I’m in the throes of selling one house and buying another, both of them fixer-uppers with olfactory evidence of long-resident pets. To let realtors bring in prospective buyers for my old house, I’ve got to vacuum the ankle-deep tumbleweeds of dog hair that develop overnight, launder or hide or spray nasty extra-strength Febreze onto the throws and sheets that cover my furniture and reek of pond-swimming dog, ditto for the two dog beds and big crate that are also favorite canine resting spots, then load my car with my own dog and often one or two or three visiting dogs, and flee the premises for the 30 or 60 minutes of each realtor’s showing. I’ve had about 20 showings in the past few weeks.
In exile from one dinnertime showing, I drove a quarter of a block down the street to a florist’s parking lot, where I set up shop to return three different day-care dogs to their three different owners. Dealing dogs from the back of one car to the back of another cannot have looked very kosher to my neighbors . . .
Meanwhile, I’ve been working overtime at my new house, to paint walls and remove carpet and clean windows and fight leftover litterbox stench, in between meetings with tree surgeons, carpenters, septic-system excavators, electricians, well-water inspectors, fence installers, and Habitat for Humanity donation takers.
All of which means I’m struggling to continue my every-other-day schedule with Gus the donkey. Today, not only has Gus languished unentertained for three straight days, but it’s poured chilly rain for 24 hours so he’s been stuck in his stall. When I show up, he’s so impatient that he nearly bursts through his stall guard. In the arena, he gets down to business by rolling in the dirt at least six or eight times on each side. Then he jumps up and mugs me for treats. I take advantage of his intense focus to do some at-liberty work: I unsnap his lead line and get him to walk along with me in circles and loops and halts. Poor thing is so starved for treats as well as attention that he sticks by me eagerly.
He’s still antsy and feisty, so I focus on lively, determined walking, and very quickly he starts trotting. I trot along, clicking and treating after several paces so I can catch my breath — but, without finishing chewing, off he goes again, trotting me around and around without mercy. I use our matching-paces practice to slow my walk in hopes of influencing Gus to slow down too. It works a little, but soon I change our focus to games and tricks.
He jumps onto the big pedestal, and before I even ask he’s pirouetting around it fast. Next I tip over the 50-gallon drum: though we haven’t played barrel-roll in many weeks, he remembers that pushing his nose on the center of it, not near the ends, is the way to get the click. Now we resume some walking, this time around the big circle and emphasizing self-carriage and shoulder-yielding. He gets so limber and light doing this that he transitions almost imperceptibly into a trot again. As I trot with him, I extend my arms and he keeps his pace and distance from me very consistent. I click and treat for that, and I think, Oh, boy, we might be ready for actual lungeing -- sending him around in a big circle with me standing at the center. Aping our lead-line trotting, my back hand would hold the whip toward his hip or shoulder and my front hand would hold the long lunge line toward his nose. He could trot all he likes, without wearing me out trying to keep up.
Still full of piss and vinegar, Gus notices the toy basketball hoop. I toss the ball for him, and he busts a trot to retrieve it. He whaps the ball against the backboard and bangs it on the rim a few times and then pokes it right through the net. Swish! And click! After many such vigorous dunks, I run out of treats and Gus agrees to end our session.
Back in his stall, he tucks into his hay and enjoys being groomed and even reblanketed. All our energetic work seems to have taken the edge off; now he appears content and settled for the evening. I resolve to do my very, very best to keep up our schedule, regardless of any realty or renovation crises.
In exile from one dinnertime showing, I drove a quarter of a block down the street to a florist’s parking lot, where I set up shop to return three different day-care dogs to their three different owners. Dealing dogs from the back of one car to the back of another cannot have looked very kosher to my neighbors . . .
Meanwhile, I’ve been working overtime at my new house, to paint walls and remove carpet and clean windows and fight leftover litterbox stench, in between meetings with tree surgeons, carpenters, septic-system excavators, electricians, well-water inspectors, fence installers, and Habitat for Humanity donation takers.
All of which means I’m struggling to continue my every-other-day schedule with Gus the donkey. Today, not only has Gus languished unentertained for three straight days, but it’s poured chilly rain for 24 hours so he’s been stuck in his stall. When I show up, he’s so impatient that he nearly bursts through his stall guard. In the arena, he gets down to business by rolling in the dirt at least six or eight times on each side. Then he jumps up and mugs me for treats. I take advantage of his intense focus to do some at-liberty work: I unsnap his lead line and get him to walk along with me in circles and loops and halts. Poor thing is so starved for treats as well as attention that he sticks by me eagerly.
He’s still antsy and feisty, so I focus on lively, determined walking, and very quickly he starts trotting. I trot along, clicking and treating after several paces so I can catch my breath — but, without finishing chewing, off he goes again, trotting me around and around without mercy. I use our matching-paces practice to slow my walk in hopes of influencing Gus to slow down too. It works a little, but soon I change our focus to games and tricks.
He jumps onto the big pedestal, and before I even ask he’s pirouetting around it fast. Next I tip over the 50-gallon drum: though we haven’t played barrel-roll in many weeks, he remembers that pushing his nose on the center of it, not near the ends, is the way to get the click. Now we resume some walking, this time around the big circle and emphasizing self-carriage and shoulder-yielding. He gets so limber and light doing this that he transitions almost imperceptibly into a trot again. As I trot with him, I extend my arms and he keeps his pace and distance from me very consistent. I click and treat for that, and I think, Oh, boy, we might be ready for actual lungeing -- sending him around in a big circle with me standing at the center. Aping our lead-line trotting, my back hand would hold the whip toward his hip or shoulder and my front hand would hold the long lunge line toward his nose. He could trot all he likes, without wearing me out trying to keep up.
Still full of piss and vinegar, Gus notices the toy basketball hoop. I toss the ball for him, and he busts a trot to retrieve it. He whaps the ball against the backboard and bangs it on the rim a few times and then pokes it right through the net. Swish! And click! After many such vigorous dunks, I run out of treats and Gus agrees to end our session.
Back in his stall, he tucks into his hay and enjoys being groomed and even reblanketed. All our energetic work seems to have taken the edge off; now he appears content and settled for the evening. I resolve to do my very, very best to keep up our schedule, regardless of any realty or renovation crises.
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