by Wendy Dudley
Trees are noble creatures, especially in their later years. They're like grandparents, crooked with rheumatoid limbs, perhaps, but with the wisdom that comes from a long life. Dying timber is much needed in our forest society for woodpecker nests, owl perches, and yes, even for its silver beauty. Every summer old trees house families of woodpeckers—hairies, downies, and the enormous pileated woodpecker with its scarlet crest. For weeks, we watch the parent birds squeeze their way through the perfectly round holes they have drilled with their pointed beaks. And then one day a great cacophony vibrates inside the tree truck, as nestlings hatch and squawk for platters of food. Another generation to flit through our valley, hang upside down from our balls of suet, and dig for insects while bracing their tails for balance against the rough-barked trunks.
Long after the woodpeckers move out, the trees' grey limbs provide roosts for great horned and great grey owls, as well as the red-tailed hawks that ride the valley's summer thermals. Standing guard over the marshy valley, the trees offer a crow's-nest view of mice and voles tunnelling through the thick meadow grass.
Burro Alley has no shortage of trees, and I do my best to thin the scrawny young aspens that succumb to disease or sneak into my pastures during a drought, but the older ones I leave as forest sentinels. They are seasonal clocks, ticking off changes in temperature and daylight. In spring, their tiny lime leaves are flush with new life, as thin and transparent as the flesh of a baby robin. Gradually, they turn a deeper shade and don wide-brimmed summer hats. Then autumn sweeps in like a magician, turning the leaves into warbling yellow canaries with wings fluttering like a candle before an open window. With the coming of the arctic winds, the canaries take flight, migrating in ochre and russet flocks before dropping to the ground, where they will be painted white with winter's first snowfall.
Trees are timekeepers, not only of the seasons, but of lives. They are memory journals, sometimes seeded when we are born, sometimes planted upon our death. And oh, so many events along the way! Think of the farm children who screamed with glee as they sailed back and forth on a creaking wooden swing, its ropes looped over strong tree limbs. Years later, the same tree is an umbrella over a picnic table where the family gathers for birthday parties, afternoon teas, and harvest dinners. Dozens of farm cats have clawed its branches, and scores of cows have slumbered in its shade. If it's my tree, the donkeys have gnawed on its bark and rubbed and scratched their manes along its lowest branches. A rock sits at its feet, marking the final resting place for the farm dog in the very same spot where he used to dig a hole to escape the summer's scorching heat. The tree becomes a bookmark, a reference point in later years. How many of us, upon returning to our birthplace, observe the trees? We remark, "I don't remember that apple tree being so big, do you?" or "What happened to that old cottonwood down by the river? The one we used to swing from on those hot, muggy days?" We are joyful when we spot our favourite tree still standing mighty, and we are silenced when we discover a special grove bulldozed to make way for another road or home.
With trees housing such a library of change, I never weary of life when wandering along bushland trails. There are orchestras of light and stories of unfolding drama: birth and death unravel on the forest floor.
Tucked in the foothills, where aspen shadows mingle with heavily robed spruce, our home is embraced by trees. Their branches springboard squirrels onto our roof, where I hear them skitter across the cedar shakes. Over the years, we have cleared away those dead trees that threatened to fall against the house, their final purpose in life being to fuel our fireplace. As for the others, we allow muscled chinook winds to play axeman, and when the monsters do topple to the ground, their bellies shelter new homes for burrowing animals. One spring, when the ground was still covered by a crust of ice and snow, I discovered a dead skunk curled up in a hollow sheltered by the roots of a spruce windfall. It looked as if it had died in its sleep, below a roof of snow, in a place where it would become part of the earth.
When the carcass of that silver tree outside my window takes its final bow, it too will return to the soil, and in its place a new tree will take root and begin its quest to touch the sky.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Raven Lands
I could never shoot a raven. They are so intelligent and wise that I would forever feel haunted by its spirit.
