109. Punk rampant

I open the little wooden storage box outside Gus’s stall (to stock my pocket with the regulation three peppermint candies that I allow as extra-special treats in each session) and half-notice its contents in disarray.  The bag of Buckeye-brand mini-cookies has a big hole torn in it; the two new boxes of saltine crackers are now one box and three unboxed plastic sleeves.  Hmmm . . .  

Gus comes in from the paddock eagerly and we play our games as usual.  Some dressagey walking and halting and backing up.  Some leg lifts with head-down, on our way to learning take-a-bow.  Some horn honking and keyboard playing.  Some pedestal standing and pompom waving.  All copacetic.

Also copacetic, when grazing time is up, Gus cranks his neck and resists only briefly before consenting to be led off the lawn and into his stall.  I assure him that it’s dinnertime, and he marches right to his feed bucket, where, sure enough, his token tablespoonful of grain is waiting.

Sandy is waiting too, to explain about the brushbox.  It seems that yesterday, Donkey Demento escaped from his stall (maybe she didn’t fully latch the bottom hook, allowing him to scootch under his stall guard) and launched a daylight raid.  Finding the box’s hasp secured, he resorted to the simple expedient of breaking a hinge off the lid to get at the treasures within.  After spilling everything out, ripping into the treat bag and the cracker boxes, failing to pry open the peppermint tub, and strewing some brushes and ointment tubes here and there, he made a good start on his neighbors’ boxes as well.

When humans discovered the barn aisle looking like a looted supermarket, Sandy says, she wasn’t surprised at the mess, only at the quietness with which it had been perpetrated.  Gus’s style is more raucous vandal than cat burglar, but this time he wreaked his havoc without raising any ruckus at all.

I bring a couple of screws and a screwdriver, fix the box lid, and assess the losses.  I calculate that Gus scored one whole sleeve of saltines and three handfuls of Buckeye treats.  He’s done worse — once, I’m told, he stole several full-size horse dinners — and with no ill effects.  When you have a mischievous mouth, you better have a cast-iron stomach, and he has both.