How sad it is to give away a pet, even if it has tried to brain you. I cannot see myself getting over the loss of my donkeys any time soon. Although their new master is a kind local man who plans to breed them and sell their milk, I feel a sort of grief. Last night I dreamt I was leading them into the London Underground (I think it was the Northern Line) but they broke loose and ran into the traffic. It is time I wrote about them once and for all. That way I hope to sleep in peace.
I bought Matilde and and her foal Amelia twelve years ago to graze the long grass, lowering the risk of forest fires, and to carry down logs for the fireplace and stoves. I worked them little, gave them the freedom of the woods and treated them to piles of fallen apples in summer and alfalfa in winter. I adore Melly and Matty but, to be honest, it breaks my back to heave their expensive fodder up the fell in the rain while having to scrimp on necessities like Cuban rum and Danish baccy.
The grey mother, sullen as a camel, almost killed Don Prospero, the old caretaker, when the donkeys were delivered to “La Ermita”. He frog-marched her into the stable after she had dragged him round in circles, her hind legs lashing out viciously. Melly, who has a black coat as sleek as an otter’s, was small enough for Rupert, the black Labrador, to jump playfully onto her back.
Matty has become more docile over the years when working but still takes up a defensive position when loose, presenting me with her hindquarters, one hoof tilted like a ballerina. (I know all this ought to be in the past tense but I cannot bring myself to make this painful grammatical leap into the present reality.)
They have been rather disappointing as pets. While they clearly appreciate my old variety apples there is no assinine equivalent of the purr of a cat or or the fussy whine of a dog. These donkeys still treat me with suspicion. They come stampeding down when I call them in the 15-acre evergreen slope where they roam freely but are quite standoffish when they reach me. They will follow me about like lambs but keep their distance. After all these years Melly - my favourite with her sweet-smelling nose and huge limpid eyes - still shields herself behind her mother both out in the open and feeding from the manger. It is impossible to scratch her tufty head without reaching across the withers of Matty – potentially more dangerous –but, oddly, more approachable. Neither of them like be touched unless Melly’s trick of tossing her head back when I playfully clasp her nose is a sign of pleasure. On no account will they consent to being groomed with a curry-comb. But their cautious nature serves them well in avoiding intruders intent on carving up their plump bodies and drying the flesh to make charqui, a favourite Chilean dish when cooked with beans and pumpkin.
These beasts of burden arouse sentimental feelings in many people. The Greeks say that “Jerusalem donkeys” like mine, which have a Greek cross on their back, descend from the “colt” which carried Jesus into the Holy City on Palm Sunday. Their fate is to live long in the service of several masters. Coleridge summed up their condition in these touching lines:
Poor little Foal of an oppressed race.
I love the languid patience of thy face.
Dostoevsky’s “idiot” Prince Myshkin tells of the braying of a donkey in a market place in Switzerland which cured him of his mental confusion. Donkeys, like quiet horses, must be good for autistic children as well as epileptics and “hypos” like this blogger.
You should never strike a donkey. They respond to kindness, unlike spirited horses, which need a touch of the spurs or a slap with the crop. A donkey will be humble and obedient as long as you treat it with respect.
When “saddled up” with a light frame of woven rushes over sheepskin blankets and slung with wooden panniers Melly and Matty are meek and grateful when I award each animal with an apple as they come stumping down to the woodpile with their drivers. Prospero respects the law regarding work animals. Matty who, at around 200 kilos, is smaller than her daughter, may carry half her weight for three hours’work. Mellie can carry 120 kilos for three hours or up to 180 kilos for half an hour in the morning and carry on working in the afternoon after eating and resting. The loads of timber they carry are around 90 kilos. Although they are not overworked, I cannot help feeling pity for them. Their hooves are tiny compared with a horse’s and they are not shod as they never walk on a surfaced road. The rocky terrain keeps their hooves well trimmed, without which they would feel pain and walk on their knees as I once saw on Mount Athos, of all places.
I gently broke in Melly for riding by sitting on her when she was still too small to throw me. Equipped with a Chilean saddle, she was eager to trot but refused to cross a shallow stream. The saddle slipped as I urged her on (girths loose) and ended up hanging like a rag doll with my head bashing against a rock. My foot was caught because I had changed the Chilean “clogs” for metal stirrups. Half-paralysed, I managed to grab a stick and drag myself back to the gate, where I found Mellie waiting patiently, her own hoof stuck in the stirrup. She suffered no injury but I had a painful limp for 18 months.
Donkeys may be dinky but they are stronger than they look and can deliver a nasty kick because their hooves are small enough to land between your bones and damage the tendons. They are delicate walkers, stepping daintily over the water pipes criss-crossing the terrain, unlike the stray cows which stamp on them and cut off the supply.
Last winter, after the drought, I went into the wood to gloat over the brimming swales and mossy rivulets. I spotted Melly’s white muzzle as she stood eyeing me with the aloofness of a stag in Windsor Great Park. Matty led the way as usual, cantering up with her ears flattened. She let me pat and stroke her. But as I turned to walk away the frog of her hoof flashed in my face and I felt a sharp punch on my knuckles like being struck with a hammer. The veins bulged up purple at once but by the time I’d dug out the medicine chest back at the house the pain had gone.
