girls, far up in the other pasture, as if they were some distant thing in a faraway land, beyond his reach, beyond his life.
That will change soon, I said. They will soon be a part of your life. Donkeys are herd animals; they don’t care to be alone. But anyone who knows donkeys also knows they are romantics. They are quick to fall in love. They have great big hearts.
SIX
Sweethearts
Early the next morning, we let Lulu and Fanny into the south side of the barn. Simon was out in the corral on the north side, and there was a large door with a ramp on his side. The middle of the barn had a wooden gate with wire mesh that could be swung shut. We used it to separate sheep or to lock up the donkeys before the farrier or the vet came.
Maria and I had talked to vets and farriers and donkey lovers about the acclimation process and were told more or less what we had guessed ourselves. Simon and the girls should not be thrown in together suddenly. They needed to get used to one another, to sniff each other and get everybody’s smells straight. We planned to open up the side doors of the barn in the daytime and let the three of them check one another out as much as they wanted.
The barn permitted the three to be much closer than simply looking at each other from their different pastures. When Simon was stronger and two or three weeks had gone by, we would put them all together.
We knew donkeys well, and we had talked to other people who understand equines. Horses and donkeys are not, as a rule, gentle to newcomers. There are days, even weeks, of biting, kicking, bumping, and edginess over food.
Simon was gelded, but he didn’t know it, and when the girls were in heat—they had not been spayed—there would probably be some excitement. Donkey romance is not gracious or delicate—there are no roses or poems or walks in the parks. It is also common for donkeys to greet newcomers by turning and kicking them in the head.
Around ten A.M. , we checked on Simon, gave him his meds, and then opened up the barn door. Lulu and Fanny were waiting at the gate, peering through the slats, their heads down. Simon walked quickly into the barn and then, eyes wide, walked up to the fence. The girls and Simon sniffed one another for the longest time. Lulu’s ears went back, but Fanny’s didn’t. Simon stood preening near the gate. We came back a few hours later and they were all still where we had left them. In the late afternoon, everybody got hungry. Lulu and Fanny went back up the hill to their pasture, and Simon went out to his corral to graze. We closed up the barn, enough for that day.
In the evening, I came out for my final check on Simon. He was standing up on the rise behind the barn, looking up the hill. Lulu and Fanny were in the pole barn staring back.
I heard Fanny’s soft bray, and then Simon’s louder response.
Simon seemed different to me. He seemed more alive, more intense. His eyes had a sparkle and focus I hadn’t seen before. His chest was puffed out a bit.
I was excited for him. A donkey’s life was not complete without the presence of other donkeys. And Simon could use some romance in his life. I worried a bit about the girls. They had led picture-perfect lives to this point. They had been raisedin a clean and beautiful barn by a knowledgeable breeder and had come to Bedlam Farm when they were both quite young. They had acres of pastures to roam, hills to climb, brush and rocks to stand on and explore. Every morning they came down for their treat; every afternoon they consented to be brushed.
They guarded the sheep faithfully and tolerated the border collies chasing the sheep around. In the seven years that I had had Lulu and Fanny, no fox, coyote, or stray dog had entered our pasture or taken a sheep. And Maria and I had both spent countless hours sitting with them, brushing them, sharing donkey daydreams with them. As our friends often joked, it was a perfect arrangement for them—plenty of grass, no
That will change soon, I said. They will soon be a part of your life. Donkeys are herd animals; they don’t care to be alone. But anyone who knows donkeys also knows they are romantics. They are quick to fall in love. They have great big hearts.
SIX
Sweethearts
Early the next morning, we let Lulu and Fanny into the south side of the barn. Simon was out in the corral on the north side, and there was a large door with a ramp on his side. The middle of the barn had a wooden gate with wire mesh that could be swung shut. We used it to separate sheep or to lock up the donkeys before the farrier or the vet came.
Maria and I had talked to vets and farriers and donkey lovers about the acclimation process and were told more or less what we had guessed ourselves. Simon and the girls should not be thrown in together suddenly. They needed to get used to one another, to sniff each other and get everybody’s smells straight. We planned to open up the side doors of the barn in the daytime and let the three of them check one another out as much as they wanted.
The barn permitted the three to be much closer than simply looking at each other from their different pastures. When Simon was stronger and two or three weeks had gone by, we would put them all together.
We knew donkeys well, and we had talked to other people who understand equines. Horses and donkeys are not, as a rule, gentle to newcomers. There are days, even weeks, of biting, kicking, bumping, and edginess over food.
Simon was gelded, but he didn’t know it, and when the girls were in heat—they had not been spayed—there would probably be some excitement. Donkey romance is not gracious or delicate—there are no roses or poems or walks in the parks. It is also common for donkeys to greet newcomers by turning and kicking them in the head.
Around ten A.M. , we checked on Simon, gave him his meds, and then opened up the barn door. Lulu and Fanny were waiting at the gate, peering through the slats, their heads down. Simon walked quickly into the barn and then, eyes wide, walked up to the fence. The girls and Simon sniffed one another for the longest time. Lulu’s ears went back, but Fanny’s didn’t. Simon stood preening near the gate. We came back a few hours later and they were all still where we had left them. In the late afternoon, everybody got hungry. Lulu and Fanny went back up the hill to their pasture, and Simon went out to his corral to graze. We closed up the barn, enough for that day.
In the evening, I came out for my final check on Simon. He was standing up on the rise behind the barn, looking up the hill. Lulu and Fanny were in the pole barn staring back.
I heard Fanny’s soft bray, and then Simon’s louder response.
Simon seemed different to me. He seemed more alive, more intense. His eyes had a sparkle and focus I hadn’t seen before. His chest was puffed out a bit.
I was excited for him. A donkey’s life was not complete without the presence of other donkeys. And Simon could use some romance in his life. I worried a bit about the girls. They had led picture-perfect lives to this point. They had been raisedin a clean and beautiful barn by a knowledgeable breeder and had come to Bedlam Farm when they were both quite young. They had acres of pastures to roam, hills to climb, brush and rocks to stand on and explore. Every morning they came down for their treat; every afternoon they consented to be brushed.
They guarded the sheep faithfully and tolerated the border collies chasing the sheep around. In the seven years that I had had Lulu and Fanny, no fox, coyote, or stray dog had entered our pasture or taken a sheep. And Maria and I had both spent countless hours sitting with them, brushing them, sharing donkey daydreams with them. As our friends often joked, it was a perfect arrangement for them—plenty of grass, no
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