When your little 2-year old gelded donkey is lonely and pacing back and forth, back and forth, looking to see if he can catch a glimpse of you through the kitchen window, your heart breaks a little. Every time.
I am a resourceful sort. So I set out to solve his problem. I borrowed a cow — Betsy — for a time. It worked well enough. But I don’t want a cow here and she knew it. That’s another story all together.
I used my channels, flipping from one to the next like I used to as kid on my old manual black and white TV, balancing the tinfoil covered antenna just right. Looking for the right program. “Do you have a donkey?” No. But try these people. “What should I look for in a donkey companion for my donkey?” A jack. No. He had been there. A bigger, older, more dominant jack (testicles in tact) had been the reason Murphy (originally Jesus) had been in need of a new home (ultimately here). Maybe a jennet (say jenny). OK, a girl donkey. About his size. I scoured the countryside.
From one animal sanctuary to another. Then two hours from here, an equine rescue farm that cares for around 90 mules, horses, mini horses, and donkeys had one jennet. One. So I got in the car.
Shaggy was hard to look past. He was short and, well, round. His belly ached toward the ground. And he was a snuggler. His companions in the hard packed dirt corral with a three-sided hay filled shelter were seniors, and other gelded males of various sizes. One of them was nearly 40. Most of them a taupey color with the classic dark brown withers cross like Murphy had. But Leiah, the jennet I traveled to see, looked on warily from the far side of the paddock. Scraggly.
She was a lighter brown with a white belly, big girly eyes and a stare. One of the volunteers put her on a lead rope and brought her over, sneaking a peppermint into my hand, so this donkey and I might get better acquainted. She was calm, obedient on a lead and shy. Not skittish, but definitely doubtful.
I took the plunge. Not that beggars can’t actually be choosers, but Murphy needed a mate and Leiah needed a home. The equine rescue farm had taken her from the slaughter line at a recent livestock auction. No one had wanted her. And if they didn’t take her, she would be euthanized. It happens all the time.
She was 7 years old or so (donkeys can live to 50). It’s hard to say for sure, but that’s the story her teeth tell. She had all her vet visits, the farrier had come to trim her hooves and her teeth were floated (a dentist-like process making she didn’t have any rough spots). She was ready to go.
In the years since Leiah (her rescue name), now Clover (her forever name), came to the farm, she has become more confident. She meets me at the fence line every day. She is more easily approached by visitors. She keeps perfect company with Murphy. They play, fight and bicker. One is never far from the other in the pasture and when they are, I worry. “What’s up with Clover?”, I say when I can’t see her. Usually something’s up.
Just recently, Clover was walking on three feet (a sad sight), holding her back left hoof over the ground. She’s been lame before on other feet. A sprain from horsing around in the pasture. An abscess, perhaps. I keep her and Murphy on a low-carb diet to minimize dietary implications, even though they overindulge in the green fields of summer. She’s not a show donkey. Not a field hand. Not much of a goat protector. But a friend.
I am like this with other decisions that are not donkey-selection related. My family knows that when we go looking for a Christmas tree, I find it difficult to turn the first one down. It just makes me sad. Even if it’s a little scraggly.
I didn’t set out looking for a donkey with perfect conformation or fancy bloodlines with Murphy or Clover. Actually, I didn’t set out looking for Murphy at all. And when seeking a mate for him, only one road led me to one workable option — one donkey. That’s it.
Both Murphy and Clover have their issues (don’t we all). Murphy has fat lumps. Clover is a magnet for fly bites. Both of them have some hoof issues. But here they are, perfectly imperfect. They are happy in their field with one another’s company. And that makes me happy.
xo, Farm Girl