Today I bring a totebag of random objects and junk to the barn. I’m following Alex’s suggestion for accustoming Gus to pretty much everything under the sun, including his nemesis, flyspray. Rummaging in my closets netted a foldable auto-open umbrella, a 5-foot-long strip of brass that was a threshold between a carpeted and a tiled floor and is now folded and floppy, and a plastic pistol-grip grab-stick whose pincer is the jaws of a dinosaur.
Given the persistent April showers, Gus is wearing a rainsheet in his paddock, leaving his uncovered head and neck sopping wet. When I remove the sheet and he rolls in the arena, he becomes Tempura Donkey, coated in a thick crust of mud from nose to ears to shoulders. He doesn’t care, and he’s eager for entertainment. After we walk around a bit and stand on the pedestal, I scatter the doohickeys and thingamajigs on the arena floor, and he’s immediately curious.
First he approaches the furled and folded umbrella. I hold it up for him to touch, and he doesn’t hesitate. Click and treat. I extend its handle, and it’s still fine. I slowly open it into its wide bell shape, and it’s still fine. I can twirl it and wave it in front of him, and I can hold it over his head, no problem; these are all just easy ways to get clicks and treats. If I try to bring it near his flank or rump, however, it’s decidedly not okay: he keeps circling his hind end away from it. He insists on facing it head-on so it can’t pounce on him from behind. I keep it in front of him, and now I let it whoof open — not in a big burst, but it's sudden enough to make him throw his head back and his ears foward. His eyes are bugging out a bit, but he reaches his neck out to it, and stretches out his upper lip, and taps it quickly. Big click and treat for that. When I walk forward with it, he comes along and touches it again. I half-close it and let it half-pop open again, sparking the same startle response, followed by a gingerly touch. Every time it goes “Whoof!” he goes “Yikes!” So now I close it up for an easy touch, and we set it aside.
We make one circuit of the arena by way of palate cleansing, and then we check out the empty totebag. He gets rewarded for putting his nose down to it, and then he tries picking it up in his teeth. Big reward! But next he only looks at it, so I cue him with “Pick it up” (as for fetching the dog toy or pompom) and he promptly does and hands it to me. Peppermint! Next I spread the bag flat (tucking the handles inside to avoid any trip hazard) and tell him “Mat!” and he readily puts one hoof on it. I have him hand it to me again, and I rub it on his flanks and belly and head — all good.
After another little stroll and breather, we approach the long, zigzag-folded metal strip. This piques his suspicious attention from a distance. When I pick it up, and he sees it woogle and waggle in my hand, he takes one step back. When I drop it and he hears its springy, zhingy sound as it lands, he takes two steps back. This is something very much not of his world. Judging from his expression, I doubt that he’ll get anywhere near it. But I pick it up and hold it still and wait. In less than 10 seconds, he walks forward and gives it a hasty flick of his lip. Big treat! Soon he’s able to touch it more solidly and to touch various angles and arms of it. He tries touching my hand that’s holding it, but he gets no click for that dodge, so he screws his courage to the sticking-place and touches the actual thing again. I can hold it up high over his head, but I can’t bring it around to his side or hind end. No surprise there. I drop it on the ground again, and I lead him in a circle, and he steps right over it without quailing. Peppermint redux.
Finally, we try the toy-dinosaur grabber stick. Gus has no problem touching it and taking it into his mouth to deliver to me. Also no problem when I touch it to his head and neck and legs and back; ditto when I use the trigger to clack its hard-plastic jaws together near and around his head. He stays cool and calm even when I make it lightly pinch his withers and comb his tail and nibble his belly. This biting dinosaur is a creampuff, especially after he’s conquered the whangy, flappy metal strip.
Sandy has a toy piano keyboard, pool noodles, and other oddments that I’ll add to our repertoire for future junkyard experiments. And at some point, I’ll sneak the flyspray squirt-bottle into the mix -- shhh . . .
