The other day a friend was out of town and needed me to catch her mare for the natural hoof trimmer. This, of course, was a treat for me as an aspiring trimmer, as it gave me an opportunity to pick the trimmer's brain. However, first I had to bring the mare in.
Out I go with the halter and lead rope. The mare, living up to her name, graciously approaches and allows me to put on the halter. Ah, but that's as far as it goes. She is quite happy out in the pasture and sees no need to proceed to a different location, thank you. What is it Imke says? If the horse's "no" is definite, you take the halter off, give her a treat, and off you go to play with your dog. But what do you do if you've been entrusted to bring her to meet the trimmer who has driven in from upstate and expects you to be on time? I try putting it to her that she should look upon this as going for a spa treatment, that there will be no work involved on her part, and that there may be many treats in store as well. She is unimpressed.
Once upon a time, I would have poked her in the ribs or swatted her with the leadrope. But in my new reality, this is Not Allowed. I find I am unable to overpower her will with my Svengali-like gaze (I love you madly, Klaus, I want to be you). So I try channelling Harpo Marx (whom I slightly resemble anyway) and merrily dance toward her hind legs, causing her to move them over. After this jolly pas de deux, I invite her to proceed in a forward direction. She thinks maybe a step or two wouldn't hurt. Thus we continue to the barn: Harpo dance, couple of steps, dance, steps, dance.
We make it. The trimmer is very nice and answers all my questions. Sweetie finds a nice patch of clover to eat while he does her feet.
I wish I were a brooding German genius. But for now I'll have to settle for being a Marx sister.