Brandy The Christmas Dog

THERE ARE cow dogs, and then there are cow dogs, and Brandy was one of the latter. She could work either end of a cow, nipping the heels of a slow-moving steer or grabbing the ear of a wild runaway. She had helped me gather four hundred steers out of a five-section pasture in one day and pen cattle into corrals with gates only on the outside corners. If I needed to count cattle through a gate, all I had to do was start the herd, then simply sit back and count as she pushed the rest through on her own.

When I moved into town to train horses, she would follow me everywhere I went. If I left her home when I went out in a friend’s vehicle, she would be waiting in the back of my truck when I returned. On the rare occasions when I took my truck somewhere and left her home, she would always be waiting for me faithfully at the door when I returned.

Then, two days before Thanksgiving, a couple of friends stopped by to take me out to dinner. During dinner a fierce wind roared in out of the north, destroying everything which wasn’t nailed down. I returned home to find a small metal shed torn apart and pieces of the barn roof missing, as was Brandy. The wind was blowing too hard to call her, so I looked in the barn and around the farm. For the first time in the six years I’d had her, she was gone.

Over the next two weeks I searched daily. My dogs come to my whistle better than to their names, so I whistled as I rode searching for her along the river and down unfamiliar side roads. Every time I saw a Blue Heeler from a distance, I would have to get a closer look. After two weeks, I had to concede to myself that my faithful companion of the last six years was gone. I could only speculate on what had happened. The wind and blowing tin must have terrified her so badly that she ran away, but then what? I knew she had not been killed by a car because I would have found her body, unless she had managed to crawl into the brush to die. She had not been taken to any of the local veterinarians or to any animal shelter. I would never know the final resting place of my faithful companion.

The night before Christmas Eve, I went to a party with my friend Rachel, and when we returned, there was a message on her answering machine for me. It was my landlady, who lived next door to me. I was thrilled to hear, “Bob there are a bunch of dogs on the porch, and I think one of them is Brandy!”

I jumped in my truck and drove straight home. There I was greeted by none other than Brandy herself, squirming on her side, thumping her tail, and literally grinning from ear to ear. It was as if the other dogs had brought her home for Christmas, for, like Santa, they were nowhere around. I wish dogs could talk so that she could have let me know what had happened to her. She couldn’t use one back leg and was a virtual skeleton from having to fend for herself while being hurt.

The next day at work, she was in her usual place, seated in the middle of the arena watching me ride. I guess miracles do happen around Christmas time, don’t they?

This story is an excerpt from my book Cowboy Romance (Of horseweat and hornflies) available on Amazon

There Ain’t a Horse That Can’t be Rode (But don’t bet on no Rodeo)

In my younger daze . . . er days, I once worked for an outfit with a “semi-absent” owner. He’d show up to get in the way for a few weeks during the summer, and other than branding and shipping, he would hardly show up at all. Still he figured he needed an extra horse for himself, and it had to be a big horse as Floyd stood 6 foot 5 inches tall. He also had one other requirement…it had to be cheap.

It just so happened that at the time I was married. My wife’s sister-in law had complained to her that her horse was bucking her off. Seems she was having a hard time selling her because the mare was bucking everybody off. We found this a little hard to believe as my wife had started the mare before we met, and I had ridden her a few times. Plumb gentle mare. We attributed it to the fact that her sister-in-law was a tiny woman who was half afraid of horses. The in-laws, who were coming to visit, agreed to haul the mare to Montana from Nevada for $500, and the ranch bought her.

Now we knew she was big, but she had grown even more in the year since we had last seen her. She was so big that the vet ran her across his scales just to see how big. 1,800 pounds of horse, which hadn’t seen a saddle in six months. That’s why she was named Sherman, after the tank.

The first ride ended before it began, with a crash and burn. No sooner did my off foot hit the oxbow than Sherman’s head came up, her butt went down, and she imitated a space shuttle lift off, complete with roll. Now like any good blue heeler will do, both of mine noticed Sherman was misbehaving and started doing their best to get her lined out. They did a pretty good job of it too. Between trying to get shuck of me and fighting the dogs, she failed to see the ditch. When we both got up, she just
stood there like a good broke horse should and let me get back on her and stepped out aspretty as you please.

Now Sherman wasn’t your average bronc. She didn’t have any particular pattern to things. One time she might buck when you
first stepped aboard. She might do it in the middle of the day or wait until the end of the day. She also had a neat trick of being able to strip a bridle, complete with brow band and throat latch, right off her head between jumps.

