48. Better than grass

Back from my trip, I eagerly drive to the barn, where Gus commences braying before I even get out of my car.  The sun is merciless, so we immediately go to the indoor arena and do almost nothing but stroll around slowly.  When I get my footfalls into perfect sync with his, his whole body brightens a bit and his pace strengthens.  A few good strides like that, and I click and treat.  After awhile, I offer to play fetch-the-cone, but he wants to keep walking.  So we do.  When the treats are depleted and I take him out for grazing, he doesn’t barge or pull.  And when it’s time to leave the lawn, he doesn’t balk or yaw.  

Two days later, clicker guru Alexandra Kurland is on site to give lessons.  As usual, Gus is indignant at being ignored amid the comings and goings in the arena near his stall.  He bellows, drowning out our conversation.  I step away from the lesson to fill his Bubba-keg treat dispenser with hay pellets, but that doesn’t distract him for long.  Soon we hear a loud thunk and look around the corner toward his stall, in front of which we behold a tiny earthquake aftermath:  his Bubba keg has rolled into the aisle, his halter and flymask are off their hooks on the ground, and his big wooden brush box has been tipped over. 

I take him out, but he refuses to exit the barn and hauls me toward the arena.  I’m thinking, let’s eat some grass; Gus is thinking, let’s join the party.  For the first time since March or April, he’d rather not go grazing. But we can’t disrupt the horse and owner and instructor and audience absorbed in the lesson, so I quietly wrestle and cajole and insist until I finally schlep Mr. Obstreperous out the barn door and onto the grass.  Still, standing amid lush turf and succulent weeds, he leans away longingly.  Going to school with the other kids is better than Anything Else in the World.  It's heart-breaking that his only option right now is grazing and grooming, but eventually he does get into that groove of gratification.  I guide him over near the arena’s main, wide door so he can peer inside.  Just onlooking is almost good enough:  like the youngest sibling sent to bed while the big kids are partying downstairs, he’ll settle for a small saucer of popcorn and a chance to observe from the top step.

But a rain squall starts up and we have to return to the barn, with another struggle to pass the oh so alluring arena and enter his oh so cheerless stall.  As the roar of the rain on the metal roof subsides and is replaced by Gus’s bagpipe solos, Sandy leads him out to his paddock, with the same struggles past the arena entry.  Once he’s behind his gate, the intense allure of the arena as well as the decibels of his braying get slightly attenuated by distance.  Blessed relief, for him and us both.

47. Sweet sorrow

I’m not much of a traveler, partly because of the need for domestic-animal care in my absence.  My serial standard poodles each had rare and chronic illnesses that required medications and special feeding and an eagle eye on symptoms.  I hated to leave them.  But truth be told, I usually find time spent with my pets, in any condition, equally enjoyable as time spent away from home.  Before I started having dogs, I had cats, and they were easier, of course — although my Russian blue, named Vlad (the Impaler), was known to hiss and growl and slash at any and all humans except me.  Anyway, I’ve always taken my dogs along on any trips I could, whether camping or hoteling or staying in friends’ houses.  And now I’m about to spend a week at a lakehouse in Maine that’s been a favorite summer destination for me and my current canine, Reggie the browndog.

"Don't forsake me . . ."

But this summer for the first time, I’m leaving an animal behind.  Gus.  And as I end my last barn visit before heading out of town, I find myself lingering, putting off the goodbye, feeling bad about ditching him.  He was frustrated when I took just a couple days off to nurse my concussion.  This time it’s nearly a week that I won’t be able to call on him, to practice tricks and reward him with treats, to brush him and rub his ears, and to take him grazing.  I used to pooh-pooh my horse-owning friends’ concerns about leaving town — I mean, a horse is not a house pet; it has pasturemates and is Just Fine spending many hours without human interaction — but now I feel their pain.  Gus is my every-other-day good buddy, and we’ll miss each other.

I feed him a few treats as a not-so-fabulous parting gift.  I employ my usual upbeat, crisp tone of voice to tell him goodbye.  And as I drive away, he bellows a hee-haw at my departing tailgate.

40. Caged

It’s another daylong seminar with clicker-training expert Alex Kurland, and Gus is not happy waiting his turn.  He’s stuck in his stall, right around the corner from the arena where others are having fun without him.  And he's obsessing about his durance vile.

Along with hay, we’ve given him a treat-dispensing toy similar to a Bustercube for dogs. His is actually a keg-style beverage cooler from which the spigot has been removed; we fill it with hay-stretcher pellets, and he uses his nose to roll it around, making the treats fall out sporadically from the small hole where the spigot was.  He rolls it fast, backandforth-backandforth-backandforth, and eats a few treats, but then he abandons it, the better to scold us by blasting his bagpipes in a tantrum of braying.  Listen here:

After a few of these concerts, we decide to work with him next.  He gladly shoves his face into the halter and is pleased to see the little audience waiting for him.  He only gets a brief session of lead-line walking and mat-standing, with me and then with Alex, but it’s enough.  As I take him out to his paddock, I apologize to him for having no time to allow for grazing, and he only tries a few evasive maneuvers before succumbing and walking into his outdoor jailyard.

The next day, I return to give him a lot more arena fun and plenty of grazing time.