It's spring, and the chores are endless. The manure is waiting to be wheelbarrowed to the far field, the livestock waterer needs scrubbing, and the mule and donkeys are due for their annual spring tune-up: vaccinations, worming, and teeth rasping. It's a hectic time for veterinarians. Pens are bursting with sheep ready to lamb, cows about to calve, horses soon to foal—and donkeys, too, that are growing rounder by the day, their babies ending their year-long float inside the womb.
Dr. Wayne, however, squeaks me into his schedule and drops by within the week.
Lucy is always his first patient, though probably not his favourite. Giving her shots is never an easy task: at first, he hides the needle behind his back, using his other hand to pinch her neck skin. This takes her mind off what's coming next, and blocks her view of the approaching needle. With a firm pat, he is done before she can react. Then, wandering over to Sally, Dr. Wayne furrows his brow into a question mark.
"Is there any way that donkey could be pregnant?" he asks, eyeing Sally's ample girth.
"Well, she could be. There was a donkey jack in with her for several months," I said. "But she's pretty young yet. She's just coming up three."
"Oh, that can't be," said Dr. Wayne. "She looks a lot older than that."
"Well, have a look at her teeth. She's just cutting the top ones."
After greeting Sally with a muzzle-rub, he folds back her lips.
"Well, I'll be darned," he says, looking at the two big chompers cutting through her red gums. Donkeys lose their central milk teeth when they are between two and a half and three years old.
I didn't think Sally was pregnant, either. Frankly, I wasn't ready to receive a donkey bundle of joy. When Lyle loaned me Sally and Cisco, I hadn't even thought about the possibility of them having a baby. If she was barely three, she would have conceived as a late yearling—impossible, I thought. That just wouldn't be fair. Lyle hadn't said anything about them breeding, and if they were being intimate, they were doing it out behind the barn, because I hadn't spotted any amorous behaviour. Cisco had since gone home to Lyle's so I couldn't confront him about the matter.
The next time Lyle dropped by, I mentioned Sally's rotund figure. "Just looks like grass belly to me," he said.
"Oh good, because I don't think I'm ready to play midwife to a donkey."
Three weeks later, while brushing Sally's belly, I noticed her udder had doubled in size. Oh my God, what's happened to it? It's big. It's swollen. And the teats are the size of a logger's thumb. Looking blissful, Sally dug into yet another flake of hay. She was eating for two. She was going to have a baby whether I liked it or not.
Over the next few days, I stacked the stall with fresh straw, soft and fluffed, so that when the time came Sally and her baby would have their own private room, away from Lucy. Other than that, I didn't have a clue what to do, so when I arrived home several days later and found Sally hunched up, turning in circles, and mildly kicking at her belly, I was dizzy with both excitement and panic. Either she's got colic or she's going into labour, I thought, as I tried to peek between her back legs. Sure enough, the tips of her teats had spots of milk. I patted her fuzzy forehead and reassured her that all would be well. I told her not to move, to stay put: I'd be right back.
Down at the house, I phoned Lyle for instructions, but his mother answered.
"I don't know where he is, but he won't be home until tomorrow," she said, her bad news sending me into a whirlwind of panic. "Well, what am I supposed to do? This is her first baby, and I don't know how to help her. I've never done this before. Should I call a vet, or just wait, or what?"
"Just leave her alone," said Ly
le's mom, in a quiet and collected voice that did little to soothe my jangled nerves. I couldn't just leave Sally and abandon her when she needed me the most, or at least that's how I saw it, so I rang up my neighbour John, who owns miniature donkeys. He sensed the urgency in my voice and was standing in my field ten minutes after I made the call.
"Oh, she's real close. She'll probably have the baby in less than an hour," he said.
Like an anxious father, I paced the fenceline. Sally too was unsettled, moving back and forth between the paddock and the barn, standing up, lying down, turning to look behind her, all the time looking confused, as if she too didn't know what to do.
"You're OK Sal. You'll be just fine. You'll see." I tried to comfort her, but I felt so useless. My instincts told me to boil water and fetch plenty of clean rags, but I just stood there, amazed that our barn was about to be blessed with a newborn.
