was hay all around him, and a bed of straw to lie on. His eyes were clearing; he could see again. A few feet down the hill, there was a creek with fresh water, and he gathered himself to get down to it to drink greedily and for a long time.
His stomach ached, but he was not really hungry. There was nothing familiar around him. He brayed, calling out to the boy, but he was not there; he did not come.
ONE
My First Donkey
I ought to explain why it was that the police thought I might take a dying donkey onto my farm, an unusual thing for a city boy like me, who, for most of my life, thought that donkeys lived only in India or Spain.
I asked the animal control officer how many people they had asked to consider taking Simon, wondering how I had come to her attention and that of the New York State Police. “Just you,” she said.
“Oh,” I said in one of those mind-altering moments when you get a glimpse of how others might see you.
“We knew you had some donkeys and loved them,” she said. “I read your books.”
I’m an author and photographer who owns a farm in upstate New York. I live there with my wife, Maria, and numerous animals. My life has never proceeded in straight lines; zigs and zagsare more my style. If my life on a farm is characterized by any one idea, it would be this: one thing leads to another.
And it was Carol that led, in zigs and zags, to Simon.
I believe the first donkey I ever laid eyes on was wearing a straw hat and hee-hawing at Elmer Fudd in a Saturday morning cartoon. I remember the donkey had enormous teeth and was rather loud and goofy.
I never saw a real donkey until I was nearly fifty years old. I had taken my border collie out to a sheep farm in Pennsylvania to learn how to herd sheep. The experience transformed me in many ways. I decided to buy my own farm, I began writing about dogs, and I encountered a donkey who was to alter the nature of my life.
Carol was nearly twenty years old when I met her. She was living in a small corral. Like many donkeys, Carol seemed an afterthought, a misfit. Donkeys come to farms for all kinds of reasons. Somebody might trade a donkey for an old horse or for some hay. A farmer might come across one and take pity on it, or suspect it might be useful down the road.
Sometimes donkeys luck out and end up on rich horse farms, keeping horses company, getting to eat the good hay and grain, and are even quartered indoors in heated stalls. But that is not the fate of most donkeys. Donkeys have lived with humans as long as or longer than dogs have, but donkeys haven’t figured out how to worm their way into human hearts quite so well. Their history and general treatment do not speak well of the generosity and mercy of human beings.
The farmer couldn’t even quite remember how Carol had ended up with him but she had been in that corral every day for the sixteen years that he had owned her. Once in a while he tossed some hay over the fence and filled up the rusty bathtub with fresh water, but mostly, Carol survived off of brush andbark, pooled rain water, and water from a small muddy stream that ran through her corral. Twice a year, a farrier came to trim her hooves.
The farmer was busy, and he conceded that most of the time, he forgot about Carol. Farm animals are not pets; they are pretty hardy. Donkeys are especially hardy, and can go far on very little.
The thought of Carol alone for years in that tiny patch of woods haunted me, offering some of the first stirrings of an emotional notion of compassion, but even then, my response to her was to bring some apples whenever I visited the farm; it didn’t go much deeper than that. I was distracted, busy, I had a kid, other worries; the life of a donkey seemed very remote to me.
Carol was not good-natured or accepting, and she did not wish to have her hooves trimmed. After a while, the battered farrier just gave her a drugged apple before going to work. She still managed to bite and kick him at least
His stomach ached, but he was not really hungry. There was nothing familiar around him. He brayed, calling out to the boy, but he was not there; he did not come.
ONE
My First Donkey
I ought to explain why it was that the police thought I might take a dying donkey onto my farm, an unusual thing for a city boy like me, who, for most of my life, thought that donkeys lived only in India or Spain.
I asked the animal control officer how many people they had asked to consider taking Simon, wondering how I had come to her attention and that of the New York State Police. “Just you,” she said.
“Oh,” I said in one of those mind-altering moments when you get a glimpse of how others might see you.
“We knew you had some donkeys and loved them,” she said. “I read your books.”
I’m an author and photographer who owns a farm in upstate New York. I live there with my wife, Maria, and numerous animals. My life has never proceeded in straight lines; zigs and zagsare more my style. If my life on a farm is characterized by any one idea, it would be this: one thing leads to another.
And it was Carol that led, in zigs and zags, to Simon.
I believe the first donkey I ever laid eyes on was wearing a straw hat and hee-hawing at Elmer Fudd in a Saturday morning cartoon. I remember the donkey had enormous teeth and was rather loud and goofy.
I never saw a real donkey until I was nearly fifty years old. I had taken my border collie out to a sheep farm in Pennsylvania to learn how to herd sheep. The experience transformed me in many ways. I decided to buy my own farm, I began writing about dogs, and I encountered a donkey who was to alter the nature of my life.
Carol was nearly twenty years old when I met her. She was living in a small corral. Like many donkeys, Carol seemed an afterthought, a misfit. Donkeys come to farms for all kinds of reasons. Somebody might trade a donkey for an old horse or for some hay. A farmer might come across one and take pity on it, or suspect it might be useful down the road.
Sometimes donkeys luck out and end up on rich horse farms, keeping horses company, getting to eat the good hay and grain, and are even quartered indoors in heated stalls. But that is not the fate of most donkeys. Donkeys have lived with humans as long as or longer than dogs have, but donkeys haven’t figured out how to worm their way into human hearts quite so well. Their history and general treatment do not speak well of the generosity and mercy of human beings.
The farmer couldn’t even quite remember how Carol had ended up with him but she had been in that corral every day for the sixteen years that he had owned her. Once in a while he tossed some hay over the fence and filled up the rusty bathtub with fresh water, but mostly, Carol survived off of brush andbark, pooled rain water, and water from a small muddy stream that ran through her corral. Twice a year, a farrier came to trim her hooves.
The farmer was busy, and he conceded that most of the time, he forgot about Carol. Farm animals are not pets; they are pretty hardy. Donkeys are especially hardy, and can go far on very little.
The thought of Carol alone for years in that tiny patch of woods haunted me, offering some of the first stirrings of an emotional notion of compassion, but even then, my response to her was to bring some apples whenever I visited the farm; it didn’t go much deeper than that. I was distracted, busy, I had a kid, other worries; the life of a donkey seemed very remote to me.
Carol was not good-natured or accepting, and she did not wish to have her hooves trimmed. After a while, the battered farrier just gave her a drugged apple before going to work. She still managed to bite and kick him at least
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