Yelling at the Donkey

The 473rd Stage of Grief

Reflecting back over another hard hot week here at the Tiny T Ranch, I’d have to say that the most prevalent Stage of Grief I have been experiencing is the little known Chase the Uncooperative Donkey Around the Yard and Yell at Him Because That Will Really Help Stage. This particular stage is especially challenging in summer in Texas, more so when it strikes midday under the broiling sun.

So Levon the Donkey, aka the Donkster, started limping a couple of weeks ago. For the last animal crisis, I chose to handle it on my own. Sadly, Lisa the goat died, which she very likely would have even if I had called for help, but surely her death is what prompted me to bring the vet out for a look at Levon sooner rather than later.

Though the Donkster had been haltered in the past, that was long ago, and it had been years since I tried to harness him. He was having none of my efforts to restrain him, which meant the doctor couldn’t get a good look at his foot. Levon did, however, let her stand near to him and even briefly touch his leg. She assured me that while he was hurting, he was not dying.

She prescribed him some meds, which seemed like a good idea. Until I read the instructions. I was to administer TWENTY PILLS TWICE PER DAY. The vet tech promised this would be so simple! Just hide them in watermelon. Yeah, that worked about as well as hiding horseshit in vanilla ice cream. He took one sniff and was like, Hell no.

Eventually I settled on using my molcajete to smash the pills into what I pretended to be large piles of donkey cocaine. Then I added a little water, made a paste and served it up with fresh carrots and alfalfa pellets on one of the nice paper plates because Levon is a Classy Ass. This worked a little better than “the watermelon trick.” Still, he only semi-cooperated and the great frustration I felt was further exacerbated by being circled, ala JAWS, by all the damn mini goats and the one big goat—the whole lot of them on standby, eagerly volunteering to eat the meds, because they’re goats and yes, they will eat anything.

Still, diligently, I went out, morning and night, day after day, med salad in hand, coaxing coaxing him to please eat it. But the only thing that improved over the days was my step count which, thanks to all the running back and forth to the animal yard, has been way up. Levon, on the other hand, was taking far fewer steps and his hoof appeared to worsen. I redoubled my efforts to get him haltered the day the vet was scheduled to return. Each time I approached though— no matter how tight the spot he was in, and despite his injury slowing him down—he would cleverly manage to turn himself around to give a message, which I received loud and clear. There is nothing I retreat from more swiftly than the hindquarters of equines—no way do I want to get kicked in the face.

I failed, yet again, to medicate or halter him in the hour before the Vet Mobile pulled up. This is when I entered Chase the Uncooperative Donkey Around the Yard and Yell at Him Because That Will Really Help Stage of Grief. Whatever unsorted, unresolved, unprocessed grief shit I got churning away up there in Busy Mindville—well it momentarily coalesced and took on the tangible form of Pissed Off Me, sweat-drenched in the 700% humidity, hollering at the donkey that if he doesn’t stop right now and let me harness him he is going to wind up with a goddamn bullet in the head. Which, to clarify, was not me threatening to give him the Kristi Noem treatment, but rather trying to get him to understand that not getting his foot seen to properly could cause complications causing a deadly infection thus necessitating euthanasia.

Let’s watch that again in slow motion replay:

One overheated crone, drenched in sweat, distracted by grief, trying to convey, at volume, to a stressed out donkey that he needs to be constrained by a head leash so as to avoid being put down.

To my credit, at least I finally conceded defeat and walked away. Still, I remained angry, feeling like I often felt when I was parenting a teenager, trying and failing to get through to my donkey what I so many times tried and failed to get through to my adolescent son: I’M DOING THIS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU AND I WANT TO HELP YOU BUT YOU WON’T LISTEN TO ME AND YOU WON’T LET ME HELP YOU.

