four minutes. I was checking e-mail on my iPhone when I saw Simon trot down the slight incline through the gate. In a few seconds he was alongside of me. I gave him a carrot. I love the smell of the meadow, and Simon seemed to like it, too. The smell of fresh grass is sweet, and I am sure he was drawn to it. In the distance, the village of West Hebron twinkled in the sun.
Down in the valley, cows spread out over a pasture. A large tractor collecting the first-cut hay was behind them in another field. The blackflies had come out, but not the horseflies. Butterflies were making their little whirlpool circles all over the meadow, and overhead, I heard the lonely and piercing cry of a hawk circling for mice and rabbits. It is one of the loneliest sounds in the world, I told Simon, and one of the most beautiful.
Once again, I could not help talking to Simon. There is something about a donkey that is companionable, that will open you up, especially if the donkey is Simon, raised from the dead to live a fully appreciated life.
Simon chewed his carrot thoughtfully and took in his surroundings. He looked somewhat wistfully out into the other pasture, where Lulu and Fanny were standing still, watching. I see, I said. You are probably lonely, probably have been ever since you left your farm, your family, your child.
Of course he was. Donkeys are herd animals; they are never at ease being alone. They are often used to keep horses company and to guard sheep, but they need other donkeys in their lives. I had learned this from Carol.
Watching the news, it sometimes seems we live in a cold,angry, and violent world. If you have a rescue donkey who loves people, it seems like a warm and compassionate one.
My community—my friends, neighbors, blog and book readers—responded to Simon and his healing. I got letters from schoolkids, apples sent via UPS from Oregon, Facebook messages, e-mails, e-cards, flowers, bags of grain. I got blankets woven by donkey lovers. And visits from those in my immediate world. Simon touched people. There are rivers of compassion out there.
Simon and I began walking together regularly. It wasn’t quite a straight line we followed—it never is with donkeys, even if you lead them by a halter. I explained butterflies to Simon; I waved to the UPS driver coming down the road to the farmhouse. I told Simon about how he delivered packages almost every day, and somehow I found myself explaining the Internet to him.
Scott, the UPS driver, honked and pulled over. I introduced him to Simon, and he waved. I would soon grow familiar with the sight of Simon over at the pasture gate, getting a carrot from Scott.
On one of our walks, Simon proved interested in several things: some nettles—painful weeds for humans to touch—were growing by the fence, and he went over to sniff them and eat a few. He was transfixed by a giant limb that had fallen off of a tree, and sniffed every inch of it for ten minutes. And he seemed drawn to a big old rotting tree stump sticking out of the ground. He paused a few times to tear up some grass and to chew it carefully and thoughtfully. His tail flicked away some blackflies. He seemed to want to stay beside me, but paid no attention to me. Simon gave the impression of loving life, of appreciating another shot at it. He always reacted to things as ifhe were seeing them for the first time. When he came up to a tree branch, he stared at it, sniffed it, nibbled on it as if it were the most miraculous thing in the world.
As we walked, I talked to Simon, speaking to him to encourage him to live and heal. It was more of a man-to-donkey thing, the age-old dialogue between strange men and asses. I explained that I was a writer. I told him about Lulu and Fanny. I told him the story of how Maria and I met. I told him I would be putting a halter on him soon, and we would be taking walks into the woods, and perhaps down the street into the town.
The morning of that first walk, I had brought Rose
Down in the valley, cows spread out over a pasture. A large tractor collecting the first-cut hay was behind them in another field. The blackflies had come out, but not the horseflies. Butterflies were making their little whirlpool circles all over the meadow, and overhead, I heard the lonely and piercing cry of a hawk circling for mice and rabbits. It is one of the loneliest sounds in the world, I told Simon, and one of the most beautiful.
Once again, I could not help talking to Simon. There is something about a donkey that is companionable, that will open you up, especially if the donkey is Simon, raised from the dead to live a fully appreciated life.
Simon chewed his carrot thoughtfully and took in his surroundings. He looked somewhat wistfully out into the other pasture, where Lulu and Fanny were standing still, watching. I see, I said. You are probably lonely, probably have been ever since you left your farm, your family, your child.
Of course he was. Donkeys are herd animals; they are never at ease being alone. They are often used to keep horses company and to guard sheep, but they need other donkeys in their lives. I had learned this from Carol.
Watching the news, it sometimes seems we live in a cold,angry, and violent world. If you have a rescue donkey who loves people, it seems like a warm and compassionate one.
My community—my friends, neighbors, blog and book readers—responded to Simon and his healing. I got letters from schoolkids, apples sent via UPS from Oregon, Facebook messages, e-mails, e-cards, flowers, bags of grain. I got blankets woven by donkey lovers. And visits from those in my immediate world. Simon touched people. There are rivers of compassion out there.
Simon and I began walking together regularly. It wasn’t quite a straight line we followed—it never is with donkeys, even if you lead them by a halter. I explained butterflies to Simon; I waved to the UPS driver coming down the road to the farmhouse. I told Simon about how he delivered packages almost every day, and somehow I found myself explaining the Internet to him.
Scott, the UPS driver, honked and pulled over. I introduced him to Simon, and he waved. I would soon grow familiar with the sight of Simon over at the pasture gate, getting a carrot from Scott.
On one of our walks, Simon proved interested in several things: some nettles—painful weeds for humans to touch—were growing by the fence, and he went over to sniff them and eat a few. He was transfixed by a giant limb that had fallen off of a tree, and sniffed every inch of it for ten minutes. And he seemed drawn to a big old rotting tree stump sticking out of the ground. He paused a few times to tear up some grass and to chew it carefully and thoughtfully. His tail flicked away some blackflies. He seemed to want to stay beside me, but paid no attention to me. Simon gave the impression of loving life, of appreciating another shot at it. He always reacted to things as ifhe were seeing them for the first time. When he came up to a tree branch, he stared at it, sniffed it, nibbled on it as if it were the most miraculous thing in the world.
As we walked, I talked to Simon, speaking to him to encourage him to live and heal. It was more of a man-to-donkey thing, the age-old dialogue between strange men and asses. I explained that I was a writer. I told him about Lulu and Fanny. I told him the story of how Maria and I met. I told him I would be putting a halter on him soon, and we would be taking walks into the woods, and perhaps down the street into the town.
The morning of that first walk, I had brought Rose
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