It was dark now, and I could barely see Sally, except for her white eye rings and muzzle. I was worried. There was no sign that her placenta had ruptured, but if it had, it happened more than an hour ago.
"Maybe I should call a vet. This is taking a real long time," I said to John, who had said little in the last half-hour. His donkey births were usually over in twenty minutes.
"Just give her a few more minutes," he said. "She looks like she's getting ready to lie down again."
Sure enough, Sally flopped on the cool grass. She gave a mighty push, and out popped the tip of a white sac.
"What's that? And why isn't she pushing anymore?" I said loudly, as John rushed forward, grabbed the membrane, and ripped it open. Fluid gushed forth. There was something protruding, but without any light we couldn't make out what it was. It looked grey, as if it could be the rubberlike cap that covers the hooves until after birth. Whatever it was, it didn't move, and Sally just lay there, stretched out, with her sides throbbing. Where was the baby's muzzle?
"Come on, Sal, push. Just one more push," I said, my hand pressed over my own stomach out of sympathy, but the of girl didn't budge.
"She's in trouble, isn't she? I mean, she's all done in. She isn't even trying anymore. And the baby hasn't moved at all. I thought that was the nose we saw, but it wasn't, was it? The baby's going to suffocate."
"I'm really not sure," John said.
"I can't stand this," I blurted. "I'm I m going inside to get a flashlight."
At the same time, John rushed home to call a friend who breeds donkeys. When I returned, Sally was nowhere to be found, but I could hear a high-pitched bleating, like a newborn lamb. Calling Sally, I bounced the flashlight beam across the field. She wasn't there, but from behind me came the same eerie screech. Casting the light in that direction, I made out the shape of Sally, up and wandering around the paddock, a pair of long skinny legs dragging from her rear end. Two little hooves scraped the dirt. Moving the light higher, I could see the half-born donkey, its head now outside mom, its mouth wide open and screaming.
Sally walked over, pushed her damp, sweaty forehead into my stomach, and then looked up, her eyes pleading for help. I began to cry.
"I know, Sally, it's hard. God, I wish I could help you, but I can't." Everything I had read said not to pull a foal unless you know what you're doing. Otherwise, you could risk injuring the baby and the mother. At least the baby's head was out, and it was breathing, bleating, and screaming.
Minutes later, John drove down the lane, just in time to see Sally lie down and give one mighty final heave-ho. Out came the baby, four feet and all, followed by the afterbirth. John stepped forward, felt between the baby's hind legs and then turned to me with a big smile. "It's a jenny," he said. Sally had given birth to a little girl.
Taking a few steady breaths, Sally got to her feet and ambled over to the pasture, where she began to graze as if nothing had happened. Sopping wet, the baby followed. Oh, what a marvellous night! By this time, the traffic was starting to back up along the road, concerned neighbours wondering why we were prowling about with flashlights. Hearing about the newborn, they congratulated me as if I had something to do with it!
In much need of sleep, John headed home, after I thanked him for possibly saving the little jenny's life. If indeed the baby's muzzle was what we first saw emerging inside the membrane, then John's tearing of the tissue may have unclogged its nostrils and mouth, allowing it to suck in its first breath. Brewing myself a hot cup of tea, I phoned my mom, who had yet to move in with me. It was 3 AM in Ontario, but she still mustered enthusiasm over hearing a baby donkey would be here to greet her when she arrived in three weeks' time. Before going to bed, I returned to the pasture for one last check. A full moon was now overhead, moving across the sky, bathing the field and barn in silver. It was a gentle June night, with bats darting about, a distant dog barking, and the sky a shining lake of constellations. At the centre of this pastoral beauty was the jenny, now nosing her way along Sally's belly, bumping and bunting, searching for her first bit of food. She needed the colostrum, that first thick, yellow milk that flows with protective antibodies. Sally nudged the baby's rear, guiding her to her udder.
While the baby sucked, I buried the afterbirth so it wouldn't attract coyotes. Without a herd to protect her, Sally was on her own. I could have locked her in the stall, but she seemed to be enjoying the cool night air, and the lush grass would help her milk flow.
