Thanks to an impromptu lesson from barn-manager Sandy (a natural expert at human-horse body communication) and some diligent concentration on my positioning, Gus and I are already doing better at lungeing. Today, we get some really good walk and trot in both directions — and with less futzing and kerfuffle, as I’m able to send him, and mostly keep him, both far enough away from me and traveling forward around the circle. The key is to aim the lunge whip toward his hip to encourage forward movement and toward his shoulder to encourage distance from me. But the trick is to notice when he’s just even thinking about slowing or drifting inward, and to adjust the whip position that very instant. By moving the whip early and often, I keep him circling fairly consistently.
And by clicking for just a half-circle or so of good work, I can reinforce the correct lungeing and — just as importantly — I can forestall our slipping into ugly, confused, lurching, insistent, discombobulated, half-assed lungeing.
After our modest success on the lunge line, I unclip the lead and let Gus work at liberty. From last month’s dressage-clicker lesson with Alex Kurland, a square of PVC pipes and traffic cones is set up in the arena. At each corner, just outside the structure, a wooden mat beckons. Gus remembers the lesson, and anyway he loves the interesting impedimenta (which he only bops and topples a tiny bit), so we play with it. I walk just inside the pipes, and he walks alongside me but just outside them. I do the maitre d’ hand gesture — and lately Alex has us using more of the hand that’s near the equine’s hip than the hand near his head, so as to drive him from behind rather than only luring him from in front — and Gus eagerly walks to the mat and plants his front feet. At the corners where a turn will follow, my arms continue to direct for a moment, until he pivots in place. He gets a click and treat for stopping on the mat, for pivoting, and for staying patiently on the mat when I fold my hands to cue "the-grownups-are-talking(-so-just-wait-politely)." Then, from my rear arm, a subtle traffic-cop hand wave suffices to send him forward, while my maitre d’ arm indicates the way ahead.
The dance-partnering quality of the exercise kinda grows on both of us. Soon Gus is striding energetically from mat to mat, and before I know it he’s trotting — and eating it up with a spoon. He tosses his head high as he trots off, then lowers it to his knees and tosses it again as he approaches the next mat, where he slams on the brakes with a glinty eye. If donkeys could grin from ear to ear, he’d be doing it. I let him trot and stop, trot and stop, a few times around the square. Then I try changing our direction of travel, but that seems to ruin the mood. He won’t trot, even if I ask and urge. He does walk purposefully from mat to mat, but the game has lost its goofiness and glee. I move him over to the pedestal for some pirouettes, and I run out of treats.
As I lead him from the arena, he balks and won’t come along toward his stall. The barn doors are closed, and grazing is out of the question in the snow-covered outdoors; there’s no place to go. Except back to the arena, which is clearly Gus’s vote. But without more treats, that’s a nonstarter. So I ask and cajole and prod and pull, all in vain. Luckily, our shared bucket of autumn apples still has a few little seconds in it, and when I offer one to Gus, he follows me for it. Sour and hard and rusty it may be, but he seems to savor each mouthful. I know it’s a piss-poor substitute for more game-playing and apron treats, but he makes do. Like the loyal partner that he is.
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