Donkey Sense

by Dean Lombardo

  “Mosquitoes getting to you, too?” asked the donkey. “It must be tough not to have a tail to swat’em with.”

  Timmy’s mouth opened in disbelief.

  Pedro shifted his head from side to side, gesturing to the walls of his shelter. “I’m sorry my stall is such a mess. I wasn’t expecting company tonight.”

  “Y-you cuh-can talk,” Timmy stuttered, reaching up to pinch his cheek again.

  “Just found that out, did ya?” Pedro replied, then pinned his ears back and brayed so loudly it caused Timmy to cup his hands over the sides of his head. Finally the donkey’s laughter subsided and Timmy removed his hands from his ears.

  “You’re a real fast learner,” the donkey said sarcastically. “But don’t worry, I’ll teach you a few things if you promise to bring carrots.” Pedro shifted his head from side to side again. “Mmm-hmmm . . . I lovvvvvvve carrots.”

  Chapter Seven

  Timmy couldn’t believe it. He was standing in a stall having a conversation with a . . . a donkey. He glanced outside and saw the day had turned completely to night. I better get home, he thought, and then looked back at Pedro.

  “Uh, I don’t have any carrots right now,” Timmy said, “but—”

  “That’s all right,” Pedro interrupted. “You can bring me a whole bunch the next time.” And with that Pedro brayed loudly, the donkey’s high-pitched squeal forcing Timmy to cover his ears once again.

  Pedro snorted. “Oops, sorry about that. The horses hate when I do that, too.”

  Timmy lowered his hands and nodded. His temple still ached from when he’d banged it on Mr. Atkins’ tractor and he was dizzy. His ears hurt as well.

  “Now about those things you told ol' J.T.,” Pedro said, pausing for effect. “Why didn’t you just tell him the truth about what happened to you?”

  Timmy started to reply, all ready to confess, and then he hesitated. What if Pedro could talk to Mr. Atkins the same way he talks to me? If I tell Pedro the truth about what Eddie and his gang did to me, won’t Pedro go and tell Mr. Atkins, who then tells Mom, who tells the school principal, and gets me in even bigger trouble with Eddie?

  I’m not a snitch, Timmy told himself. Then, aloud, he lied. “But I did tell Mr. Atkins what really happened. I slipped and fell down the hill and—”

  “Eee-errr-awwwwwwwwww!” Pedro bellowed, stopping Timmy in midsentence. The boy’s hands returned to his ears as he staggered across the stable.

  Pedro ceased his braying, snorted and said, “Tell me the truth Timmy.” He swished his tail impatiently. “From the beginning.”

  ****

  Timmy told Pedro how Eddie and his gang of bullies had twice followed him from school and sent him tumbling down the hill and into the pasture of Crabapple Farm. “And then the second time,” Timmy explained, wiping a tear from his cheek, “. . . tonight . . . when I woke up, I heard a voice. Y-y-your voice. Y-y-you can talk.”

  Pedro nodded his head then pulled his lips back to show his funny, rectangular teeth.

  In the darkness, Timmy looked down and kicked at what was probably a piece of dried manure. “How can a donkey talk? And how can I possibly make you understand why I can’t snitch on Eddie and the others?” Timmy looked into Pedro’s large, shining eyes. “What do donkeys know about bullies?”

  Pedro cocked his head forward, his muzzle peeling back again to reveal those square, white teeth that seemed to glow in the dark. He snorted through his nose. “You don’t think I’ve been bullied too? Surrounded by huge horses, one in particular who is a real jerk?” Pedro gave another snort.

  Timmy blinked, then pinched himself. This is a dream . . . right? God, I hope this is a dream.

  Pedro pinned his long ears back and squealed, jolting Timmy to attention.

  The donkey continued. “The horses around here used to kick my butt all the time, literally.” Yet another snort. “I’ve got the bruises to prove it, but I learned to fight back, Timmy—and I found a friend.”

  “I don’t have any friends,” Timmy muttered, feeling strange, almost hypnotized.

  “Yes, you do,” Pedro said. “Let me introduce you to my best friend, although there’s room for you too, even though you are a little slow. Come on.”

  Pedro’s round, furry flank nudged Timmy’s chest as the donkey led the way out of the open stall.