I’m glad Matty kicked me. It has made parting easier. So goodbye, dear donkeys, fare thee well.
I bought Matilde and and her foal Amelia twelve years ago to graze the long grass, lowering the risk of forest fires, and to carry down logs for the fireplace and stoves. I worked them little, gave them the freedom of the woods and treated them to piles of fallen apples in summer and alfalfa in winter. I adore Melly and Matty but, to be honest, it breaks my back to heave their expensive fodder up the fell in the rain while having to scrimp on necessities like Cuban rum and Danish baccy.
The grey mother, sullen as a camel, almost killed Don Prospero, the old caretaker, when the donkeys were delivered to “La Ermita”. He frog-marched her into the stable after she had dragged him round in circles, her hind legs lashing out viciously. Melly, who has a black coat as sleek as an otter’s, was small enough for Rupert, the black Labrador, to jump playfully onto her back.
Matty has become more docile over the years when working but still takes up a defensive position when loose, presenting me with her hindquarters, one hoof tilted like a ballerina. (I know all this ought to be in the past tense but I cannot bring myself to make this painful grammatical leap into the present reality.)
They have been rather disappointing as pets. While they clearly appreciate my old variety apples there is no assinine equivalent of the purr of a cat or or the fussy whine of a dog. These donkeys still treat me with suspicion. They come stampeding down when I call them in the 15-acre evergreen slope where they roam freely but are quite standoffish when they reach me. They will follow me about like lambs but keep their distance. After all these years Melly - my favourite with her sweet-smelling nose and huge limpid eyes - still shields herself behind her mother both out in the open and feeding from the manger. It is impossible to scratch her tufty head without reaching across the withers of Matty – potentially more dangerous –but, oddly, more approachable. Neither of them like be touched unless Melly’s trick of tossing her head back when I playfully clasp her nose is a sign of pleasure. On no account will they consent to being groomed with a curry-comb. But their cautious nature serves them well in avoiding intruders intent on carving up their plump bodies and drying the flesh to make charqui, a favourite Chilean dish when cooked with beans and pumpkin.
These beasts of burden arouse sentimental feelings in many people. The Greeks say that “Jerusalem donkeys” like mine, which have a Greek cross on their back, descend from the “colt” which carried Jesus into the Holy City on Palm Sunday. Their fate is to live long in the service of several masters. Coleridge summed up their condition in these touching lines:
Poor little Foal of an oppressed race.
I love the languid patience of thy face.
Dostoevsky’s “idiot” Prince Myshkin tells of the braying of a donkey in a market place in Switzerland which cured him of his mental confusion. Donkeys, like quiet horses, must be good for autistic children as well as epileptics and “hypos” like this blogger.
You should never strike a donkey. They respond to kindness, unlike spirited horses, which need a touch of the spurs or a slap with the crop. A donkey will be humble and obedient as long as you treat it with respect.
When “saddled up” with a light frame of woven rushes over sheepskin blankets and slung with wooden panniers Melly and Matty are meek and grateful when I award each animal with an apple as they come stumping down to the woodpile with their drivers. Prospero respects the law regarding work animals. Matty who, at around 200 kilos, is smaller than her daughter, may carry half her weight for three hours’work. Mellie can carry 120 kilos for three hours or up to 180 kilos for half an hour in the morning and carry on working in the afternoon after eating and resting. The loads of timber they carry are around 90 kilos. Although they are not overworked, I cannot help feeling pity for them. Their hooves are tiny compared with a horse’s and they are not shod as they never walk on a surfaced road. The rocky terrain keeps their hooves well trimmed, without which they would feel pain and walk on their knees as I once saw on Mount Athos, of all places.
I gently broke in Melly for riding by sitting on her when she was still too small to throw me. Equipped with a Chilean saddle, she was eager to trot but refused to cross a shallow stream. The saddle slipped as I urged her on (girths loose) and ended up hanging like a rag doll with my head bashing against a rock. My foot was caught because I had changed the Chilean “clogs” for metal stirrups. Half-paralysed, I managed to grab a stick and drag myself back to the gate, where I found Mellie waiting patiently, her own hoof stuck in the stirrup. She suffered no injury but I had a painful limp for 18 months.
Donkeys may be dinky but they are stronger than they look and can deliver a nasty kick because their hooves are small enough to land between your bones and damage the tendons. They are delicate walkers, stepping daintily over the water pipes criss-crossing the terrain, unlike the stray cows which stamp on them and cut off the supply.
Last winter, after the drought, I went into the wood to gloat over the brimming swales and mossy rivulets. I spotted Melly’s white muzzle as she stood eyeing me with the aloofness of a stag in Windsor Great Park. Matty led the way as usual, cantering up with her ears flattened. She let me pat and stroke her. But as I turned to walk away the frog of her hoof flashed in my face and I felt a sharp punch on my knuckles like being struck with a hammer. The veins bulged up purple at once but by the time I’d dug out the medicine chest back at the house the pain had gone.
I’m glad Matty kicked me. It has made parting easier. So goodbye, dear donkeys, fare thee well.
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