Rising early the next morning, I phoned my newsroom editor, Ken Hull, to tell him about the midnight miracle. A horse enthusiast himself, he didn't mind that I'd interrupted his breakfast, and indeed encouraged me to take the day off. About a year later, when he retired from the newspaper, I gave him a figure of a donkey as a reminder of a truly important news event.
With daylight creeping around the edge of the fields, I was eager to see the little jenny wake up to her first full day of life. Walking up the lane, I could see Sally in the middle of the field, the baby's legs visible behind her mother. When I spoke, the baby wobbled around her mother's side. One look at her ears and I laughed. They were huge, the size of her mother's, but on such a small head! With a jet-black face and white rings around her eyes, she looked like an alien raccoon, bizarre yet adorable. I expected her to cling to her mother, as most newborns do, but she bounded over to greet me on stiltlike legs that were amazingly sturdy. She sniffed the cuffs of my pants, then wrapped her tongue around a wrinkle, tugging at it like a robin jerking a worm from wet soil. Reaching down, I scratched her forehead, which was a mass of hair, a puffy pompadour with a shaggy fringe. When she didn't mind that, I began rubbing her neck, and before long she was leaning into me, soaking up every kind word and every massaging touch. Something told me this little one was imprinted, a result of my face being the first one she saw while struggling to come into this world. After that, she followed me everywhere, charging around me in circles while throwing out the occasional cow kick. She took to tugging at my clothes, purposely tipping over the wheelbarrow, and braying whenever she heard the bang of the front door that told her I was on my way up the lane.
On the first morning of her life, a row of ravens perched on the crossover beam at the ranch entrance. Swooping down in hopes of finding some birthing tissue, they groaked and clucked, sounding like a scratchy old-time record. I have always had a soft spot for ravens and crows, admiring their intelligence, complex personalities, and glistening plumage. Popular mythology portrays them as prophets, and their presence has always brought me great comfort. They gathered outside my father's hospital bedroom on the morning he died, perched in a single tree that spiralled skyward from the concrete. In the three months he lived there, they appeared only once—at the time of his death. Friends at the other end of the country later told me that ravens had suddenly appeared outside their homes at the same time.
And so, with a bleacher of ravens watching, I blessed this newborn donkey with the name Raven, so that I would always remember the night she landed. It was around then that I christened our land "Burro Alley" as it seemed we were destined to share our lives with lon
gears.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mule Whispering
Mules are usually sterile, but there have been some cases of mules giving birth. However, I don;t think Lucyeven comes into heat. Little Peso shows no interest in her, and she doesn't seeom to suffer from mood swings, unlike cranky Raven.
Lucy grew into a stocky but good-looking mule. She had a refined face, not too broad between the eyes, with a straight-sloping nose, a sign of a willing animal. Her Mohawk-style mane and small hooves gave away her donkey lineage, but her ears were somewhat cropped compared to those of most mules, and she had the sleek legs of her Morgan mother. As for her temperament—well, time would soon tell. I couldn't control what was hiding in her genes, but I could expose her to all sorts of ghoulish monsters, like dragging ropes slithering through the grass, flapping plastic bags soaring like crested pteranodons, and snapping branches suggesting predators about to pounce. Not wanting her to spook like her mother, who shied at every shadow, I began the education of Miss Lucy.
Always curious, she followed me around as if there was an invisible lead between us. While some days we practised haltering, others were spent lazing together in the pasture: pulling weeds, poking sticks into anthills, or watching the cows across the road. I would rake the manure or stroll along the creek, letting Lucy know we could share time without her having to work. With this soft approach, I was soon able to walk up to her in a twenty-acre field with a halter looped over my arm. Without my having to hide the lead behind my back or inside my jacket, or to offer a bribe of oats, she came to my side for a tickle and rub, then dropped her head so I could slip on the halter. Her reward was freedom, as I would then release her for the day. Equine behaviour towards people is rarely personal, but I have little patience for an animal that flees just because I show up in its field. If I feed, groom, and water Lucy, I expect some gratitude, not a butt swinging into my face and a sprint out of sight.