  At first Timmy hesitated, but realizing he had to go home tonight anyway, he followed Pedro outside. The rain had stopped. The ground was deep with slick mud.

  “Watch your step,” Pedro said with a swish of his tail. They entered the horse stable, a far taller, longer, and nicer barn than the shack in which Pedro lived. Pedro’s hooves clacked over the concrete floor, then trotted over a pile of something. His hindquarters twitched and he swished his tail again. Timmy stared down at the lump of manure as Pedro said, “Ooh, Mister Braun, you did that there on purpose.”

  There was no reply from any of the stalls. Good thing, Timmy thought. If every animal starts talking to me, then I know I’m crazy.

  Timmy circled past where he believed Mister Braun, whoever he was, had taken a dump on the stable floor.

  Pedro stopped outside one of the stalls and said, “Oh, Penelope?”

  A horse head appeared over the stall door. A gruff, female voice said, “Pedro, do you know what time it is?”

  Again Timmy went to pinch himself. This time he succeeded, gripping his cheek, squeezing.

  Pedro said, “Penelope, I’m sorry to disturb your beauty rest,” and then he brayed so earth-shatteringly loud that Timmy clenched his ears and all of the horses stuck their heads out, awake and angry.

  “Keep it down you chubby little goat!” a male horse said.

  “Yeah, don’t make me come out there Pedro,” a second horse rumbled. “You don’t want to see this mare’s hooves up your puny donkey rear again.”

  “Pedro, you better keep it down,” Penelope advised.

  Timmy stared across the unlit stable at the horse named Penelope. She had a dark coat, probably brown. Her mane was a deeper shade, but he couldn’t be sure.

  The two horses who’d yelled at Pedro swung their heads back inside their stalls, going back to sleep. But a silent, third horse head remained. The largest of them all, the horse had been watching and listening to them the whole time, and Timmy had missed seeing it entirely. The horse was dark, most likely black, with a dark mane, shiny coat, and large, menacing eyes. The stallion snorted angrily through his nostrils. A musky stench drifted into Timmy’s frightened nose and mouth.

  Then, the massive dark horse spoke. “Pedro, do you know what I am going to do to you out in the pasture next time we’re alone?”

  Timmy glanced over at Pedro. For a moment, Pedro shivered, then just as quickly something changed inside the donkey and his compact muscles stiffened.

  “I’m not afraid of you, big boy,” Pedro said, pawing the stable floor and letting out a huff. “I’m gonna pop your hide with my Patented Pedro Punch.” He swung his head toward Timmy and said, “Actually it’s a kick, but dumb-head over there doesn’t have to know that.”

  Mister Braun growled and opened his jaws wide, but Penelope broke in with her stern voice. “Now you boys stop fighting or I’m gonna put a whuppin’ on both of you that even ol' J.T. is gonna wanna come out and see.”

  Mister Braun swung his large head in Penelope’s direction and hissed. “Put a muzzle on it, Miss-I-Have-No-Friends.”

  Already confused and frightened, Timmy lost his breath when Mister Braun turned to him with his big, white, bloodshot eyes and said, “And who is this puny specimen of a man?”

  “I told you, Mister Braun, ENOUGH!” Penelope shouted. “Why don’t you put a muzzle on it?” Her head dipped into the stall. When she reappeared, she had something long and slender in her mouth. Timmy watched bug-eyed as Penelope swung the object—a strand of alfalfa? He wasn’t sure—but the flowery part of the plant softly whipped Mister Braun’s snout.

  “Hey!” the dark stallion hollered, jerkin
g his head up.

  “That’s right. Hay,” Penelope said, swinging her head and bringing the long piece of grass higher this time, the tip swatting Mister Braun’s nose. She swung again, finding his new position. “Now get back in your stall, you bully.”

  To Timmy’s amazement, Mister Braun retreated back into his stall, but not without a threat.

  “I’m going to get you too, Penelope. Outside during pasture time. Your rump is gonna have a bump.” Lurking somewhere in the shadow of his stall, the dark stallion added, “From my hoof.”

  At this, Penelope snorted and swung her head toward Timmy and said, “Oh, don’t pay any mind to that big bag of air. Old J.T. doesn’t let dumb-head out too much anymore on account of dumb-head’s bad behavior. Still, I think you ought to be getting home now Timmy. It’s late and your mother must be worried.”

