You get trained. Well Trained.
I take some comfort that I know I’ve been trained.
It only takes me hours to figure it out.
Returning Hudson back to his paddock, I stopped short and smacked myself on the forehead with the flat of my palm: Jane! You did not teach Hudson to pick up his sore hoof using carrots as a reward.
Hudson taught YOU to give HIM carrots on demand, by firmly planting that hoof until a carrot was waiting to be offered.
Oh. No. No no no no NO. Seriously? Please, please, PLEASE let me be wrong.
I immediately turn around and reach for his ‘Sore’ Hoof.
Hudson immediately shifts 1100 pounds to the Hoof He Can’t Bear to Lift…
…while he activates his carrot scanner, turning his neck toward me and whuffling the air near my back pocket.
DANG it. He got me. Again.
This is the third or fourth time I’ve belatedly realized I’ve been trained. It’s embarrassing. I’ve never been the owner who gets trained. I’ve always been the bossy owner: Stand still! Feint a bite in my direction while I tighten the girth and you die! Hoof, NOW. Don’t even look at that grass while I’m leading you.
I wonder if he and his pals in Mensa Equine trade Dumb Owner jokes in secret meetings. He has the intelligence, will, and scientific curiosity to finagle himself into being the dictator of a small country.
Insight: I’m the small country.
(Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to unload 100 pounds of carrots out of the trunk, and six giant tubs of Mrs. Pasture’s cookies….I think I feel the need to throw away all the worming paste too.)