The first time I discovered this peculiar talent, I was fixing fence and had her hobbled. She decided to go home, broke a set of heavy leather hobbles, and said “adios.” As I had left all of the gates open, she had no problem. However the ensuing walk that included wading waist-deep through spring run off had me slightly agitated. When I got to the house, she was standing in front of it with the (now ex) wife who was checking to see if the horse was hurt before worrying about me. (One of the reasons she is now ex)

I climbed aboard and asked the mare to step out. When she refused to move a single foot, I took my cow equalizer off the horn. This was a piece of braided nylon rope with a loop on one end for a handle and a knot on the other to help dissuade snotty cows from coming over the top of their calves while I was doctoring them. I gave old Sherman a whomp on the rump, and she went down the driveway in her space shuttle routine. About halfway down the drive, I started gathering up all of the slack that had suddenly appeared in the reins only to discover the bridle was no longer on her head. While I was wondering what was going to happen next, she suddenly went down than she had gone up. We had covered the hundred-fifty yards of driveway, and she had bucked off the loading ramp and was headed for the barn. Figuring I was not going to clear the top of the door with the upper half of my body, I hastily made a CED (calculated emergency dismount) and bounced into the
end of the barn. When I led her out to get back on, closing the door in the process, she hadn’t a concern in the world and behaved like a lady the rest of the day.

A few weeks later I had a couple of hundred heifers to move, and Floyd told me to get Yote to help me. Yote was good help and fun to be around. There was no telling what he would do. In fact, he had gotten stuck with the moniker of “Yote” by seeing how close he could get to a coyote with his snowmobile. He got close enough that the dog jumped on with him.

We were about halfway down the mountain with the heifers when one decided to make a run back up. Rather than send the dogs after her, I decided to give Sherman a workout. Just as the heifer turned, Sherman bogged her head, and the rodeo was on. By
this time she was pretty well legged-up and decided to put on an aerobic bucking session.

When she finally stopped, I had lost not only my hat, but also my rope, a spur, and one boot. Yote came riding up with eyes as big as platters.

“I counted to forty-five and quit!” he exclaimed. “She covered another two hundred yards after that,” adding, “Don’t you ever get bucked off?”

Well, the next weekend was the big local Podunk rodeo, and I had entered up in saddle bronc. Yote knew I couldn’t get bucked off in a mere ten seconds as he had seen me ride. Ever eager to make a few bucks, he took the first twenty-dollar bet he could find that would give him odds on me winning.

Meanwhile, back of the chutes, I was trying on a borrowed saddle. I didn’t bother telling anyone that I had ridden bulls
for two years so there were plenty of pointers. The bronc I drew kept lying down, and everyone was hollering at me to get off her (which I was already doing. It would be nearly impossible to be as dumb as I look.) After the bronc went down the fourth time, I came up with plan “B”. Rather than sit down on the bronc, I was going to get my feet in the stirrups standing on the fence and drop down as I called for the gate.

I had my left foot in the stirrup and on the gate. My hack rein was in my right hand and my right stirrup was in my left hand. If this were not enough of a position to be in, someone had to ask me a dang fool question, “Are you OK?” Well I wasn’t bleeding and hadn’t even been bruised yet so I answered, “Yeah.”

Right answer . . . Wrong time. Someone opened the gate. Next thing I knew, I was looking into the eyes of the left-hand judge,
holding his pencil poised on his scorecard. Seemed like a right friendly sort of fellow as I went by, but I would have rather been looking at the front end of my saddle, so I could have followed it a little better.

They said I looked really good coming out of the chute. Got my marks and went to spurring, but that I looked lost (which I was). I finally hit bottom at the end of the fourth jump and had a little trouble getting up.

This time it was the announcer who asked the fool question, “Are you OK?”
Some how I hadn’t lost my sense of humor, and I replied, “As soon as you make all of these people quit spinning around, I will be.”
It was a fine picture on the front page of the local paper. My hat was a foot off the ground, hack rein still in my hand, left foot still in the stirrup with my head buried in the dirt.

There are two lessons to this story: First, don’t answer any questions to the positive when it’s your turn to ride, and
you’re not ready; second, don’t bet on any rodeo.

