Donkey!

There was a donkey born this last fall near us. He’s grown since then, of course. He’s now in that sweetness-to-die-for stage. He’s still smaller than both his parents. They all graze together in an open field we pass on the way to town in rural Louisiana where we live. He stays near his mother, as young animals do. His coat is still more shaggy than smooth, and its color is a shade lighter than his mother’s dirty gray. It’s somewhat tawny. That won’t be for long. He even has bangs. It’s a joy to watch him munch his grass just like a grownup, surely and steadily, taking a small step or two every so often to find uneaten blades. We want to take him home with us.

Non-professional photographs of actual donkey(s) here, and below.

Maybe it’s partly because I’m 77. Seeing this little animal, so young, I soak in its youthfulness, imbibe it like a scent, and, am, yes, rejuvenated. For a few minutes, anyway. I feel better after having seen this donkey, even if it never looks up at me or acknowledges my existence, which is normally the case. How can I compete with delectable grass?

It’s beginning its journey, without a care, in the shadow of its protective mother. That watchfulness we all miss. Someone there to keep us from harm. That sense of safety.

There are cows in the field as well, maybe seven or eight. Gaywynn tells me that the donkeys are there to protect the cows and their calves from coyotes. We have coyotes here. You can hear them at night. Most places do these days. I found this at Mother Earth News: “Donkeys are naturally aggressive to canines [i.e., dogs, coyotes]. They will charge the threat and attempt to chase it away. They may slash out with their hooves or turn and kick the predator.” That would deter me, I assure you, if I were a coyote.

By the way, I found that the donkey’s reputation for stubbornness is not because of some innate sense of contrariness. According to Wiki, “this [trait] has been attributed to a much stronger sense of self-preservation than exhibited by horses…it is considerably more difficult to force or frighten a donkey into doing something it perceives to be dangerous.” I would say their instincts are sound when it comes to humans.

Every time we drive to town or return, we look for the little donkey grazing beside its mother. We stop the car and watch him. It’s a country road, little used, so we can linger. We do. He’s such a sweet-looking creature—small, fluffy, soft. Sometimes we can’t see him, because he’s in a remote part of the field where, I suspect, the grass is greener. That brings a small sense of disappointment to us. But we’ll be back, going to town and then returning. We will see him again. We don’t want him to grow up. One day, all too soon, though, he will, and we won’t know the difference between him and his mother and his father. We still can, though, and that brightens our comings and goings.