87. Sprung

Spring has begun just enough that Gus has the fever — grass greed, reefer madness — and, with it, shocking bad manners.  Under the matted, dead, yellow, dry turf he’s found a few quarter-inch shoots of fresh green grass, and he’s adamant that nothing can come between him and them.  

Two days ago, after an excellent session of dressagey work and trick performances, I took him outside to graze, and he mashed his muzzle onto the ground to tweeze up the tiny grasslets, after 15 minutes of which, he consented to be led into his stall.  Today as I bring him out of his paddock, he eyes the ground tentatively before coming along to the arena.  Once inside, he rolls luxuriously, stands up, and immediately drags me back toward the arena gate.  For months, we’ve worked in the arena day in and day out, so it’s high time for a day off; I surprise him by opening the gate and leading him straight out for grazing.  I give him a full 30 minutes of chewy indulgence.

When I lead Gus off the grass and back into his stall, he barely demurs.  But when I latch only the top part of his stall guard and turn away just to grab a brush and hoof pick, he suddenly lowers his head, crouches, and slams under the guard.  He heads for the barn door, but Sandy and Barbara happen to be standing there talking and intercept him.  I rehalter him and suggest a return to his stall.  He’s having none of it.  He surges ahead, Sandy tries to block him head-on, and he offers to plow her down in her tracks.  She sidesteps and grabs his rope, and both of us get towed out to the driveway until, with our four hands and two body weights, we manage to stop him.  Gus at full steam is so powerful that, in his effort to wrestle free of us, he actually rears a bit.  Once I get him turned back toward the barn, I begin leading him semi-forcibly while Sandy shoos him with outstretched arms, and about halfway down the barn aisle he formally surrenders and walks into his stall.

I latch the top and bottom of his stall guard (which he realizes with a thud when he tries to reprise his ducking-under escape) before I reach for his brush.  Once contained, though, he summarily mellows out, chews hay, and welcomes affection and grooming.  You’d never know this was the same madding brute that nearly trampled two strong women just a half-minute earlier.  One deep ear-scrub later, and his bottom lip is dangling in a trance of bliss.