by Wendy Dudley
Someone, however, forgot to tell Lucy that this newest addition wore a halo. When Peso first came to live with us, he was shunned by Her Majesty. She chased the little grey waif as if he were a coyote runt, nipping his withers. Poor Peso was terrified, tucking his tail between his legs and braying like a fire alarm. We separated the two, pairing Peso with Raven, who quickly fired a hoof at Peso when he thought he'd found a nanny. Raven wasn't keen about her babysitting duties, but she tolerated the weanling, and at least we could rest at night knowing she wouldn't intentionally hurt him. Lucy, like most mules, is easily bored, so she soon grew weary of watching this runty beast from the other side of the fence. When she wandered off to graze elsewhere, I knew she was ready to accept another member into the herd. Within days, the two of them were prancing about, nibbling at each other's muzzles and playing chase games.
Many have given their hearts to donkeys, captivated by their soulful eyes and spunky character. Queen Victoria owned three of them, choosing a donkey carriage as her favourite way to travel. But perhaps no one has given so much as Elisabeth Svendsden, who has devoted her life to improving the welfare of donkeys around the world. In 1969, she opened the Donkey Sanctuary in Devon, England, rescuing ill-treated donkeys and any donkey no longer wanted by its owner. She also travels to the world's poorest communities, where donkeys are used as beasts of burden, often under horrendous conditions. Many suffer short lives because they are infected with parasites, while others are covered with open sores from carrying heavy loads over long distances. Most are undernourished.
I dream of one day opening a donkey sanctuary in western Canada, a counterpart to the one near Guelph, Ontario, which takes in abused, neglected, and unwanted longears. With donkeys living as long as forty years, and some even longer, many are abandoned, left alone in fields, where their hooves grow so long they turn up like shoes on a leprechaun. The animals go lame, but most can be saved with proper care and trimming. They are precious animals: we should, as one vet said to me, "treat them like you would your favourite aunt."
I often think of her comment when Peso and Raven are following me around like second shadows, stealing my gloves if I put them down, tossing my hammer if I leave it on the fence post, and tipping over the wheelbarrow when I turn my back. Special, indeed. I couldn't imagine life without them; a field full of donkeys is a field in blossom with friendship. Never have I owned animals that are so happy to be alive. I truly believe Peso, with his vivid cross, knows he is special. He asks for so little, yet gives so much. He sparkles like a precious gem—a true diamond in the rough.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Canine Costumes
Today the dogs dug up a chunk of deer meat. Buried at the base of a spruce tree, beneath cones and duff, our discovery was likely a cougar cache. We continued our walk at a brisk pace!
Maggie and Georgie are the beloved twins of Burro Alley, their freckled faces and wagging tails greeting all visitors. Like true sisters, they share everything—turkey giblets, dumb of sticks, decaying deer bones, frozen chunks of manure, vicious barking duties, and the faded-blue front seat of the truck. But when it comes to a kind word or a soft pat, they jealously vie for our attention. Maggie, the larger of the two, shoves Georgie aside with her fat rump or her bear of a head. Nimble Georgie takes only so much abuse before charging into Maggie, nipping her ruff or standing on her hind legs to deliver a knockout punch with a front-leg jab. Humbled, Maggie pouts in a corner, her head resting on her outstretched paws. It's now Georgie's turn, as she moves in for our ear scratches. Come dinnertime, all will be forgiven, as they swap food bowls, then share the rug at our slippered feet.
Such jockeying makes for a confusing household. Most days I'm not sure which dog is in charge. It's one thing to switch food bowls, but quite another to swap personalities, especially when the trade is batted back and forth like a ping-pong ball. In the flick of a fly, Georgie, the shy tyke, can blossom into a braveheart, tearing through the willow brush after anything that moves and attacking the inside of my car if a passing cat or dog even thinks of looking her way. No dog can slip into the shadows as fast as our George. Turn your back, and she's hot on a rabbit trail, yiking her primitive war cry. Call her name, whistle, or curse—it doesn't matter. When she returns, her tongue is dragging in the dirt and her sides are heaving like fire bellows. We can tell she knows she's ignored our commands by the way she slinks along the ground. Then, as quickly as she disappeared, she wags her tail, smothers our hands in kisses, and reverts to the same brown-eyed coquette that captured our hearts when she was a pup peeking over the lip of the cardboard box.
