In disaster-assessment mode immediately after the cart crash, Sandy and I blame ourselves. We shouldn’t’ve assumed the best-case scenario, in which Gus remembers the enjoyable aspects of pulling the trap and is Just Fine with doing it again. We should’ve predicated our training on the worst case, in which his memories of pulling the trap have faded except for the past episode of terrifying calamity. In that frame of mind, we’d begin by clicking and treating Gus for staying near the trap while we jostle it a tiny bit. And for hearing it rattle as we pull it around. And for hearing it while his back is turned on it. Later we’d manoever him near the shafts, immediately click and treat, and lead him away to safety. We’d manoever him near again, have him wait one second, click and treat, and lead him away again. We’d rest the shafts on his surcingle rings and then promptly remove them. The most we’d accomplish, and it would be a crowning glory, would be to have him to take one or two steps forward with the cart. Then we’d celebrate with a peppermint, unhitch him, and let him play fetch.
But now we’ve got on our hands a donkey who’s well and truly spooked. And who, in a way, succeeded in escaping by means of running amok in the most dangerous fashion. We need to get that taste out of his mouth and cover up that memory with a lot more positive and pleasant experiences.
First Sandy hopes that Gus might assent to being rehitched, so we try bringing the cart behind him. Even at a distance, and no matter how rapidly and repeatedly we click and treat, he jigs and spins his hips away every time. He insists on facing the menace head-on — perfectly natural. Next she leads him between the shafts head-first, and he’s quite willing to make that approach. Next she leads him across the shafts sideways, as if they’re ground poles, and he’s quite willing to step over them calmly. But when she turns his back to the cart, he’s still not at all willing. So: the cart is tolerable when it’s stationary and visible.
Now she takes a Gus-rein in one hand and a cart-shaft in the other hand and walks forward. She allows him a long rein, to let him put space between himself and the trap. His body is tense; his ears move constantly, like ground-control signallers at a very busy airport; and he gives that rattletrap plenty of sideways hairy eyeball. But he manages to walk along, with the trap rolling just on Sandy’s other side. So: the cart is now tolerable when it’s moving and visible.
These are much better outcomes than white-hot panic and emergency extraction.
We set down the cart in the far corner of the arena, and I take Gus outside for some grazing. He tucks in with gusto and relief, never raising his head from chewing and swallowing, chewing and swallowing. After 15 minutes, we go into his stall for dinner — more oral gratification. After gobbling his grain, he avidly browses his hay. These are basically the equine equivalents of a carton of ice cream and a spoon.
Now that Gus’s last two experiences with the cart have ended in cataclysm, we’re definitely behind an eight-ball. His powers of recollection are strong. Yet so are his resilience and courage. Each time I visit from now on, I can ask him to touch the cart and stand near it and hear it rattle, all in brief sessions and tiny increments. Maybe that way we can work our way back to hitching up and driving with confidence and relaxation. Eventually.
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