Back from my trip, I eagerly drive to the barn, where Gus commences braying before I even get out of my car. The sun is merciless, so we immediately go to the indoor arena and do almost nothing but stroll around slowly. When I get my footfalls into perfect sync with his, his whole body brightens a bit and his pace strengthens. A few good strides like that, and I click and treat. After awhile, I offer to play fetch-the-cone, but he wants to keep walking. So we do. When the treats are depleted and I take him out for grazing, he doesn’t barge or pull. And when it’s time to leave the lawn, he doesn’t balk or yaw.
Two days later, clicker guru Alexandra Kurland is on site to give lessons. As usual, Gus is indignant at being ignored amid the comings and goings in the arena near his stall. He bellows, drowning out our conversation. I step away from the lesson to fill his Bubba-keg treat dispenser with hay pellets, but that doesn’t distract him for long. Soon we hear a loud thunk and look around the corner toward his stall, in front of which we behold a tiny earthquake aftermath: his Bubba keg has rolled into the aisle, his halter and flymask are off their hooks on the ground, and his big wooden brush box has been tipped over.
I take him out, but he refuses to exit the barn and hauls me toward the arena. I’m thinking, let’s eat some grass; Gus is thinking, let’s join the party. For the first time since March or April, he’d rather not go grazing. But we can’t disrupt the horse and owner and instructor and audience absorbed in the lesson, so I quietly wrestle and cajole and insist until I finally schlep Mr. Obstreperous out the barn door and onto the grass. Still, standing amid lush turf and succulent weeds, he leans away longingly. Going to school with the other kids is better than Anything Else in the World. It's heart-breaking that his only option right now is grazing and grooming, but eventually he does get into that groove of gratification. I guide him over near the arena’s main, wide door so he can peer inside. Just onlooking is almost good enough: like the youngest sibling sent to bed while the big kids are partying downstairs, he’ll settle for a small saucer of popcorn and a chance to observe from the top step.
But a rain squall starts up and we have to return to the barn, with another struggle to pass the oh so alluring arena and enter his oh so cheerless stall. As the roar of the rain on the metal roof subsides and is replaced by Gus’s bagpipe solos, Sandy leads him out to his paddock, with the same struggles past the arena entry. Once he’s behind his gate, the intense allure of the arena as well as the decibels of his braying get slightly attenuated by distance. Blessed relief, for him and us both.
Two days later, clicker guru Alexandra Kurland is on site to give lessons. As usual, Gus is indignant at being ignored amid the comings and goings in the arena near his stall. He bellows, drowning out our conversation. I step away from the lesson to fill his Bubba-keg treat dispenser with hay pellets, but that doesn’t distract him for long. Soon we hear a loud thunk and look around the corner toward his stall, in front of which we behold a tiny earthquake aftermath: his Bubba keg has rolled into the aisle, his halter and flymask are off their hooks on the ground, and his big wooden brush box has been tipped over.
I take him out, but he refuses to exit the barn and hauls me toward the arena. I’m thinking, let’s eat some grass; Gus is thinking, let’s join the party. For the first time since March or April, he’d rather not go grazing. But we can’t disrupt the horse and owner and instructor and audience absorbed in the lesson, so I quietly wrestle and cajole and insist until I finally schlep Mr. Obstreperous out the barn door and onto the grass. Still, standing amid lush turf and succulent weeds, he leans away longingly. Going to school with the other kids is better than Anything Else in the World. It's heart-breaking that his only option right now is grazing and grooming, but eventually he does get into that groove of gratification. I guide him over near the arena’s main, wide door so he can peer inside. Just onlooking is almost good enough: like the youngest sibling sent to bed while the big kids are partying downstairs, he’ll settle for a small saucer of popcorn and a chance to observe from the top step.But a rain squall starts up and we have to return to the barn, with another struggle to pass the oh so alluring arena and enter his oh so cheerless stall. As the roar of the rain on the metal roof subsides and is replaced by Gus’s bagpipe solos, Sandy leads him out to his paddock, with the same struggles past the arena entry. Once he’s behind his gate, the intense allure of the arena as well as the decibels of his braying get slightly attenuated by distance. Blessed relief, for him and us both.
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