Histories

Originally Published December 14, 2021

Blossom

Led into the barn by another donkey, she faced the corner of the stall, hoping that by not seeing us, we would not be able to see her either.  She was one of eighty wild donkeys, dumped at the Bowie kill pen in Texas, and still too feral to approach.  It would be nearly two months before Jenny could sit in the stall and feed her from the bowl.  It was another few months before a touch on the muzzle was permitted, and then only when distracted by feeding.  The rest of the time she preferred to be left alone, out in the paddock, the breeze gently blowing, calm, but with ears constantly attuned to potential danger. 

You never know what goes on during a round-up. The equines are crowded together, young and old, healthy and infirmed, mares and stallions. It is a prison yard.  There are no guards, except when they arrive with their electric prods.  What can relieve the trauma of such circumstances?  Histories are hidden. You only hope, as you look into their eyes, that with time they will begin to trust.  Hers were soft, fearful, and surrounded by long  strawberry blond eyelashes, saying maybe…someday...but not now.  We named her Blossom.

It’s difficult to assess the exact age of a rescue donkey.  Her teeth would have told us. We guessed eleven. Early on, donkeys develop a stout, stolid figure, but Blossom's figure continued to, well, blossom.  Perhaps we should ease up on the grain, we thought, and then it dawned on us…she was pregnant. 

We watched as she became enormous.  She 'bagged up' and began to drip milk. The time was near.  We knew that we couldn't be of any assistance.  We worried.  Then, she escaped from her paddock.  At night.  Feral.  Uncatchable.

We searched in the night, we called, we listened.  Then we heard her footsteps on the wooden footbridge in the lower field.  We attempted to round her up.  She headed in the opposite direction.  We circled around.  She maneuvered the other way.  Finally, when she was ready, she casually returned and hopped back into her paddock. There’s an old expression that if you think donkeys are stubborn, you’ve just been outsmarted by a donkey.

The next morning there were two donkeys.

Apple

Apple was irresistible. Her mother did not object as we swaddled her, patted her, pushed her and played with her as she developed from a shaky foal into a rambunctious paddock presence. She was eminently adoptable. Nevertheless, we decided to keep her with her mother, for her sake, and with the hope that her mother might soften with the arrival of her new charge. This did not happen unfortunately, and when it came time to wean Apple, a year later, off went Apple to adoption, and off went her mother to Save Your Ass Long Ear Rescue in New Hampshire for hopeful rehabilitation.

Noah

At the age of 4, Noah found himself at the New Holland Auction in Pennsylvania, the largest auction house east of the Mississippi, known to be frequented by kill buyers looking for cheap horses to ship to slaughter in Mexico. He had sustained an injury to his stifle making him unfit for work of any kind.  A Percheron,  black as night, tall, lanky thin, he stayed for his thirty day quarantine with Jenny before joining his rescuer/owner, Kara, at Meredith Farm in Topsfield, who had his stifle surgically repaired.

When Kara adopted Apple, she joined Noah at Meredith Farm. Jezzie the senior donkey, took it poorly.  She had ruled the larger, acquiescent Percherons, Noah and Ella, and the old chestnut Rondo, unchallenged.  It was only when Rondo stood guard over Apple day and night, that peace was finally restored in the paddock.

When Kara decided to move them all to Mooresville, North Carolina, Rondo had passed on,  Noah had turned from black to dappled gray, and finally to pure white. Ella remained aloof, and Apple and Jezzie had become inseparable. 

When we visited the Meredith Farm crew in Mooresville today, we wondered if they remembered us, our scent, of voices, our touch…or was it the carrots.