Then there's Maggie. Remember our bold and beautiful? Well, she's as handsome as ever, even if her rump is as broad as the barn, but she's one of those dogs that's courageous on the outside and cringing on the inside. On occasion, when Maggie is sitting in the truck hoping we'll go somewhere, Lucy moseys over, licking the windshield and nibbling at the side mirrors. Poor Maggie attacks the windshield like a rabid animal, then dives to the floor, shaking as she tries to crawl under the front seat. Not that she would ever back down from an intruder: pity the stranger that threatens to harm her house, her sister, or her people. She can tree a bear like a hound trees a cougar, but given the chance, she would stuff herself in my back pocket, all sixty pounds of her. She is threatening yet timid, a sheep in wolf's clothing. In obedience classes, where she excelled at all the games, she flunked the social graces. One nose-to-nose meeting was fine, but if she was approached by two or more dogs, she'd squat and pee, then try to climb into my lap, only to growl at a lumbering black lab that wouldn't stop barking in her face. But then, they do say dogs take on their owner's personality. Give me space, and I too am easygoing; but crowd me, and I swear my canines grow another inch.
To boost Maggie's confidence, I enrolled her in agility classes, where she raced through nylon tunnel tubes, leaped over wooden jumps, and climbed steep ramps. This was more like it. She was working with only one goal, to please me. The heck with the other dogs, she had a job to do, and she was going to be the best. Ah, a true herding dog, I thought. That's what she needs, to round up sheep as her ancestors did. A stock dog trial was to be staged on a farm not far from our home—the perfect place to introduce her to a flock of woollies. We prepared for the grand event by watching the video Babe, the story of a pig that learns how to herd sheep. Both Maggie and Georgie adore that movie, barking with the cast of dogs, geese, and singing mice.
On the big day, Maggie and I grabbed front-row seats on the grass, excited at the chance to mingle with other working dogs and their masters. But it wasn't long before we heard the guffaws and gossip about Maggie's lineage. It seemed our kind was not welcome; you see, Maggie is only half border collie, the offspring of a mixed breeding. Shame on her dad for being an Australian shepherd, passing along his mottled coat and heavy build. This may have been a stock dog trial, but the only breed considered worthy was the border collie, their sleek bodies lying flat to the ground, their alert faces waiting for the shepherd's whistle. Maggie looked like a hog among princes and princesses, a pauper among royalty.
"Don't worry, Maggie," I whispered. "We're just here to watch. They can't kick us out for that." Maggie sat straight, her hefty rump snuggled into my thigh. She looked up at me, her panting tongue working overtime in the noonday heat. "That a girl," I said, giving her a soft pat on her head. "Soon you'll see sheep. You've never seen live woollies before, have you?"
The crowd grew quiet as the herding action moved closer to the bleachers. The dog and flock were in a small dip, working their way up the rise and into sight. "The sheep are coming, the sheep are coming," I whispered. A sheep popped its head over the hill, then a second, and a third, the border collie working wide to the right.
Maggie was looking keen, her body beginning to tremble like aspen leaves in a fall breeze. And then her mouth clamped shut.
Look at that, I thought. Her herding instincts are awakening. Who says a mutt can't herd sheep? And th
en I heard the growl from deep in her chest. "No growling, Maggie. You'll scare the sheep."
But her ears were pinned fiat to her head, and her yellow eyes were huge and round. She crawled behind my legs, dragging her belly along the ground. "This can't be happening," I thought. "She's a herding dog. She has collie in her blood. She's probably related to Lassie."
But there was no denying her fear. Maggie was terrified of the sheep. I removed her from the edge of the field, ignoring the I-told-you-so stares from the crowd. Within minutes, her tail was a happy waving flag, while her nose wiggled along the ground in a search-and-rescue mission for hot-dog crumbs. She jumped into the truck, ready to hang her head out the window where the wind would buffet her ears. Just before I shut the door, we were approached by a young man with a smart and classy border collie heeling at his side.
