men.
It was in the natural order of things for them to be with a male, though, and natural enough for Simon. The sniffing at the gate went well, but we really couldn’t know how it would go when all three were together.
I liked to think that Simon was getting his family back, both in donkey and human terms. But we had learned many times not to make any assumptions about what animals would do. There are plenty of animal experts around—lots of people who know for a fact what animals are thinking, what they will do. And there are even more animals around to demonstrate that they are unpredictable and unknowable. It is clear what they will do only when you see them do it.
Three weeks later, Simon was stronger. His coat was growing in, the blackened patches on his skin receding. His legs were a bit bowed and funky, but they were getting him around. He and I were taking daily walks around the pasture, and I soon hoped to graduate to the roads and the woods beyond the pasture gate. He was off all of his medications and free of the need for salvesand ointments. The rest of his healing was in the hands of time and nature. There was no question he would survive; it was time for him to live a normal life. By now, I was posting the “Call to Life” videos up on the Internet several times a week, and many thousands of people started their day with Simon’s bray.
It was a rare day he didn’t have visitors. Simon was a ham. He loved a crowd and almost any kind of attention. It was time to take him out of his corral and out into the world. To live with the girls.
So early on a Sunday morning, we opened up the pasture gates. Simon looked up and then walked slowly up the gentle hill and through the open gate. Lulu and Fanny were up in the pole barn, staring down at him.
I noticed that he was moving toward them, but the girls were not rushing to him. Ken Norman, our farrier, had counseled us on Lulu and Fanny’s attitude toward Simon. It would be simple, he said. “We are the queens. He is just Simon.” Ken was, as always, prescient.
Maria and I stood at the base of the pasture looking up as Simon approached the girls in the pole barn. He started toward Fanny, head down and sniffing. Fanny turned toward him, then slowly spun around. Without moving much, she kicked him squarely in the head with both hind feet. We could hear the thump all the way down the hill.
Donkeys use two tools when they challenge, attack, discipline, or fight—their teeth and their hind legs. They can easily kick right through a door. Once when a stray dog had crawled under the gate and entered the pasture headed toward the sheep, I saw Lulu charge the dog and grab his leg in her mouth. She flipped him about fifteen feet in the air, then turned as if to kick him. She didn’t have to. He took off out of the pasture and down the hill.
Simon seemed startled by Fanny’s kick, then shook his head, as if shaking off a horsefly. He moved toward her again, and she kicked him in the head again.
Then Lulu came up to Simon, turned around, and kicked him on the other side of his head. Simon stepped back a bit but didn’t retreat. He didn’t seem especially rattled. It was almost as if he had been expecting it. This, I was told, is a donkey’s way of saying, “Hello, welcome to the farm.”
It was not easy watching Simon get kicked in the head, and Lulu and Fanny each did it several times. This was their way of saying, “Okay, you can live here. We will put up with you, but don’t get too friendly or too close.”
As it happened, almost every one of Simon’s mornings began with his getting kicked in the head by Lulu or Fanny, or both, and after a few months, it just became part of the farm routine.
Having ministered to Simon’s many needs for months, and watching him struggle just to stand up, Maria and I found this kicking ritual hard to witness. In fact, it was almost impossible.
For a few days, we stood at the middle gate with apples and lured Simon
It was in the natural order of things for them to be with a male, though, and natural enough for Simon. The sniffing at the gate went well, but we really couldn’t know how it would go when all three were together.
I liked to think that Simon was getting his family back, both in donkey and human terms. But we had learned many times not to make any assumptions about what animals would do. There are plenty of animal experts around—lots of people who know for a fact what animals are thinking, what they will do. And there are even more animals around to demonstrate that they are unpredictable and unknowable. It is clear what they will do only when you see them do it.
Three weeks later, Simon was stronger. His coat was growing in, the blackened patches on his skin receding. His legs were a bit bowed and funky, but they were getting him around. He and I were taking daily walks around the pasture, and I soon hoped to graduate to the roads and the woods beyond the pasture gate. He was off all of his medications and free of the need for salvesand ointments. The rest of his healing was in the hands of time and nature. There was no question he would survive; it was time for him to live a normal life. By now, I was posting the “Call to Life” videos up on the Internet several times a week, and many thousands of people started their day with Simon’s bray.
It was a rare day he didn’t have visitors. Simon was a ham. He loved a crowd and almost any kind of attention. It was time to take him out of his corral and out into the world. To live with the girls.
So early on a Sunday morning, we opened up the pasture gates. Simon looked up and then walked slowly up the gentle hill and through the open gate. Lulu and Fanny were up in the pole barn, staring down at him.
I noticed that he was moving toward them, but the girls were not rushing to him. Ken Norman, our farrier, had counseled us on Lulu and Fanny’s attitude toward Simon. It would be simple, he said. “We are the queens. He is just Simon.” Ken was, as always, prescient.
Maria and I stood at the base of the pasture looking up as Simon approached the girls in the pole barn. He started toward Fanny, head down and sniffing. Fanny turned toward him, then slowly spun around. Without moving much, she kicked him squarely in the head with both hind feet. We could hear the thump all the way down the hill.
Donkeys use two tools when they challenge, attack, discipline, or fight—their teeth and their hind legs. They can easily kick right through a door. Once when a stray dog had crawled under the gate and entered the pasture headed toward the sheep, I saw Lulu charge the dog and grab his leg in her mouth. She flipped him about fifteen feet in the air, then turned as if to kick him. She didn’t have to. He took off out of the pasture and down the hill.
Simon seemed startled by Fanny’s kick, then shook his head, as if shaking off a horsefly. He moved toward her again, and she kicked him in the head again.
Then Lulu came up to Simon, turned around, and kicked him on the other side of his head. Simon stepped back a bit but didn’t retreat. He didn’t seem especially rattled. It was almost as if he had been expecting it. This, I was told, is a donkey’s way of saying, “Hello, welcome to the farm.”
It was not easy watching Simon get kicked in the head, and Lulu and Fanny each did it several times. This was their way of saying, “Okay, you can live here. We will put up with you, but don’t get too friendly or too close.”
As it happened, almost every one of Simon’s mornings began with his getting kicked in the head by Lulu or Fanny, or both, and after a few months, it just became part of the farm routine.
Having ministered to Simon’s many needs for months, and watching him struggle just to stand up, Maria and I found this kicking ritual hard to witness. In fact, it was almost impossible.
For a few days, we stood at the middle gate with apples and lured Simon
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