This story is an excerpt from my book A Million to One Odds (Times Five) Available on Amazon

Teaching Manners (The cowboy way)

Now this story somehow missed being in any of my books, even though it is truly a classic. I was once a riding double stand in in a western movie that became pretty popular. One of the stars had a bunch of their own money in the production which was running way over budget and just as far behind in the schedule. In my tradition of changing the names to protect the guilty I and the fact he was in no way shape or form a cowboy, I’ll call him Duchess.
The further behind production and over budget the movie became the grouchier he was getting. Even though he had a gopher to attend his every whim he started just pointing at people on the crew and telling them to go do something for him or bring him something. They would all complain behind his back, but not say anything to his face. I kept giving them a bad time for not standing up to him and they kept telling me “Your turn is coming,” which it did.
On the morning of question a bunch of us were waiting for things to happen when Duchess came up and told me “Go get me a bagel!”

I looked at him as seriously as I could and asked “Whats a bagel?” After he described it I said “Oh, its like a stale doughnut!” and proceeded to walk off in the opposite direction of where they kept the food (which was in back of the cabin we were standing in front of.)
“WHERE THE )*&(! ARE YOU GOING!?!?!?”
“THEY AREN’T THAT WAY!”
I proceeded to walk off in another (wrong) direction and he gave me directions…I proceeded to walk off in yet another wrong direction and he became ballistic!

“WHERE IN THE &)((&(*&!!!!!! ARE YOU GOING???? JUST HOW F&%*$$##)!!!NG STUPID ARE YOU????”

I turned around and just grinned at him. He turned redder than a light in front of a house of ill-repute and got his own bagel. The rest of riding doubles waited til he was around the corner before they started laughing, but they were rolling on the ground doing it. After that he quit telling people what to do and even began asking his gopher politely.

Remember, if you like these stories, most of them are in my books on Amazon.

Gertrude

The only problem I really had was my two legger. He had absolutely no sense of timing, balance feel or focus. As a result I had no clue as to what he wanted. This was especially true when he wanted me to stop as he kept leaning forward telling me to go faster. He also kept leaning to the side and falling off.

Then one day he and his wife decided to go to a clinic on speed control and stopping. What a mess. He couldn’t get me to go into a trot without falling off, let alone go into a lope and stop. At the end of the clinic they talked to No Legs about taking lessons on a family plan.

A few days later they loaded the kids and all of us horses into the trailer and headed over to No Legs for their first lesson. He already had Storms saddled and warmed up. Just a few minutes into this first lesson he stopped everything and had my two legger take my saddle and bridal off, put my halter on and get on me bareback.

Needless to say my two legger didn’t feel comfortable with the idea. No Legs told him that he needed to develop balance to stay on top, and that he needed to be able to feel what I was doing in order to do that.

As No Legs led me off at a walk, he told my two legger to close his eyes and tell him when my right front foot was leaving the ground. At first he did let my two legger hold onto my mane for security. After several weeks of lessons (and practicing at home) my two legger could finally feel what my feet were doing at a walk. Next we practiced at a trot. By the time my two legger could feel where my feet were at a trot, he also had the balance to stay in the middle of me without falling forward or sliding off the side of me.

Next we started working on getting my two legger to balance himself in a way that actually communicated to me what he was wanting me to do. No Legs really concentrated on teaching my two legger to to get me to relax and give to pressure which was something I hadn’t really learned.

The whole goal to these lessons were to get the family, especially my two legger, confident enough in their riding so that they could take us on camping trips into the desert. After several months of twice a week lessons, No Legs began meeting us in the desert to conduct the lessons in the environment they wanted to ride in.

On the last ride we took with No Legs my two legger was confident enough in himself and me that he put the reins on my neck so he could light a cigarette. We were just coming to the bottom of a fairly steep hill at the time. I stumbled and dropped my head then started trotting off. The reins had dropped over my head, but my two legger had gained enough balance and focus that he didn’t panic. He simply said “whoa, reached down, grabbed both sides of my breast collar, and pulled up on it. Since we had been working together on the giving to pressure, and he remained balanced, I simply stopped.

Since then we have spent many enjoyable weekends exploring the desert, and he hasn’t fallen off since.

This story is out of my newest book From The Horse’s Mouth (walking a mile in your horse’s shoes). It would make a great Christmas gift for the aspiring horsemen on your gift list. It is available on Amazon.

