I have a high opinion of the mind of the mustang. Feral
animals that they are, they exploit humans for what they need while maintaining
a degree of stubborn independence that their coddled domestic brothers and
sisters wouldn’t dare.
Exhibit A: the arena trail course. Seeing a tarp on the
ground, the mustang approaches, sniffs, then chooses a different path. A tarp,
unlike the creek it is meant to suggest, does not have limitless edges. Ergo,
the mustang need not expend the additional effort of walking over it. He simply
walks around it. He isn’t afraid of it; he just doesn’t see why it is so
important to do the task a certain way when another way gives the same end
result. This is also true of freestanding “practice” gates, cavaletti, traffic
cones and ground-pole mazes.
It was especially true of the pedestal box. The pedestal is
even smaller than a tarp. It’s small enough to be awkwardly stepped over or
around, or bulldozed through. In a pinch, it might be jumped.
So here’s what I did. I filled the kangaroo pocket of my
Klickitat sweatshirt with roughly five pounds of carrots. First, I put Blue on
one side of the pedestal and me on the other. I held out the carrot to persuade
him forward. But, as Blue pointed out with his nose, there was a pedestal
between us. (And when I say “us,” I really mean Blue and the carrot. I was
primarily a sentient carrot-holding device throughout.) He started going around
the pedestal the same way he went around the tarp, still reaching for the
carrot. I kept moving. Kept the pedestal between us. Blue stopped and pivoted
like a cutter locking onto a calf. Coming around the other side of the
pedestal, walking and reaching, craning his neck. The sentient carrot-holding
device matched him move for move, step for step. Faster and faster Blue went,
circling the pedestal like a demented carousel horse.
Clearly, this tactic was not working.
I needed to break down the process into tiny, digestible
lessons.
Lesson 1: Apply hoof to pedestal.
I was not sure which hoof to start with. The ugly hoof (the
white one featured in many blog posts this winter), is on his dominant side. On
the other hand, that leg is also mildly crooked compared to the other. Do I
really want to load it with Blue’s full forehand weight as he pulls himself up?
I decided on the opposite, black hoof. Just in case. And hey, maybe it will
strengthen his right side.
I pick up the hoof and put it toward the middle of the
pedestal. When he keeps it there, he receives a carrot. If he removes it
without permission, no carrot. I establish “hoof on box = carrot” as our
training foundation. “Hoof on box” is easier than “chase mom around like
demented carousel horse,” so this lesson sinks in pretty fast.
Lesson 2: Shift weight to hoof on box.
This is, of course, the much harder idea. After a quick
lunging to give him a break from the mental and physical gymnastics of the
pedestal, we return lesson 1. Blue puts his foot on the pedestal and receives
one carrot.
In some ways, trick training is like hosting a game show. And now, Blue, would you like to keep that
one delicious carrot or move on to the Lightning
Round for the chance to earn a second—or even a third!—delicious carrot?
I make my most convincing kissing and clicking noises.
He is clearly confused. His foot is on the pedestal, but the
carrot is now just out of reach. His neck and lips stretch forward, his eyes
narrowed in effort, his head tilting on way then the other, needing just an
inch or two more to reach the tasty, tasty carrot. But it is no use; the carrot
remains stubbornly out of reach. Irritated, he straightens up again and looks
off into the middle distance, purposefully ignoring the carrot, hoping it will
put its guard down long enough that he can pounce. He licks his lips in
anticipation, still looking away, as if he is just fascinated with the empty arena. But the pull of the carrot is too
powerful. He shifts his weight forward toward the carrot. Is foot is too far
forward on the box. As he shifts his weight, the whole thing tips forward and
he ends up straddling the upended box with his front legs.
He looks so completely ridiculous that I give him a pity
carrot.
He does variations of this maneuver two or three more times
when I realize the communication breakdown we’re having. With me on the ground,
the carrot is rarely above eye-level. Blue doesn’t feel the need to climb up on
the box with the carrot so near to the ground. He would rather go through the box than over it. I drag
over the mounting block, place it a couple feet from the pedestal. I put Blue
on the opposite side, lift his hoof onto the middle of the box, give him a bite
of carrot, and climb the three steps of the mounting block. I hold the carrot
above both of our heads, occasionally bringing it down where he can sniff and
touch it, then bringing it back up.
Blue is again craning his neck, extending his mobile lips,
sticking out is tongue. “If only… I were
just… a bit… taller,” he grinds out through labored breaths.
And then he gets it. Lightbulbs go off. He lifts onto the
box, his other foot dangling in the air next to it. This is a carrot-worthy
accomplishment, and I feel guilty that I’m down to my list two finger-sized
pieces. They don’t seem like a big enough reward for such a watershed moment. I
leave Blue in the arena to ponder what he’s just done while I go get more
carrots.
When I get back, he is blissfully rolling in the sandy arena
footing. At the sound of me at the gate, he bolts upright, gives a spectacular
leaping/bucking fart, and comes running to meet me. I am the carrot fairy.
He follows me over to the pedestal, I put his black foot on
it, climb the mounting block and repeat. This time, both front feet end up solidly
on the box. The next time, I do it without the mounting block, with just a
carrot and a lively “hup!”
This is, of course, the condensed version of the story. This
happened over the course of two nights of fairly intensive work for both of us.
Blue showed great focus if not determination. He never got flustered, which I
hope means that I wasn’t pushing too hard.
This time of year, when it is too dark to ride outdoors
after work and often too wet to ride out on the weekends, it is nice to have
some little projects like this. We do endless circles in the arena, but sometimes
I want something different. Making a mini arena-trail course is a great way to
keep my horse using his brain and to work on real-world skills at times when the
real world isn’t readily available.
love your descriptions! My horse is very similar, wondering why I am asking him to do things he could easily step over/avoid. Good job and much patience, now Blue does a fun trick, which is also a good trust exercise. Hmm, I need to build a box to teach my own demented carousel horse...
ReplyDeleteYay for you!
ReplyDeleteUh, can I make you crazy-jealous?
http://haikufarm.blogspot.com/2011/08/in-which-im-back-from-elbe-hills-and.html
I think he would have willingly done the pedestal at Elbe without all the histrionics because there are two smaller steps (not one big one) and it is big enough for the handler to lead the way. Too bad that ride is no more—I would have liked to try it!
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