  Timmy pinched himself again. He felt himself swaying, angling to his left, toward the door or maybe toward the hard floor.

  Pedro brayed again, not only to spite Mister Braun and some of the other horses, but also to warn Timmy that he was falling.

  “She’s right Timmy,” Pedro said. “You look tired. Go ahead.”

  Timmy stepped outside into the night air which had been freshened by the recent rain. It smelled like manure, but Timmy was out of breath and he felt an attack of asthma on the way, so he breathed the air in hungrily in the slow rhythm his professional nurse mother had taught him. Just by leaving the stall with its mean horses and that powerful musky odor that Mister Braun had given off, Timmy felt better already. Refreshed.

  He heard the clopping of hooves behind him, followed by the slopping sound of Pedro entering the mud outside the horse stable. Quickly the donkey caught up and walked alongside him.

  “You know Timmy,” Pedro said in his dopey, yet confident voice, “there isn’t always someone around to protect you when you’re getting bullied.”

  They neared the final gate, the one leading from the pasture to the driveway.

  “Don’t I know it,” Timmy said.

  “That’s why I’ve been practicing my mule kicks,” Pedro said, and then started a bray but stopped himself. “Oops, too close to ol' J.T.’s bedroom window. I better keep it down,” he added with a whisper. He snorted, swished his tail. “I know you’re tired, but let me show you a few kicks real quick.”

  Timmy knew he should go home, but it was so late already. He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “It’ll give me time to think of what I’m going to tell my mom.”

  Pedro started off, and then said, “Why don’t you tell her the truth?”

  Timmy sucked in a breath, recalling what had happened the last time he’d told his mom the truth.

  “I did. And it only got me in more trouble with Eddie and his gang.”

  Pedro snorted and said, “All right, come on. We’ll talk about what you should do.”

  They swung around to the left, as far away from the house and horse stable as possible. A secret mission in the middle of the night, Timmy thought. Him and a donkey. A talking one.

  “Here’s a good spot,” Pedro said, stopping next to where the ring’s fence met the trees. To their left was the hill Timmy had toppled down twice.

  His rear facing the fence, Pedro lifted his left leg quickly, then brought it up and out. Powered by strong hind muscles, Pedro’s hoof clacked loudly against the fencepost, shaking it.

  Then Pedro lifted his right leg—and kicked!

  Clack!

  “You see what I’m doing Timmy? It’s a great kick for when someone’s chasing you.” Pedro cocked his head. “Timmy, are you listening?”

  “This . . . y-you can’t be real,” Timmy said.

  Pedro pawed at the ground with his front hoof, “Oh yeah? Let me prove it to you—come stand by the fence . . . sorry, only kidding. Why don’t you try? Kicking the fence a few times might wake you up, and let me assure you that you aren’t dreaming.”

  “I better go,” Timmy said, spinning back toward the house. He broke into a run, uncertain of whether he was running in his sleep or whether the ground beneath his feet was even real.

  “Eee-eee-awwwwwwwwww! Don’t be a stranger,” Pedro shouted after him, then followed with another ear-shattering bray.

  Chapter Eight

  Timmy pawed through the darkness, relying more on memory than sight to find his way home. It was an uneventful trip except for an animal crossing the road. Probably a raccoon. It stopped for a second, its eyes glowing at Timmy, before it scampered away.

  He passed Kelly’s house and briefly checked the windows, finding them all dark. When he reached home, he paused in the driveway and looked inside. The house was lit, the living room and Mom’s bedroom glowing yellow-orange through the curtains.

  He took a deep breath and then walked to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. He knocked loudly, and then waited dizzily for his mother to let him in, not yet ready to hit the doorbell.

  Footsteps inside, the knob wobbling, and then the door opened.

  Timmy smiled weakly as he started through the doorway, avoiding eye contact. Before he could get past his mother, she seized him, then pulled him in close and hugged him, her eyes gushing with tears.

  “Timmy, oh my God,” she said, her words coming between sobs. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

  She squeezed him some more, tightly, forcing the air out of him. “Mom, you’re suffocating me,” he said with a gasp.