Single Horse Rolllover

IT ALL STARTED one bright and sunny morning. Everyone else was happy with the fact that they had just made it through Friday the thirteenth without a hitch, but I was nervous. Being the sort who is usually two bucks short and a day late, Saturday the fourteenth can be a real skull-knocker for me, and I mean that in the most literal sense available to one’s imagination.

The plan for the day was to haul the portable panels and a new chute down to Coyote Gulch pasture. We would set them up so the bull and steer calves could get preconditioned. Then we would gather the three hundred- twenty pairs of cattle into the one permanent corral to hold them for the night so that we could get a good early start the next morning.

Things started out smoothly, but then Lester had a flat on his truck and didn’t have a spare. At least the truck happened to be sitting where we would need it the next day to work the hydraulics on the chute. He jacked it up, took off the tire, and left it up on the jack.

We began putting up the panels. None of us had set things up here before as the ranch had just been bought by the father-and-son team of Orville and Wilbur Spendercrash. We were nearly finished when it dawned on us that this corral design would definitely crash when actually used, so we decided to circumvent Orville’s plan and go to plan B. Orville and Wilbur showed up right on time just before we were finished. Surprisingly enough, they approved of plan B and were anxious to get horseback.

As Plan B was not quite completed, Vern, the manager, decided to stay back with Lester to finish up. JR and RJ went to the west end while I had the honor of taking Orville and Wilbur to the east end. Orville and Wilbur are right at home in a business office. On a horse, neither would ever be accused of being Hopalong Cassidy or the Lone Ranger, but they enjoyed the romance of playing cowboy and rounding up cattle. I headed us off at a trot, not because the pasture was that large, but because it was getting late. About a hundred yards out, Wilbur’s horse stepped in a hole and crashed to the ground, cushioned only by Wilbur’s
leg. Wilbur was sore but still wanted to ride, so I went back and caught his horse. . I chided Wilbur a little and asked how he was enjoying the romance.

We got started again, and I told him how my family jokes that my brother rolls cars and I roll horses. Also, just in case he ever got hung up, I told him to roll over on his belly so that his foot would be able to come out of the stirrup. This is a trick I learned while being rapidly dragged across the desert by a mule. By the time I figured out the trick, the mule had covered a quarter mile with a quarter of his tracks on me.

When we were nearly to the end of the pasture, I looked over the situation and decided which way we would go with the herd. Orville could stay with the cattle, and rather than go along the fence, he was to bend the them north so that we could pick up some strays that were around the hill and then head back toward the fence and on in. As I started kicking a couple of pairs off of the top, I noticed that RJ had come down our way and was kicking the strays I had seen over the hill down to Orville, which meant we could take the easy route along the fence. But, as I said, Orville was little green, and as Wilbur and I came up the draw with the other cattle, he got the lead started by pushing RJ’s cattle back to where they had just come from. Back they went at a quick trot with the rest of the bunch following.

Since I had seen RJ head back up-country I knew there was no one at the point, so I loped to turn the herd toward the pens. There were only about 150 pairs, so it didn’t take much effort to get them lined out again. All we had to do was go through
a short valley and take the south exit to the fence. I had to drop back and keep an eye on the drag as Orville has this real neat trick of spreading the drag out rather than lining it out. He accomplishes this by riding alongside the cows while hollering and waving at them. They kind of slow down to watch him go by and then start wandering off. I wanted to make sure they didn’t wander off too far.

About the time I was going back up to make sure the drag had a lead to follow, two old swingbags headed out back to the southeast where we had picked them up like the king of all grizzlies was hot on their trail. Now, I may have been new to this ranch, but when they bought this herd, I sort of came with the deal, so I knew from experience that the rest of the bunch would
soon be following these two crowbaits. I rode across through the cattle and loped on up to turn them back, hoping that either Orville or Wilbur would get the idea and turn them back towards the fence instead of letting
them go back up the hill. Alas, they were too busy enjoying the romance of watching me bring the two old witches back to pay attention attention to the lead, which had headed up the north trail rather than down the south one. It was no big deal, however, as I loped over and headed them west over the hill toward a trail which would drop down to the pens.

At the top of the hill I was able to relax a little, as RJ had returned. Since the drag was a little wadded up and spread out, thanks to Orville’s talent, I thought I’d go show him how to string them out. Loping back, I was nearly there when ol’ Sorrely stepped into a badger hole. Thinking, “Oh well, here we go again,” I dropped my left stirrup and started to bail off of the right side. Then he hit a second hole and fell onto my right foot, jamming it into and pinning it in the stirrup. While catching my balance, I thought, “Oh, donkey dung,” as I felt my left foot go back into the stirrup. As his back end came off of the ground, I flung myself forward, and things got real dark for a second as he went over me.

