Remedial trailer loading with George and Alan

I can count on one hand the number of times George and Alan have been in a horse trailer, and it's been two years since the last time.
What can I say? We don't get out much and there's no place like home. Since they'll be going to the vet soon for some routine maintenance,
I want to be sure I can get them there with as little fuss as possible.

When I brought Hank and Lucy home from their vet visit last week, I parked the trailer at the corral gate so the burrito brothers could get reacquainted with the cave on wheels.

They seemed very disappointed that their friends from Morning Bray Farm did not emerge.

My plan was to open the trailer door a few times a day and give them the opportunity to enter...or not.

There is no point in ever trying to force a burro/donkey to do anything. It just doesn't work.

By day two, George was hopping in and out to his heart's delight.

Never underestimate the magnetic properties of a little hay.

Alan took a day longer. The sight of George snacking without him 

was finally too much to bear and he climbed in.

All the silliness that goes on out here with these two
(e.g. playing dress-up, research projects involving feed sacks, etc.) pays off at times like these.

I think the fun and games they're exposed to stimulates their natural curiosity.

They're less likely to be afraid of a dark, noisy space that shakes and rattles when they move around.

Exiting the aforementioned space seems to require more of a leap of faith than entering.

We're still working on that part.

Lucy gets promoted to Assistant Sanitation Engineer

Me: Lucy, my dear, we need to work on your comin' along with our new comealong hitch, so come along and help me scoop poop. 
If we do this every day, I'll bet that pretty soon we won't even need the hitch and you'll come along just because you want to. 
(And because I'll reward you with a treat every other pile or two.)

Lucy: Do those two have to follow us everywhere we go? 

Me: Um...yeah.

George: Don't miss that pile over there.

Alan: Yeah, clean it up, girls. That fresh stuff really attracts the flies.

Lucy: Slap them as they go by, would you, please?

Lucy: Oh for the love of all things holy, Hank, we've got enough to do here!

Me: Lucy, I am so stinkin' proud of you. I barely need to lift this rope and you come right along.

Lucy: Can we not afford to buy you a new pair of gloves?

Me: Scooping poop can be such a lonely, thankless job. 

It sure is nice of you to come along and keep me company, Lucy.

Lucy: My contract says I get a lunch break now.

Unlocking the key to Lucy

In the three months that Lucy has been in my life, we have developed a beautiful relationship in the saddle. The only bump in the road has been getting her to the saddle. When Lucy decides she'd prefer not to walk on the lead line from the barn, through the gate, to the hitching rail, she is immovable. Period. No amount of coaxing, cajoling, or carrots will get her from point A to point B if she decides it is not time to go. I've tried every trick in my horsemanship book with her, to no avail. Donkeys simply don't respond the way horses do. With lots and lots of time and patience, we've always gotten to point B eventually, but I knew there had to be another way.

Within the first 10 minutes at the weekend training clinic, I discovered one such way. That yellow rope you see around Lucy's head is what Steve Edwards calls a "comealong hitch." The hitch is used like a halter and lead rope – if she doesn't follow along as you lead her, the pressure of the rope across the top of her nose makes her uncomfortable. To escape the discomfort, she follows. Instead of making the right thing easy and the wrong thing difficult, as you might to train a horse, apparently with donkeys, you have to make the right thing comfortable and the wrong thing uncomfortable. In time, the comealong hitch will be replaced with a correctly adjusted, traditional rope halter.

Lucy picked up on the concept right away, and she willingly walked along with me all weekend without resistance. I could have left the clinic after the first 10 minutes and felt like I had gotten my money's worth – it was that much of a change in her and a mega-kilowatt lightbulb moment for me.

Lucy: Mom, that mule won't stop staring at me.

Me: That's because you're so wonderful. You'd better get used to it.

Everything else we learned at the clinic – and there was lots – was gravy. I don't have any still pictures of us to share with you, but I conned a spectator into shooting some video with my Flip camera.