Daniel, the brown Donkey

Daniel, the brown Donkey I met a friend in a pub and over a few pints I found myself with the promise of some donkeys.

On a sunny spring day with nature fit to burst I built a stable from old recycled timber and flashing new wriggly tin.

I found an old yellow bath for the water.

Hammering away and hot with sweat I drank gallons and Lizzie and I had lunch on a tray.

Then came Daniel, much bigger than I thought he’d be.

Brown like a conker and round and tight and smelling. Fire in his eyes.

He came with a friend, of course and they galloped round and round my untidy paddock, kicking up their heels and braying.

And in the sandy patch he kicked up the bones and teeth of ice-age horses long gone before him.

This was now his world.

He could bray!

Suddenly the quiet valley and our little kingdom was full of the mad noise, echoing and bouncing off the low clouds.

When he was startled by deer or in the morning and evening shouting for food or the jingle of my keys in my pocket or anyone, just passing.

He loved pony nuts. He ate cardboard and chewed on the firewood.

He wore a path round the crab apple tree waiting for the wind.

He stood in the smoke of old bonfires.

The children would ride him with a little saddle and then he would throw them off.

I wrestled with him so we could force him to take wormer.

My neighbour and I laughing and fighting with him in the dust, tying him to the black gate.

Stan the blacksmith, dressed in leather, dripping with sweat cursing and swearing at him and the dog stealing the hoof cuttings to chew.

I would sit in the stable deep in straw on a windy day with the tin clattering and the weather vane turning and squeaking and he’d come close and rest his head on my shoulder and blow in my face.

Like me, he grew old and his face went grey. Every day we would meet when I was around and have a few words and behind his silence was his great wisdom and intelligence.

He was very old, maybe more than 45, there’s no knowing. He was with us for 18.

And then at last as the deep snow began to melt he went down and the vet came and our friend came and they looked upon him and made sad noises.

And then he died. ©monty rakusen 2010