He still works hard to kick the ball straight, and he still obsesses when he gets it wrong, and he still tries changing the subject by using his mouth; but his success percentage has flipped from maybe 25-75 to more like 60-40. And he does love putting the ball into the goal— just notice how he grows a fifth leg (ahem!) when I add the net to our game:
More and more practice, less and less frustration — a perfect challenge for this Einstein of asses.
I was looking for something with a bit more weight than Gus’s almost balloonlike playball, which blows and floats over the arena floor. I dug up one of my old basketballs, but it was too heavy, and also too flat. So when I was offered this flashy patriotic relic, I jumped. While it’s a bit smaller than a regulation adult basketball, it’s got the right heft and just enough age-related deflation to slow its roll.
Gus welcomes the new toy with his usual magnanimity but immediately has trouble: its petite profile seems much, much harder for him to locate and kick. He does a lot of pawing and dirt-kicking, behind the ball and on either side of it, like a duffer tearing up divots all around the tee. Even when he puts his nose way down onto the ball, he can’t seem to connect with his hoof. I reward every near miss and feeble forward movement, but this thing has him pretty discombobulated. I can see he’s getting a little frustrated, yet he won’t quit — he digs at the ball again and again. He knows this trick, dammit, but he can’t quite execute. At length, he does give up and resorts to biting the ball and handing it to me in exasperation.
I take pity on him, bring out the big old ball, and let him boot it good. I’m figuring to give up myself and reserve the small ball for our basketball dunking game only. But Gus’s sticktoitiveness convinces me to let him practice with the new ball a few more times in the next few days. The old, easy ball is on the shelf and ready if he needs it . . .