"Oh, great," I muttered to myself. "What wisecrack is he going to make?"
"I saw what happened back there and I wouldn't feel badly," he offered. "It sometimes takes a dog a while to work with sheep, especially if it's her first time out. I've trained dogs that took weeks to notice the sheep were even there."
I was grateful for his kind words and thankful he didn't blast me for owning an Aussie mongrel. But I also knew Maggie would never be a champion sheep dog. She was spoiled rotten, and I was to blame. She'd had too many nights sleeping at my side, too many roadside snacks, too many hugs, too many hours spent as a couch potato. She knew her place, all right—in my heart and by the hearth.
During our drive home, Maggie rested her head on my lap, arching her eyebrows as she looked up at me, her eyes soft and sorry. I patted her forehead, reassuring her that she was still my best friend. When we arrived home, George raced out the door to greet us as if we'd been gone a year. Maggie lay down, yipped, and began herding her to nowhere in particular. I guess she believes in picking on something her own size.
While George goes along with the game, she can herd circles around Maggie. She deserves a badge of courage for driving home Peso, the miniature donkey, sticking with him as he charges through the trees, leaping over deadfalls and occasionally tossing in a kick with his back leg. She never barks or nips at his heels, and she knows to keep a safe distance from those hard-hoofed legs. I'm sure she could teach those border collies a thing or two. But how would I get her to the stock dog trials? George doesn't particularly like cars. She'll tolerate a drive if there's a long hike at the end, but she spins like a washing machine if she's trapped inside with the windshield wipers clapping. And if a hawk or raven flies over, she sits back, points her nose to the sky, and tracks its wingbeats until it disappears over the horizon. So maybe bird dog trials would be more her thing.
Who knows what travels through a dog's mind, what makes them cringe one day and crow the next. What I do know is that I feel as if I am living with a canine interpretation of yin and yang, and that I am never too sure who is being who. I guess it depends which side of the blanket they fall asleep on, and which side they wake up on.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Muletide Greetings
The deer are yarding up, a sign of incoming heavy snow. Tonight they will lick the bird feeders clean and gobble up the extra alfalfa cubes we leave on the ground. a gift for Santa's deer!
It is Christmas Eve, one of my favourite nights of the year. The sky is stippled with silver stars, a borderless canvas of festive lights. Fresh snow drapes the trees and softens the crunching of hooves as the mule and donkeys move in single file up the hill. I still can't see them, but I can hear their breathing—slow, steady, and deep. There is no need to call them. They have already heard the barn door creaking and me humming Christmas carols. I wait for them, so I can wish them an early merry Christmas, pat their necks, and listen to them munch their hay, a most satisfying sound of contentment.
I shake loose the flakes of hay, the alfalfa leaves settling in the snow like dark exclamation marks. It is the last feed of the day, and I toss in a few carrot-flavoured crunchies, it being Christmas Eve and all. A white puff of steam floats above the heated water tank, and the light from the barn streaks across the snow like moonglow. Further down the valley, my neighbour's barn twinkles, its trim decorated with a rainbow of yule lights. There isn't a dog barking or an owl calling. It is indeed a silent night.
Mules and donkeys are biblical animals, and I am sure they too sense this special time of year. Together we wander down to the shed, where we stand in a row, our butts to the backboards and our faces studying the eastern sky. I am one of many who believe that, on this holy eve, animals talk in human speech after midnight. I have never heard their conversation. I've never witnessed rabbits dancing under a full moon, either, but I've seen their tracks the morning after!
When Christmas morning dawns, I greet the mules and donkeys with a hearty ho! ho! ho! and three tubs of warm bran mash—a gruel of grain, molasses, and salt. They paw the ground, nicker, snort, and crowd one another, jockeying to be first in line. There is much slurping and mouth-smacking as the tummy-warming mash hits the spot. It is minus twenty-five, but it feels warmer with the sun bouncing off the snow. The animals drop their heads and cock their hind legs, facing the fireball now rising against a sky of sparkling ice crystals. A few cavernous yawns, and they settle in for a morning siesta.
