When we were negotiating for our farm the question of a barn cat came up. There was a cat in the barn that we were not particularly keen on keeping. The old owners were noncommittal, but the cat was gone when we arrived. We did not ask any questions.
As it turns out, a barn cat would have been a snap. Soon after we got here we noticed a whitish creature in our upper pastures. The sons and their friends who moved most of our stuff into the house before we actually arrived had also noticed it, and son Gabe named it Thunder Donkey, for that is what it was. We had not only bought a farm, we had inherited an animal that everyone had sort of forgotten to tell us about. Since you are responsible for your animals, this has caused us no end of consternation: how can you care for an animal that wants nothing to do with you?
Here in the mountains of western North Carolina, it turns out, farmers routinely use donkeys as livestock protectors. No one we have talked to knows the beginning of our own Thunder Donkey, though one neighbor recollects that its halter was put on about a dozen years ago during an unsuccessful attempt to trim its hooves.
The attempt was unsuccessful since Thunder Donkey is fundamentally a wild animal. But even wild animals have common animal feelings – merely overlaid with the wild protections of fear and suspicion. And those qualities did not disappear because the farm had new owners.
So we lived the first few months with a ghostly creature haunting the upper pastures: occasionally seen standing watch at the edge of the woods that cover the top of our hill. It was alone in fertile pastures, so hunger was not a problem. A small stream (‘branch’ in the local parlance) provided water. When we tried to get close to it, it would huff and puff and run away. This is why I am calling Thunder Donkey an it: we could never get close enough to identify it even as a male or female.
But curiosity and sociability eventually overcome even the fear and suspicion of a wild animal. Last week Thunder Donkey made its way down from the woods and upper pastures to our upper hay field. After a few days we were able to persuade it to mosey into the lot behind the barn which led to the hill pasture on the west side of the farm, and the triangle paddock between the big barn and the house. These were huge advances, since Thunder Donkey was now among other animals. Of course we could not get much closer to her than before – though we got close enough to figure out that it was a she, so now I do not have to tiptoe around her sex anymore.
Being close enough to tell her sex also meant that we were close enough to see how terrible her feet were.
Horse people have their farriers come by every 6 weeks or so to keep their horses’ feet in good shape. Thunder Donkey had gone much longer than that since anyone had touched her. She walked like someone does who is wearing skin-diving flippers on land. We had to do something right away to help this creature we had inherited and did not want.
We assumed that a wild donkey who could kick your brains out without even thinking about it would have to be sedated by a vet before she would submit to a pedicure. Since we did not think we could even catch her, we began inquiring about vets with the shooting skills to employ tranquilizer guns. It turns out these vets are pretty thin on the ground here in western N.C.
But Zach’s farrier assured us she could manage the task without anesthesia, so early on a Saturday morning in mid-November we assembled in the barn to see what would happen. The footwork on Zach’s horse, Dallas, went very quickly and we move on to the main attraction: getting Thunder Donkey into the barn. Zach got a lead on her half rotted, who-knows-how-old halter and started leading her to the barn. All went well until she stood at the barn door when something ineffable turned her into an equine motorboat who felt the need to give Zach a ski ride. He hung on admirably well until she leapt the creek, at which point prudence kicked in and he abandoned his attempt at direct mastery. Physics was against him anyway: he is about 150 pounds, and Thunder Donkey is probably pushing the scales at 450-500. But her suspicion and fear were fading after only a day or so in the civilization of the barnyard, and we were able to grab her halter after a little coaxing and ease her into the barn where the farrier set to work.
She had taken care of Zach’s horse in about 20 minutes. This job was to keep her busy for more than 90. We tied Thunder Donkey to one of the big barn posts with her halter, and tied up her legs one at a time. I distracted her by puling cockleburs out of her face and ears, but Trish the farrier did yeoman’s work, cutting away a decade and more of neglect. Her estimate is that it will take a year to get TD’s feet back to as good as they can ever be again. In the meantime we feed her apple slices and horse treats and get her used to being around humans. She is adopting our herd of goats as her own and will no longer be the ghostly presence at the edge of the woods that she once was.
But don’t look for us to be giving her a bath for quite a long time!