They don’t know—as humans do—how bad off they are, how much they are struggling or hurting. They feel pain and discomfort, but they don’t dwell there. For Simon, I always thought, pain was a feeling, just like feeling strong or well. A space to cross, something to accept and endure.
Donkeys are obsessively ritualistic. They do the same things in the same way every day. There were already two trails crisscrossing Simon’s small corral, where he walked on the same patheach day, and he could still barely walk at all. He made his rounds in the corral, to the bush on the right, the downed limb on the left, the grass on the other side.
This seemed to me a miraculous demonstration of his will to live and the healing power of the natural world. Just a few weeks earlier, we had considered putting him down as an act of compassion. Now, we could hardly wait to get out to the barn to see him get healthy. And mercy meant something different.
I still couldn’t get the neglectful farmer out of my head. What was mercy for him? What was he owed? We could arrest him, trash him on the Internet, make him pay a $125 fine, but I was drawn to the murky questions that no one had answered.
What is a donkey’s life worth to humans? Is it more than a traffic ticket? Less? Was there any good reason to neglect an animal like this? Any good excuse? If we owed Simon a better life, do we owe the farmer any consideration? Even to the extent of wondering what could have driven a man who lived with animals to such neglect?
As always with animal issues, I was reminded that Simon was not part of the discussion. The fate of almost all donkeys and many animals lies in human hands, and donkeys have been making their way in the world for a very long time. Simon didn’t ask to go to his new farm, didn’t ask to be rescued, didn’t consent to be adopted by me.
Perhaps that’s what makes our decisions about animals so intense, so laden, so filled with anger and conflict. The decisions are all ours. All Simon did was to heal, yet that was the most important thing.
Day by day, his eyes cleared, the cloudiness and infection moving out. He was able to see.
His ribs were not sticking out any longer, his stomach was beginning to fill out, and he did not look emaciated.
The fur on his blackened ears began to come in, as well as the fur on his shoulders and back.
The sores on his back healed.
The swelling in his jaw decreased, enabling him to chew normally.
His newly trimmed hooves gave him a solid footing, and he was walking with confidence again.
One morning in early summer I opened the back door, and I heard a loud and piercing sound echoing off the barns. It sounded like a trumpeting elephant. Rose barked and I froze.
I looked over to the pasture, and there was Simon, standing by his hay feeder, his big head sticking out, his ears back, releasing a window-shattering bray at the sight of me.
It was a beautiful sound. I ran back into the house and grabbed my video camera. He was still going by the time I returned. Clearly, his throat and lungs had recovered. His bray was not exactly musical—it was loud and up and down, back and forth, full of wheezes, coughs, and off-key notes.
Maria came running out. Simon was still braying, and she and I broke into applause. I put the first video up on YouTube, and people loved it. After a few brays, I told Maria “It’s the call to life,” and I started posting it in the mornings, to start my day. Simon’s bray became an affirmation, for me and for many other people.
There was something both joyous and defiant about the sound. This battered creature who was just learning to walk again seemed to be reminding me to value life, to use my time well, to face adversity with strength and grace.
It seemed that Simon had won a mighty victory that day, and he was sharing it with me. It was hardly lyrical, but it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard. I sometimes cried when I heard it, though
Donkeys are obsessively ritualistic. They do the same things in the same way every day. There were already two trails crisscrossing Simon’s small corral, where he walked on the same patheach day, and he could still barely walk at all. He made his rounds in the corral, to the bush on the right, the downed limb on the left, the grass on the other side.
This seemed to me a miraculous demonstration of his will to live and the healing power of the natural world. Just a few weeks earlier, we had considered putting him down as an act of compassion. Now, we could hardly wait to get out to the barn to see him get healthy. And mercy meant something different.
I still couldn’t get the neglectful farmer out of my head. What was mercy for him? What was he owed? We could arrest him, trash him on the Internet, make him pay a $125 fine, but I was drawn to the murky questions that no one had answered.
What is a donkey’s life worth to humans? Is it more than a traffic ticket? Less? Was there any good reason to neglect an animal like this? Any good excuse? If we owed Simon a better life, do we owe the farmer any consideration? Even to the extent of wondering what could have driven a man who lived with animals to such neglect?
As always with animal issues, I was reminded that Simon was not part of the discussion. The fate of almost all donkeys and many animals lies in human hands, and donkeys have been making their way in the world for a very long time. Simon didn’t ask to go to his new farm, didn’t ask to be rescued, didn’t consent to be adopted by me.
Perhaps that’s what makes our decisions about animals so intense, so laden, so filled with anger and conflict. The decisions are all ours. All Simon did was to heal, yet that was the most important thing.
Day by day, his eyes cleared, the cloudiness and infection moving out. He was able to see.
His ribs were not sticking out any longer, his stomach was beginning to fill out, and he did not look emaciated.
The fur on his blackened ears began to come in, as well as the fur on his shoulders and back.
The sores on his back healed.
The swelling in his jaw decreased, enabling him to chew normally.
His newly trimmed hooves gave him a solid footing, and he was walking with confidence again.
One morning in early summer I opened the back door, and I heard a loud and piercing sound echoing off the barns. It sounded like a trumpeting elephant. Rose barked and I froze.
I looked over to the pasture, and there was Simon, standing by his hay feeder, his big head sticking out, his ears back, releasing a window-shattering bray at the sight of me.
It was a beautiful sound. I ran back into the house and grabbed my video camera. He was still going by the time I returned. Clearly, his throat and lungs had recovered. His bray was not exactly musical—it was loud and up and down, back and forth, full of wheezes, coughs, and off-key notes.
Maria came running out. Simon was still braying, and she and I broke into applause. I put the first video up on YouTube, and people loved it. After a few brays, I told Maria “It’s the call to life,” and I started posting it in the mornings, to start my day. Simon’s bray became an affirmation, for me and for many other people.
There was something both joyous and defiant about the sound. This battered creature who was just learning to walk again seemed to be reminding me to value life, to use my time well, to face adversity with strength and grace.
It seemed that Simon had won a mighty victory that day, and he was sharing it with me. It was hardly lyrical, but it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard. I sometimes cried when I heard it, though
Similar Books