This wasn’t really a slow-motion wreck, but I wasn’t panicked yet. My parents gave me a name in which the initials spell REK, this was far from my first, and ol’ Sorreley was a pretty gentle old puke who usually stops on voice command… usually. This time he started running and kicking, which is also about the time I thought my duck was plucked and this was my last
ride.

Rather than see my life flush before my eyes, I brought my arms up around my head so as not to hurt Sorreley’s feet when he kicked it. I tried to kick my off foot free at the top of each bounce. Finally he kicked me high enough to free my foot, but I couldn’t seem to get rolled over onto my stomach. I uncovered my head to look up and see that not only was my foot still in my stirrup, but my spur was hung in the cinch. Now I considered panicking a little, but still tried rolling over. Finally, after what seemed to be about three lifetimes, my spur came off, I got rolled over, and my foot popped right out of the stirrup.

As I rolled on the ground moaning obscenities that would have embarrassed Satan himself, I heard the thunder of horses approaching at a dead run. Orville and Wilbur to the rescue, or at least the wake. They were wanting me to lie still, but I was too smart for that, I had to get up. Chewing them out, I insisted that I would live and that they should get back to the cattle
and get the ^><|?}* herd gathered up before it got dark!

Orville went to help RJ while Wilbur helped me find my hat. He claimed the lucky horseshoe he kept in his pocket would find my spur, and he was right. About the time he found it, Vern came riding up leading Sorrely and asked how to get around some cows which were heading back up the hill. Rather than tell him where to get around them, I volunteered to go get them myself. I
managed to get them back down the hill but also regretted having volunteered as being horseback wasn’t quite as comfortable as usual.

I worked at the chute the next day and rode the morning after that before my head softened up enough to let me go to the doctor. I found out that I hadn’t broken anything. Shortly after taking my first dose of painkillers, I came to the conclusion that Nancy Reagan was wrong, and drugs are your friends. I also need to admit that after this upside down ride, the worst feeling in the word is a stumbling horse…
This story is from my Book Cowboy Romance (Of horsesweat & hornflies) available with my other books on Amazon.

Introduction to “From The Horse’s Mouth (Walking a mile in your horse’s shoes)”

Everyone is always looking for that “magic bullet” to take care of all of the problems they have with their horses. The problem is, there is no silver bullet. After working with thousands of horses over the decades, three things have become clear.

First every horse is an individual, and second, every horse is a product of its past. Third, two horses can have a nearly identical past, yet hold opposite lessons from it. The best analogy I can come up with to describe this is two children raised by an alcoholic parent. One may grow up to repeat the life of it’s alcoholic parent, getting drunk, beating the kids and kicking the dog, while the other grows up to abhor alcohol and cannot raise a hand to their child under any circumstance.

This individuality makes working with each horse unique. Developing a relationship with horses is much like developing relationships with people. One may be willing, open, and easy to work with. The next may be like dealing a past full of abuse who is suspicious, angry and looking for an opportunity to lash out. Yet another may have a past of injuries which cause problems due to pain or vision loss which cause adverse reactions to what we are asking of it.

This brings to light the difficulty of describing just how to relate to your horse(s). Bill and Tom Dorrance started a revolution in training horses by using methods which allow your horses to relate to you in a way which they can understand. However many people have a hard time understanding the philosophy, and also the mechanics behind things like timing, balance, and feel. Then are is also the misconceptions we naturally believe. First, we must realize that we are NOT
teaching the horse to do things. Keep a horse penned up in a stall with no exercise for a couple of weeks and turn it out in the arena. Chances are it is going to run hard, stop hard, and roll back over it’s hindquarters and run off again. It will run in circles, changing direction and leads on its own. Watch horses in a pasture, they may back up a couple of
steps, or even step sideways a couple of steps to give another horse higher on the pecking order a little more space. Horses that are in a pasture with cattle will chase them around or even get one in a pasture corner and just hold them there (like a cutting horse) just for fun. This brings us to the realization that (rather than teaching the horse) we are learning how to communicate to the horse when we want to do something so that the horse will do it. Secondly we must realize that every time we are handling a horse, we are training it. We are either doing things in a manner which allows the horse to communicate easier, and be more willing, or; doing things which keeps the horse at the level it is at, or;
we are doing things to make our horses resent us and become less willing to be our partner.

