But as it did last time, the cinching action of the lead rope around his halter now gives me a fighting chance. When I let out too much rope and he pulls to run away, that seems to give me more leverage, rather than less: his muzzle gets squeezed harder as the distance between us widens. When I keep the rope short — for frog-marching him forward — and he counters by plowing into me bodily, a yank or two pinches his nose enough to make him stop. He can drag and barge and twist and shove, but as long as I struggle back, he can’t wrest the rope out of my hand
Today, for the first time ever, he tries repeatedly but doesn’t escape even once. His whole world-view may be shaken and reeling. He might lose his marbles. He might spiral into donkey depression. He might need relationship counseling.
Or probably not. He’s almost theatrically indignant as we make our ugly way back to his paddock. But he seems unbowed as I remove his halter and scratch his face where the straps were. He even deigns to play a little I-step-you-step with me, and I give him a final treat and pat-pat as I leave.
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