Another clinic day with clicker-dressage expert Alex Kurland, and while lots of lessons are learned and progress made by six humans and seven equines, for me the banner headline of the day is that Gus is declared a bona fide dressage donkey.
After auditing last month’s clinic, I’ve been working with Gus on the main lesson of that day, shoulder yielding — at least in a rudimentary, ballpark sort of way. And he’s catching on quickly and enjoying it. But I know my cueing needs a lot of refining, so that’s what Alex offers us. She confirms my fear of shoving him into a stiff or unbalanced shoulder-yield, and she steps us back to a preparatory exercise focused on the tiniest, subtlest little gives of the neck.
The cue is the same — sliding down the inside rein and taking it up just a little, while using my “minuet hand” to touch or brace his shoulder if it starts to fall into the circle — but the goal is only a teensy softening of jaw and neck, a hint of releasing, a soupçon of acknowledgment. All without any loss of energy or ground-speed as he continues walking along. I peer intently at the faint vertical wrinkle behind his jaw, and the instant I see a little increase of crease, I drop the rein and click, following up with a treat.
And doesn’t Gus turn out to be a champ? Alex praises the quality of his walk, his responsiveness, and the lightness with which he carries himself. She notes how much those are improved since she saw him a couple of months ago. And she reassures me that I'm clicking at the correct moments.
I mention my distant hope that I could joshingly call him a dressage donkey one day, and she replies that he already is one. She figures he’s executing elementary dressage movement as adroitly as any equine classmate. I am one proud auntie, trainer, and partner.
We practice this detailed exercise around and around in circles, and Gus only loses focus once or twice, upon which I walk him off the circle briefly and then return. After close to an hour I end the lesson (with internal fanfares and confetti), but Gus refuses to exit the arena. No wonder, given the quantity of clicks and treats he was earning, plus the limelight shed by his human spectators, plus his knowledge that some other equine will soon take his place and get all the fun. I haul and cajole, but he plants his feet and leans back. Finally, Sandy shoos him from the rear, and I wrestle him out the door. He cooperates nicely once we leave the arena behind, and I strew imaginary palm leaves in his path on the way back to his stall.
After auditing last month’s clinic, I’ve been working with Gus on the main lesson of that day, shoulder yielding — at least in a rudimentary, ballpark sort of way. And he’s catching on quickly and enjoying it. But I know my cueing needs a lot of refining, so that’s what Alex offers us. She confirms my fear of shoving him into a stiff or unbalanced shoulder-yield, and she steps us back to a preparatory exercise focused on the tiniest, subtlest little gives of the neck.
The cue is the same — sliding down the inside rein and taking it up just a little, while using my “minuet hand” to touch or brace his shoulder if it starts to fall into the circle — but the goal is only a teensy softening of jaw and neck, a hint of releasing, a soupçon of acknowledgment. All without any loss of energy or ground-speed as he continues walking along. I peer intently at the faint vertical wrinkle behind his jaw, and the instant I see a little increase of crease, I drop the rein and click, following up with a treat.
And doesn’t Gus turn out to be a champ? Alex praises the quality of his walk, his responsiveness, and the lightness with which he carries himself. She notes how much those are improved since she saw him a couple of months ago. And she reassures me that I'm clicking at the correct moments.
I mention my distant hope that I could joshingly call him a dressage donkey one day, and she replies that he already is one. She figures he’s executing elementary dressage movement as adroitly as any equine classmate. I am one proud auntie, trainer, and partner.
We practice this detailed exercise around and around in circles, and Gus only loses focus once or twice, upon which I walk him off the circle briefly and then return. After close to an hour I end the lesson (with internal fanfares and confetti), but Gus refuses to exit the arena. No wonder, given the quantity of clicks and treats he was earning, plus the limelight shed by his human spectators, plus his knowledge that some other equine will soon take his place and get all the fun. I haul and cajole, but he plants his feet and leans back. Finally, Sandy shoos him from the rear, and I wrestle him out the door. He cooperates nicely once we leave the arena behind, and I strew imaginary palm leaves in his path on the way back to his stall.
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