With biting flies trying to eat Gus alive, he has several patches of tiny scabs on him. We rub them with Swat, a wound salve that contains insect repellents (along with hot-pink dye, persumably to show humans which areas they’ve already smeared), but Swat’s soothing properties seem less powerful than its dirt-attractant properties. Gus could really use a bath.
In the past, Sandy says, he’s thrown tantrums to avoid being bathed. So I embark on a program of desensitizing, starting with a small wad of paper towel and an inch of water in a little tray. I dip my hand and let him taste the water on my fingers. Now I dip the paper towel and let him touch that, and I click and treat. I touch his shoulder with the soaked but wrung-out paper, and he doesn’t react, so I click and treat. I wipe his flank, and his leg, and his face, and I click and treat each time. Easy peasy. The next day I use a small bucket and sponge, and the same slow and clickery approach.
And on the third time I use a large sponge and lots of water. [Full video here; installments below. As Gus touches the sponge, I squeeze it, sending water splashing into the bucket. He points both ears hard forward, fixing the whole setup with a suspicious eye, but he doesn’t budge. Click! As I wipe the wet sponge on his shoulder and belly and legs, he freezes but doesn’t flinch, earning more clicks.
When he gets fed up and contemplates an exit, I walk him around a bit. And I give him a break (following the advice of “horse speak” author Sharon Wilsie) by lowering my head and heaving a big sigh, and he lowers his head with me. When I sponge the center of his back, he bends his hind legs to drop and arch his back, but he doesn’t budge his feet, so he gets more clicks. I sponge his chest and front legs, letting water drip down around his hooves. I wipe his ears and face, even the insides of his thighs, where the cooling seems especially welcome.
All in all, we spend about 20 minutes suffering the wiping and splashing, and offering the touching and standing quietly. He never gets 100% comfortable with the wet sponge, but it’s abundantly evident that clicks and treats make the medicine go dow-own in a most delightful way.
And on the third time I use a large sponge and lots of water. [Full video here; installments below. As Gus touches the sponge, I squeeze it, sending water splashing into the bucket. He points both ears hard forward, fixing the whole setup with a suspicious eye, but he doesn’t budge. Click! As I wipe the wet sponge on his shoulder and belly and legs, he freezes but doesn’t flinch, earning more clicks.
When he gets fed up and contemplates an exit, I walk him around a bit. And I give him a break (following the advice of “horse speak” author Sharon Wilsie) by lowering my head and heaving a big sigh, and he lowers his head with me. When I sponge the center of his back, he bends his hind legs to drop and arch his back, but he doesn’t budge his feet, so he gets more clicks. I sponge his chest and front legs, letting water drip down around his hooves. I wipe his ears and face, even the insides of his thighs, where the cooling seems especially welcome.
All in all, we spend about 20 minutes suffering the wiping and splashing, and offering the touching and standing quietly. He never gets 100% comfortable with the wet sponge, but it’s abundantly evident that clicks and treats make the medicine go dow-own in a most delightful way.
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