Donkeys are both spunky and spooky, using skills of fight and flight much more equally than horses, who are top contenders for the barnyard freestyle fleeing championship year in and year out. Donkeys share — or even surpass — horses’ vigilance toward potential dangers, and they’ll jump, spin, and gallop away in violent panic at the drop of a hat. But donkeys also evaluate threats with more confidence: where horses foresee victimhood, donkeys may envision victory. Donkeys are used as guardians of other animals, and indeed they’ve been known to beat, crush, and bite to death such predators as coyotes and bobcats.
So why is Gus terrified by mist sprayers? Horses tend to be anxious about them too at first, but they soon learn to tolerate them. Not Gus. Let him hear the faint hiss of a spray bottle, and instantly his eyes pop wide, his ears shoot up, and his feets don’t fail him. Sandy has tried to apply, say, wound-healing spray or fly-repellent spray, only to send Gus crashing into a wall or busting through a gate. I’m not a big believer in fly spray — its toxicity seems to outweigh the short-lived, partial relief it can provide — but every summer Gus is such a martyr to biting flies that I’d like to at least consider spritzing him during the buggiest days. Of course, there are wipe-on repellents too, which just take more time to apply. And even more time with Gus, who’s gravely offended by any scents other than horse food and horse poop. For him smelly ointments and liquids are only slightly less alarming and objectionable than those infernal spritzes.
Accordingly, I’ve embarked on a program of de-mistification. Gus will gladly touch the proffered spray bottle in return for a click and treat, but if I bring it near his neck or flank — as if I might actually squeeze the trigger — he scoots away in panic. Since he’s fine with it in front of him, I keep it there but I do spray it, just once and aiming away from him. I don’t think he can even see the mist, but he hears it go “fffffft” ever so softly. He backs away and stares in horror. I stand still and silent, eyes averted. After a good 30 seconds, he stre-e-e-etches his neck toward the bottle, but then pulls back. I never budge. After another 15 seconds, he takes one gingerly step forward and reaches out to barely touch the bottle. Click! We repeat this spray-then-wait practice until he touches the bottle pretty promptly and calmly after each squirt. Next I offer him the bottle and, as he touches it, I hold it steady but squeeze the trigger for half a second. Again, this takes several repeats until he can bear to touch the base of the bottle while the business end is misting Right Near his Face. Oh, the slings and arrows he must endure just for a morsel of carrot and a scrap of approval . . .
I’m guardedly optimistic that we can cure Gus’s spritzaphobia, but I know it’ll take a lot more practice. It’s hardly the fun fair of pushing the baby pram, but he’s just as persistent and willing, in his way. And that unsinkable gameness keeps me from giving up either.
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