Between the vast differences between horses and their issues, and the vast differences people have in learning, writing a how to book on relating to, and training horses would seem to be a futile effort. It would be much simpler if the horses could just tell us with their own voice.

The goal of From The Horse’s Mouth is to let the reader walk a mile (or two) in the horseshoes of of their equine friends. Let them walk in the shoes of horses to learn why the problem lies not in the horse, but in their own deafness to what the horse may be telling them.

From The Horse’s Mouth will be available in November from Amazon

Chief

When I first met No Legs, I was working in a dude string. He would show up once a week and replace the shoes on those of us who needed it. He liked me right off the bat because I was not only gentle to shoe, but because I would never lean on him while he was shoeing me.
After I had been there a few months a couple of two leggers showed up looking for a horse. Being I was a dark bay with blanket as white as new fallen snow, with sorrel spots I stuck out like a diamond in a coal mine. After a few text rides they bought me and took me home.
Things went really well for a few months. The two legger who rode me was an FBI agent so he would sometimes be gone for a few weeks between rides. This was a heck of a lot easier than working in that dude string. I didn’t want to wind up back there so I took really good care of him.
Then one windy spring day he decided to saddle me up and go for a ride with his wife. We were almost home when a big blue tarp came out of a dry irrigation ditch. It wrapped around my legs and part of it flew over the top of me. It was then I sensed my two legger was afraid. He was also swinging his arms back and forth trying to get the tarp off his head. As a result, he puled me off balance and I stepped off the edge of the ditch. After rolling several times I was at the bottom of the ditch while my two legger was lying half way up the ditch. Being a little spooked about the whole thing (especially as my two legger was hollering and screaming at me) I ran home.
He didn’t try riding me for a few days. When he started to get on me, I sensed that he was nervous about something. Every time we rode past anything that might blow in the air or might move if I stepped on it, he would tense up. I didn’t know why he was so tense and nervous, but if he was, then I needed to be on the lookout as well! Within a few weeks he was so nervous I was ready to jump out of my skin every time he took me for a ride. Then came the day when I actually did step on a stick. He was so scared his whole body jumped in the saddle. Of course his fear went through me so I jumped as well
with my two legger falling to the ground.
This time I just stood there, but rather than get on me, he led me home. The next day I was loaded into the trailer. To my surprise, rather than being returned to the dude string, to taken to a sale barn, I was unloaded at a training stables. Adding to my surprise, No Legs came out to get me.
As soon as my two legger left, No Legs saddled me up and took me to the arena. I didn’t sense any fear from him so I just stood perfectly still when he got on my back. He walked me a bit, then started trotting me. It was nice to be able to relax for a change rather than being tensed up and wondering what my two legger was so afraid of.
After a couple of times around the arena, He called out to a two legger to get a towel and throw it to him as we went by. No Legs was still relaxed so I had no reason to be afraid as the towel was thrown to him. I kept going straight as he swung the towel around my head, and even drug it across the top of my head. Next he took me out for a ride on the trails and even along a road. I never took a wrong step. It was such a relief to not be constantly worrying about why my rider was filled with so much fear.
That evening my two legger showed up with his saddle. He was telling No Legs how surprised he was that he was able to “fix” me in such short order.
My two legger was nervous as he saddle me up. As he started to mount me, he was so scared he was shaking, so I was fidgety as well and stepped away from him.
At that time No Legs suggested that he ride me first. No Legs didn’t get his moniker from being long legged. The stirrups were set about six inches too long for him so he was wallering around all over the place trying to get his leg over the top of the saddle. Of course he wasn’t worried about anything so I just stood there perfectly still.
Once on top of me he told my two legger to throw me the towel he had placed on the fence. My two legger immediately refused, claiming he didn’t want to get No Legs “bucked off.” After arguing about it for a couple of minutes, he called out the two legger who had thrown him the towel that morning. No Legs started trotting in circles and playing towel catch with the two legger.
After No Legs explained to my two legger that I was acting the way I was because HE was being afraid he began thinking about it. No Legs got him on top of me and started playing towel catch. Within a few minutes my two legger was relaxed, and so was I.
It had been impossible for me to relax when My two legger was so worried about me spooking. I had no idea what he was worried about, but as soon as he quit worrying and started relaxing, it was sure nice to be able to be able to relax and enjoy the trails again!