Despite Gus’s lofty level of education and acculturation and etiquette, mostly he operates on the principle that might makes right. And when he puts his shoulder to it, he’s mightier than nearly any obstacle he encounters.
Today, for the umpteenth time, he breaks the leash-hook-style snap that secures the barrier across his stall door. The stall guard is a thick, weighty square of rubbery plastic; at its four corners, it attaches by metal chains and snaps to heavy-duty eyelets screwed into the door jambs of his oak-plank stall. Only it’s pretty regularly not attached, because if he wants out he has only to lean hard and either break a snap or uproot an eyelet. His escape plan is not so much a strategy as a tactical nuclear warhead.
 |
| The snapped snap . . . and a closeup of the break |
Gus’s humans have applied their best barn technology. His is an especially heavy-duty stall guard; most of the horses are kept in by just a thick plasticized rope, like the crowd-control ropes that usher people into queues at cinemas or airports. And he has one of those too, which we can add on top of the bigger stall guard, but it serves merely to delay him a bit when he decides to make a break for it. The only sure way to keep Gus incarcerated is to hook up both stall guards and then shut the full, oaken door and slide home its finger-thick bolt.
Thing is, the vertically challenged Gus can’t hang his head over his door and kibbitz in the barn aisle the way the horses can: stall doors are chest-high to horses but eye-high to a donkey. For Gus a closed door is far more isolating than it is for his stablemates. So we make sure to support his psychosocial well-being by giving him some time with his door open and just a stall guard to contain him. Which is why barn-manager Sandy is shopping for yet another bulk consignment of those big leash snaps.
No comments:
Post a Comment