  She didn’t let go. “Where were you? Why didn’t you call?”

  “Because I don’t have a phone,” Timmy let out. “Mom, that’s enough,” he said, prying himself loose. He held out his hands to stop his crying mother from crushing him again. But when he looked at her he saw that she had relaxed. With a cock of his head, he gestured toward the foyer. “Can I come in?”

  She made him take off his sneakers and then led him to the kitchen where she washed his face, dabbing at it with a hot washcloth. Then she got him a drink of water and they moved to the living room.

  Sitting on the loveseat, with Timmy on the sofa, she told him how terrified she’d been that he might have been kidnapped or hit by a car. “I even called the police. Why weren’t you home, Timmy? It’s after nine. Where were you?”

  Timmy glanced to his right, refusing to meet his mother’s all-knowing, tear-soaked eyes. He gazed down at his socked feet resting on the worn carpet. Mom had purchased their home at a low price because of the house’s condition. She did what she could, but without Dad to make the repairs—

  Timmy cried, the tears flowing instantly from lots of practice, the sadness stealing his breath and causing him to heave.

  “Mom . . . I– I can’t tell you what happened tonight because I don’t even believe what happened.”

  She got up from the loveseat and came over to him. “What happened? Are you okay?” She knelt and reached up to stroke his hair. “Honey, tell me what happened.”

  Bullies who won’t leave me alone, no matter what? A talking donkey? Talking horses? How can I tell her all that? Besides, I’m not even sure if the talking donkey and horses are real at this point.

  He’d have to tell her something else. He dragged his wrist across his wet cheek. In addition to crying, he’d also had a lot of practice lying over the past week too.

  “I fell,” Timmy whispered, his head turned away from his mother’s probing blue eyes framed by her wavy brown hair. She had nice hair, unlike his.

  She got up and stood over him. “Look at me,” she said, her gentle hand tilting Timmy’s face up by the chin. “Look into my eyes.”

  Timmy did, and without blinking he said, “I stopped by Crabapple Farm to see Pedro, but I slipped and fell down the hill and hit my head.” Timmy sobbed. “I’m sorry, Mom. Pedro . . . he’s the donkey. You know him, right? He woke me up and helped me get home. He woke me up with his whiskery snout.”

  Timmy’s mother smiled. But as she stared at him, a look of concern spread over her face. Then her nurse’s fingers were probing the top of Tim
my’s head, the base of his skull. “Any bumps? I don’t feel any.”

  Timmy said, “No, Mom . . . Mom, do we have any carrots? I’d like to bring Pedro some the next time I see him. And can I go to a horse show Saturday with Kelly from down the street?”

  Ann Unterkanz leaned down and kissed Timmy on the cheek. “I’m so happy you’re home, sweetie. I’ve got to call the police back, tell them you’re all right. Then I’ll heat you up some dinner.” She paused, placing her hand over her heart. “And I’m so glad you’re making friends.”

  She turned and walked away, but from the hallway she added, “There’s a bag of carrots in the fridge.”

  Chapter Nine

  Kelly’s curls . . . that’s what Timmy stared at. And her ears.

  She sat two seats in front of him, her attention on the whiteboard where Mrs. Barnett diagrammed sentences. Elbow planted on his desk, his chin snug in his palm, Timmy stared.

  “And in this sentence, what is the predicate?” Miss Barnett asked. “Timmy.”

  Only after Kelly looked back to shoot him a warning glance did Timmy understand that Miss Barnett had called on him.

  “Wake up, lover boy,” Kelly whispered. She smiled teasingly and turned back to face forward.

  “Timmy?” Miss Barnett called, more loudly this time.

  Timmy gazed at the board. “What was the question?” he asked as a warm and tingly feeling heated his face. The room was getting hotter, he was sweating. All eyes were on him now. Fortunately Eddie wasn’t in this class—

  “Timmy? What is the predicate of this sentence?” Miss Barnett demanded, tapping her wooden pointer next to the scribble of dark blue lettering on the board’s otherwise shiny, white surface. When he still didn’t answer—he was too busy focusing and studying the sentence—Miss Barnett said, “Is there a problem, Timmy? Do you feel ill?” The teacher started toward him, and finally Timmy shouted out, “Went to the beach!”