Mom waits on the birds, smothering stump tops with sunflower seeds and filling tube feeders with Niger thistle seed. It's a real smorgasbord, with a little Noel mincemeat and slabs of suet tacked to a tree trunk. Within minutes the flocks arrive: boreal, mountain, and black-capped chickadees; blue jays and grey jays; white- and red-breasted nuthatches; downy and hairy woodpeckers; pine, evening, and rose-breasted grosbeaks; siskins, juncos, and redpolls. They cram the perches and platforms and sometimes stand on top of one another, so desperate are they for food. The feeders are topped up at least three times a day, a reliable source of fuel to help our feathered friends survive nights when the mercury sinks to thirty-one below. If it's a clear night, we can hit minus forty, where Celsius and Fahrenheit meet.
A small mound of hay with a sprinkling of crushed alfalfa cubes is reserved for the mule deer, who are struggling with deep snowdrifts. Like horses, they vie for food, the more dominant ones bunting and striking the others out of the way. Their radar ears never stop flinching; their wet, black noses are always searching the air. Step outside and they vanish with giant leaps, only to return several minutes later after circling the house. Yesterday a lone young doe moved up the hill until she was face-to-face with Lucy, who actually ran over to greet her. They stretched their necks until they were nose-to-nose, their long ears almost touching. A molly mule meets a mule doe. I'd love to know what information they were exchanging.
With the dogs and cats fed, and the barn cat nibbling his way through a double serving of Christmas breakfast, we—the humans—are now ready to sit down to our own festive spread of fruit and yogurt, toasted stollen, and bottomless mugs of cinnamon coffee. I don't know of any farm where the animals are not fed first, even on Christmas. It gives you a chance to check on their health after a shivery night, but it also brings peace, since the donkeys start braying as soon as they see the kitchen light go on in the window.
Unless there's a blizzard battering the slopes, Lucy and I go for a ride in the mid-afternoon, when the sun is the warmest. I dip the metal bit in warm water before slipping it into her mouth, but I leave the saddle behind, preferring to snuggle against the heat from her fuzzy body. If my hands get cold, I shove them between her back and my thighs, sitting on them while she bobs her head on a loose rein. If it's not icy, we trot through the soft powder, the sprays of snow splashing up Lucy's legs and trailing in a wake. What a grand way to celebrate this blessed day!
Christmas week is a time to read and to receive visitors willing to brave unploughed rural side roads. Even if the city is green, it's a rare Christmas that the foothills are not cozy beneath a quilt of white. The dogs charge through the snow, burying their faces deep as they snuffle for scurrying
moles. Inside, we keep a fire crackling and plates full of tarts, shortbreads, loaves, and cherry-topped cookies. Enjoying the holiday bliss, the cats perch on the windowsills, their heads cocked as the birds dart from feeder to feeder.
New Year's Eve brings a glacial sky, with a half moon drifting like a berg of sea ice and clusters of stars bobbing in the dark. The donkeys' whiskers are frosted, their breath suspended in the air like clouds of dandelion fluff. We stand on the crest of the hill, humbled by the vast sky and the magnificent waltzing of the stars. My thoughts float back to those many Christmases at our cabin at Lucy Lake, when at night we would light the storm lanterns and skate on the lake, listening to the wolves howl and the trees pop. I wonder what my dad is doing. Is he skating on some heavenly pond, up among the same stars I am watching? Is he reading another arctic adventure by the light of the same moon I see? Does he remember stoking the fires throughout the night so that we could warm our clothes in the morning, so that we could slip into warm woollen socks and sweatpants? Can he see us now, still enjoying the wilds of a Christmas Eve, in a different home, but still next to a warm fire?
A lone star shoots across the sky in a streaking arc. I whisper to the mule and donkeys that we should make a wish to welcome in the new year. After all, this is a new beginning, a time to remember what has been and to wish for good things to come. After this past year of drought, followed by a rain-soaked harvest, my list unravels like an endless scroll.