Read Online My Million-Dollar Donkey by Ginny; East - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ginny; East
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stuffed animal with paws sprawled over his forearms and the animal’s head flopping to and fro like a rag doll.
“Come see our pups,” the boy said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and wiping the hand on the dog. My son lifted his eyebrows as the kid grabbed his hand and pulled him into the barn.
“How many dogs do you have?” I asked, losing count because the animals wouldn’t stop moving.
“Twenty-three or so...not counting the puppies.”
Blue Ridge had an epidemic problem of strays, despite the efforts of several grass roots organizations trying to make neutering affordable. Country residents considered drowning an unwanted litter or dumping strays on the side of the road more practical and cost-effective than paying for neutering. Eric obviously was an exception to the rule. I liked him for that.
“Must be hard to find homes for all these puppies,” I mumbled, petting one dog’s matted head as I followed Eric into the barn. “That’s why I’ve got twenty-three dogs.”
Inside, eight adorable puppies nestled around a nervous border collie mother. My son, a dog aficionado, fell to his knees before the snuggly, whimpering pups and was instantly lost in the bliss of puppy heaven.
“Why don’t you take one home?” Eric said, ruffling my son’s hair. “They’re ready.”
My son turned hopeful eyes up to his dad, and to my utter surprise, Mark nodded. “Go ahead. You’ve been asking for a dog.”
This, from the man who’d been complaining for years about our little schnauzer, griping that the dog smelled, dug up the yard, and farted every time we gathered to watch TV?
“Is he kidding?” my son whispered as Mark stepped outside to talk to Eric.
“Just pick yourself a dog and say no more,” I advised, deciding I would employ the same tactic when we got around to looking at the horse. I watched my son bend down to tenderly pick over the puppies feeling a powerful sense of rightness. It was such a small thing, allowing a child to pick his own dog, but the moment felt symbolic, as if we were offering our son not just a dog, but a chance to experience a world of new, expanded choices.
Eric led us across the barnyard to a stable that looked in even worse shape than the barn. Half the wall boards were missing and those still in service were held up by two-by-fours wedged against a nearby tree. Two miniature horses, a dozen chickens, and a few donkeys watched me with curious eyes as I gazed at an animal I considered the most unappealing horse to ever set hoof on the planet.
“Hope that’s not the animal he’s selling. That has to be the ugliest horse I’ve ever seen,” I whispered to Mark.
Eric flashed an amused grin. “Probably because that’s a mule.”
I blushed as I realized he had heard me. “I knew that,” I lied.
“I’ll take a mule over a horse any day. Mules are smart, good-natured, and stronger than any horse.”
I paused to take a good look. The beast had a big head, long ears, and a scraggly coat, but otherwise resembled a horse in every way, as if a mule was a horse with the beauty gene removed, leaving only muscle, buck teeth, and the barest hint of equestrian finesse behind.
“Is that one pregnant?” I asked, pointing to a rather portly mule farther back in the corral.
A small dimple appeared in Eric’s cheek. “Nope. She’s just fat. Mules themselves are sterile. You can only get a mule by breeding a horse with a donkey.”
“I knew that.”
Eric, no doubt, could guess I didn’t really know the reproductive cycle of a mule. Heck, I didn’t know the difference between mules, ugly horses, donkeys, or probably unicorns for that matter. But kindness in the country was offered up as freely as a flick of the middle finger in suburbia, so he was warmly tolerant of my naïveté.
He led us to a riding ring where a lovely bay mare named Dixie was standing. I don’t know if it was luck or fate that this horse happened to be the exact replica of my
“Come see our pups,” the boy said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and wiping the hand on the dog. My son lifted his eyebrows as the kid grabbed his hand and pulled him into the barn.
“How many dogs do you have?” I asked, losing count because the animals wouldn’t stop moving.
“Twenty-three or so...not counting the puppies.”
Blue Ridge had an epidemic problem of strays, despite the efforts of several grass roots organizations trying to make neutering affordable. Country residents considered drowning an unwanted litter or dumping strays on the side of the road more practical and cost-effective than paying for neutering. Eric obviously was an exception to the rule. I liked him for that.
“Must be hard to find homes for all these puppies,” I mumbled, petting one dog’s matted head as I followed Eric into the barn. “That’s why I’ve got twenty-three dogs.”
Inside, eight adorable puppies nestled around a nervous border collie mother. My son, a dog aficionado, fell to his knees before the snuggly, whimpering pups and was instantly lost in the bliss of puppy heaven.
“Why don’t you take one home?” Eric said, ruffling my son’s hair. “They’re ready.”
My son turned hopeful eyes up to his dad, and to my utter surprise, Mark nodded. “Go ahead. You’ve been asking for a dog.”
This, from the man who’d been complaining for years about our little schnauzer, griping that the dog smelled, dug up the yard, and farted every time we gathered to watch TV?
“Is he kidding?” my son whispered as Mark stepped outside to talk to Eric.
“Just pick yourself a dog and say no more,” I advised, deciding I would employ the same tactic when we got around to looking at the horse. I watched my son bend down to tenderly pick over the puppies feeling a powerful sense of rightness. It was such a small thing, allowing a child to pick his own dog, but the moment felt symbolic, as if we were offering our son not just a dog, but a chance to experience a world of new, expanded choices.
Eric led us across the barnyard to a stable that looked in even worse shape than the barn. Half the wall boards were missing and those still in service were held up by two-by-fours wedged against a nearby tree. Two miniature horses, a dozen chickens, and a few donkeys watched me with curious eyes as I gazed at an animal I considered the most unappealing horse to ever set hoof on the planet.
“Hope that’s not the animal he’s selling. That has to be the ugliest horse I’ve ever seen,” I whispered to Mark.
Eric flashed an amused grin. “Probably because that’s a mule.”
I blushed as I realized he had heard me. “I knew that,” I lied.
“I’ll take a mule over a horse any day. Mules are smart, good-natured, and stronger than any horse.”
I paused to take a good look. The beast had a big head, long ears, and a scraggly coat, but otherwise resembled a horse in every way, as if a mule was a horse with the beauty gene removed, leaving only muscle, buck teeth, and the barest hint of equestrian finesse behind.
“Is that one pregnant?” I asked, pointing to a rather portly mule farther back in the corral.
A small dimple appeared in Eric’s cheek. “Nope. She’s just fat. Mules themselves are sterile. You can only get a mule by breeding a horse with a donkey.”
“I knew that.”
Eric, no doubt, could guess I didn’t really know the reproductive cycle of a mule. Heck, I didn’t know the difference between mules, ugly horses, donkeys, or probably unicorns for that matter. But kindness in the country was offered up as freely as a flick of the middle finger in suburbia, so he was warmly tolerant of my naïveté.
He led us to a riding ring where a lovely bay mare named Dixie was standing. I don’t know if it was luck or fate that this horse happened to be the exact replica of my
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