When Dr. T. and Ki’era arrived, I let them know I was experiencing Sudden Onset Severe Donkey Irritation and also that I was dealing with a lot of grief. They grokked my overwhelm and swooped in to strategize. The solution came in the form of multiple intramuscular sedative injections—for the Donkster, not me (although that probably wouldn’t have been a bad idea)—seeing as just one shot barely made a dent in his mulishness. Finally he was drunk enough on the meds to allow the application of a halter and a lead rope, as well as a thorough examination of his bad paw, including on-the-spot x-rays from a portable machine. Incredible! (Also: Incredibly Expensive!)

It turns out Levon has an abscess and thrush in his shotgun foot. The doc did everything she could to get things cleaned up and then prescribed still more medication: pre-crushed antibiotic powder that, despite being sprinkled on delicious corn kernels, is still discernible to Levon, who turns his nose up at it. Which, yes, has prompted more sniping from me, urging him to quit literally being such a stubborn ass. To which he replies with the stinkiest of stink eyes. Because that is the nature of my beast in a nutshell: He is the King of the Stink Eye.

I finally stopped trying to force the meds on him. It’s just making him spooked and suspicious and me tired and aggravated. Instead, I’m following his lead. When the pain first presented, he made a little man cave for himself under a mesquite tree out along the mid-pasture fence line. I helped make it nice by toting over piles of hay and a bucket of water. He spends a lot of time there, being very still, letting his body heal itself. Now I have resumed tending to this space, speaking pleasantly, not getting too close to him, demonstrating I’m not coming at him with meds, I’m just here to say hi. We both feel much better doing it this way.

Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, it didn’t take me long at all to spot the message, the metaphor, the lesson in all this donkey drama. In fact, Miguel de Cervantes beat me to it—as his Don Quixote was a fool to tilt at windmills, I’m the ranch idiot when I use angry loud English to try to sway a donkey. Next, I ask myself to consider the anger, as Thich Nhat Hanh urges us to do. Talk to it.

It’s the same conversation every single time. What is at the root of anger? What is at the root of every destructive emotion? FEAR. What am I afraid of this time? I’m afraid the vet will think I’m stupid and tell me out loud that she thinks I’m stupid and that I’m the only person on the planet that can’t halter a donkey—for crying out loud a toddler could halter a donkey!

Needless to say, my kind, patient, wonderful vet would never actually speak to me like this. But, yet again, residual childhood trauma crap is always waiting in the wings to make a bad situation worse.

Also, and this is far more pressing, I am afraid my donkey is going to die and there’s been enough death in the couple of weeks to tide me over for a while so, yeah, I’m angry because he won’t listen to me and I’M JUST TRYING TO HELP SAVE YOUR LIFE YOU STUPID DONKEY.

Which, of course, all of the above—the stuff about anger and fear and feeling not listened to and just trying to help—that shit applies to pretty much everything going on in the world right now as far as I’m concerned. More so now that we wake up every single morning to something crazier than the morning before which sounds completely mental because how can it get any crazier?

And then it gets crazier still.

And so, metaphorically speaking, right now it feels like pretty much everyone is overwhelmed and everyone is running around yelling and nobody can catch the damn donkey and we’re all going to die and it’s just so infuriating sometimes. (Which, come to think of it, reminds me of this brilliant metaphor about a horse in a hospital.)

My best advice—yours to take or leave—is brought to you by experience. Step away from the donkey. Go sit still in a dark room with a cold beverage and give it a rest. Trust me, the donkey will still be there when you get back, at the ready, just waiting to serve up some fresh hot stink eye.

JOY & BEAUTY DEPARTMENT

I recently heard of the passing of a guy named John Wells who lived in Terlingua. As I read his very interesting obituary, I thought, “I know who this guy is.” My Super Memory recalled that many years ago someone that sounded a lot like him posted a YouTube video that became my all-time favorite. I watched it climb from 200-something views to more and more and more. I looked it up—I was right. John Wells posted this video in May 2017. It has now had more than 8 million views. You’re gonna love it.

Mercy is 81 pounds!!!! That’s a cinnamon roll cheesecake.

LAWN MOWER REPORT

NOTES:

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