117. Nap time

Very occasionally when Gus lies down to roll, he pauses, rests his chin on the ground, and dozes.  The first time I saw this, I let him snooze for a good five minutes but then gently brandished the lunge whip to urge him back to his feet.  (I must’ve been channeling the chimneysweep in Oliver Twist who gets his child laborers unstuck from chimneys by lighting a fire, which “makes ‘em struggle to hextricate theirselves.”)  

When the paddocks are snowy and icy, lying down for a little kip just isn’t appealing; most sleeping has to be done while standing.  But when Gus is brought into the dry arena, with its floor of soft dirt and clean shavings, it must look like a gigantic fluffy bed — ju-u-ust  ri-i-ight for going horizontal and taking his ease.

Today, once again eager to get naked and luxuriate in the dirt, he can barely wait for me to unbuckle and remove his winter blanket.  He sniffs a bit, wanders a bit, circles quickly, and crumples down for a nice, scritchy roll. After scootching onto each side and scrubbing his back, he lingers on his belly, groans, and parks his chin.  He doesn’t budge.  His eyelids sag.  He looks so comfy (and reliably stationary) that I sink down beside him and rub his ears.

Equids don’t always trust humans to get too near when they’re on the ground.  It’s a vulnerable position, rising from which is a ponderous, two-part procedure:  first, they thrust their front feet forward, out from under their chests, and push up onto them, and then they lunge forward with their heads and necks to haul their rear ends up.  It’s a big effort and its footprint isn’t small — this ungainly transition for the large animal is also distinctly unsafe for any smaller creature in the vicinity.  But I’m pretty familiar with Gus’s rolling and rising, and I can tell that right now he doesn’t intend to go anywhere for awhile.  So I kneel down with him, exhaling voluptuously to mark our mutual relaxation, and we have a Special Moment. At least it’s special for me, as I feel honored by his trust and gratified to affirm a certain level of intimacy in our relationship.

After maybe ten minutes — and only after another horse and handler enter the arena — Gus decides his nap time is over.  Seeing it coming, I stand up and step aside, but not fast enough: my foot gets a glancing blow from one of his flying hooves.  It hurts a bit, but it’s worth it to have shared a little recumbent togetherness there in the dirt.