Soaking Gus’s feet turns out to be suprisingly easy and surprisingly difficult. We heat water in an electric kettle and mix it with cold water from the spigot, and we add a big squirt of iodine. We start with a small, shallow, rubber feed tub and do one hoof at a time. Sandy hunkers down in the shavings of the stall floor, slides the bucket into position near his feet, asks him to pick up his foot as if she were going to pick the hoof, and then sets the foot down in the bucket. Slowly. Gently. Sneakily. All the while, I’m clicking and treating for his cooperation.
While he stands there foot-bucketed, Sandy massages his legs and I play “the grownups are talking.” I give the hands-clasped cue, and the moment he turns his face away a bit, I click and treat. We start by repeating this at a rate of one treat per second for at least half a minute. Then we slow down only slightly for the next 15 minutes or so. Gus stands like a rock the whole time, as long as I keep playing the game with frequent clicks and treats. Then we soak the other foot, for almost as long. Can you say “teeeedious”?
Today we use a much wider tub that can accommodate both front feet together. I try to save Sandy’s time by handling the job myself, and soon I wish I hadn’t. Kneeling in the stall and maneuvering the wide, floppy bucket, I accidentally slop some of the solution onto Gus’s fresh bed of shavings. Then I struggle to maneuver one foot into the bucket, while handing treats up to his mouth from my position at his feet. When I place his right foot in, he stands like a good soldier, but as soon as I touch his left foot to the water, he pops backward, catching the lip of the bucket with his heel and spilling most of the remaining contents. Annoyed and wet-ankled, he retreats to the far corner of his stall. I retreat to the electric kettle to start the hell over.
More cajoling and gentling, more sudden hoof withdrawals, and I throw in the (sodden, orange-stained) towel. I ask Sandy to help. She explains that Gus is unaccountably fussy about his left foot, so that’s the one to put into the tub first. Sure enough, once the left settles in, adding the right is no problem (for her, anyway), and she leaves me to finish the treatment. After approximately 6,287 iterations of “grownups,” Gus lowers his head and holds it down for a beat. It’s an old trick that Sandy taught him years ago and I’ve almost never used, but once I tumble to what he’s doing, I click and treat for it. Now we play “head down” another 793 times. Hey, whatever keeps him stationary and soaking . . .
Because Sandy and I think it’s working, killing the white-line microbes. We agree that Gus is now walking normally (without any doses of bute) and acting like his usual ornery self. I think I notice something a bit stiff or ginger when he plants his front feet on a wooden mat or on the pedestal. And I’m pretty sure he’s still slightly ouchy when he weights his front end to execute a turn with his hind feet. But in general, I’d rate his ambulatory comfort as 80 to 90 percent improved.
That’s a big yay for him. And a relief for us too, as we hope just a couple more scramble-and-soak sessions might effect a full cure.
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