157. VIDEO: Going postal

Today I introduce Gus to a brand-new trick: pull open the mailbox door, place an envelope in it, shut the door, and raise the little red flag on the side.  It’s a common dog (and squirrel?) trick, so I have every confidence that Gus can master it in no time.  Like his push-the-baby-carriage-then-remove-the-toy-and-carry-it-onto-the-pedestal-then-wave-it-up-and-down, this one is a chain of several behaviors.  But this one doesn’t include any previously established tricks like the pedestal and the waving of objects.  This one requires finer motor skills too.  So we start small.

First I show him the main prop, a big, metal rural mailbox.  He immediately sniffs it and shoves it and bites its edges and pokes his nose inside it . . .  I half-open the door, and when he happens to nudge it, I click and treat.  It only takes a handful of times before he realizes that pushing the door closed is a trick.  In fact, he seems to catch on immediately that a hard nose-bop will slam it shut with a nice bang, so he’s extra-fascinated and doesn’t want me to put it aside.  

But that’s all for today.  Soon enough we’ll move on to the more technical maneuvers, like tugging the shoelace that I attached to the door-tab for ease of opening.  Then there’s poking a letter (or a rolled-up newspaper might be easier?) inside and leaving it there.  And smooshing the little red flag upward along the side wall of the mailbox might be the toughest manipulation of all.  Never fear:  there’s nothing on God’s green earth that Gus won't be able to learn.

156. The only good thing about snow

A couple of small snowfalls are enough to squash the turf, now mostly brown anyway.  The grass is evidently still yummy, but nowhere near as irresistible as it has been.  As I lead him from his paddock, Gus still sometimes hauls me over to the grazing field, but after just a few minutes of browsing the damp, half-frozen, half-dead lawn he’s totally willing to come away and into the indoor arena with me.  I never thought I’d be grateful for snow, but:  Thank-you, o, icy harbinger of darkness and death!

Once in the arena, Gus quickly recalls all its joys:  the chance to roll in the scritchy, dry dirt; games to play that bring sure and certain treats; occasionally some new learning, to really get those axons and dendrites firing.  And I’ve learned how to lunge Gus the way Sandy taught him, so now he actually enjoys running around in circles to warm up and get some exercise.  Her method is not to use a whip at all, but instead to twirl the free end of the lunge line toward his rump as the “Go!” signal.  I still line up plastic chairs in front of the arena gate, but if I lunge him in his accustomed manner, he rarely even ponders pulling away and busting through the exit.  Around and around he trots, his long ears flapping and his teacup hooves twinkling as he bounces over a couple of poles laid on the ground.  I can even ask him to canter, though the gait change is hardly noticeable, because his legs and his strides are so short.   It’s like watching a dachshund run an agility course.

Without a compulsive grass fetish to distract him, Gus is back to his mostly mannerly, often affectionate, always educable self.