Saving Simon Read Free Page B

played no part in the life of anyone.
    A year or so after I met Carol, I bought a farm in upstate New York—I called it Bedlam Farm—and I bought some of the sheep I had been working with. The farmer hired somebody with a trailer to drive them up to me. If I had never met a donkey before Carol, I also had never set foot on a farm before in my life—I was raised in Providence, Rhode Island, and had lived in New York City, Dallas, Boston, Washington, and Baltimore before moving to New Jersey. The farm would, in my mind, become a laboratory for my newfound passion to writeabout dogs, animals, and rural life. Bedlam Farm consisted of ninety acres, a Civil War–era farmhouse, four barns, and large areas of fenced-in pasture. It was a good place for sheep and a paradise for donkeys, although I had no plans to acquire any. I had heard from farmers that donkeys were wonderful guard animals, and would keep coyotes and predators away from sheep. But I had my hands full just trying to survive on my new farm. When the trailer of sheep arrived, the driver backed it into the pasture and opened the gates.
    The first creature out was Carol, who looked around disdainfully, snorted, kicked one of the sheep away from her, and put her nose in my pocket. The driver handed me a note from the farmer, which read, “Here is Carol. You love her so much, you can feed her.”
    So began my life with Carol. She was, from the first, the most imperious creature I had ever met, human or animal. In hot summers, she loved to hang out in the big shady barn. She could hardly believe her good fortune having acres of pasture to wander and all the grass and fresh water she might want.
    Carol was an older donkey, and she had lived outdoors for years without shelter or good, nutritious food. I saw her limping, and had a large-animal vet come and check her out. Carol did not wish to be examined. She butted the vet into the wall, tried to bite him, and nearly kicked him through the window. We got a halter on her and cross-tied her to the sides of the barn. She had a laundry list of ailments, from foundering—a painful wasting disease of the hooves—to swollen joints and gums. She was, the vet said, in great pain, and he gave her some shots and handed me a bunch of long needles to stick in her butt later in the day. Then he left.
    That night, when I went out to administer the medications, I got another major lesson in donkey thinking. They read intentions.When I came out to give Carol an apple, she was standing by the gate, meek as a kitten. If I came out with some needles or medicines in my pocket, she was off and running. That night it was –20°F, and a stubborn human and a stubborn donkey had an epic confrontation on my farm’s hilly pasture. Carol took off in a blinding storm, hobbling and stumbling up a hill, as my border collie Rose and I gave chase. I caught her an hour later on the top of the hill and stuck the needle in her butt while she dragged me all the way back down the hill. I got frostbite in three fingers that night. I learned that if you want to give a donkey a needle, get her in a small stall with a grain bucket, hide the needle out of sight, and then stick her when her mouth is full.
    Despite all her ailments, she kept giving me donkey lessons.
    One was the gate lesson. You can’t just have a normal gate with a donkey. I had a chain that hung on my gate and when you closed it, you wrapped the chain around the gatepost and it held fast. Carol loved to open gates and doors and windows; it was child’s play for her. It took me a while to figure it out, but she would watch me latch the gate, then she would lean over the fence and unwrap the chain, and the gate would swing open. Twice, I came home to find that the gate was open, and so was the back door of the farmhouse—the knob was fun for her to grab and twist. Carol would get into the kitchen, open the cabinets, and munch on bread and cereal. And it was not simple to get her out of the