Last night after
work and a hellacious thunderstorm that just hung over the house for about an
hour, throwing down lightning bolts and rain until the barnyard looked like the
boiling mud that spews from volcanos—except with ducks in it—the farrier came and
trimmed the hooves of my donkey, Neb. His feet are sound and tidy, and James
says it is the first time he’s ever done Neb’s hooves without getting cut. I
feel a lot better about life today.
Somehow I had
this idea that donkeys had to have their hooves done once a year, the way you
shear most sheep. But one day this spring I went out to feed the barn folk and
noticed that, in fact, my donkey was getting slipper-footed, like one of those “Before”
pictures you see on donkey rescue websites. I was mortified, so I immediately
called the farrier and set up an appointment. But when that day arrived, I went
down to the gate with the halter to suit Nebbie up for his spa treatment, and
he heard the halter clanging before I was halfway down the yard, and off he
went down the hill, never to return until after I had gone indoors and
cancelled the appointment. I called around my equine acquaintance and got the
name of a sweet woman just a few miles away who has several smaller donkeys. She
provided some advice and emotional support (because I defy you to name another
person you know who has been on the cover of Bad Farmer magazine as often as I have), and I came home to get to
work. I bought a new halter in a different color—the checkout girl at Tractor
Supply advised me to point out to the donkey up front how handsome he was going
to look in red, as this knowledge would make it far easier to get him into the
device—and I started going out every afternoon on my lunch break and brushing
him a bit with a soft scrub brush, because he likes that, and gradually
introducing the new halter by sight and by feel. After several weeks of
consistent appointments, lubricated by about 20 pounds of chopped carrots, this
process resulted in the donkey wearing his new halter; walking on his matching
new lead rope; and standing in relative peace for the farrier, magnanimously overlooking
their past history together, and the fact that the farrier is male, a category
which I have been told Neb is prejudiced against. The reader will also note
there was no biting, which is another fast solution the donkey favors when the
odds are running against him. All in all, I think anyone would agree that the
donkey has made the executive decision to rise above.
Now that this
handsome fellow is possessed of adorable cute feet and all these skills—we have
pretty much mastered “kiss” this week, in a manner so gentle that no blood at
all has been shed from my nose, though I did see stars the first couple of
tries—I cannot help but reflect on the fact that when Neb stepped off the
trailer here last summer, he arrived with a driving harness in his luggage, as
well as a library of books on the subject. When he
hastened to the graveside of the second dog to die last month—the funeral
having been conducted in the family plot inside the pasture—I told him he was
going to have to absorb a lot of unused dog love, and even though the new dog
is coming home this weekend, I think Neb and I had just enough of a gap to establish
our understanding, and that we can commence sorting out what a donkey might like to
do with his time besides stand around the barn with the grazing classes, who,
much as I love them, are not as smart as a donkey. There are definitely no Scrabble
tournaments going on out there. The ass might like more to ponder.
