Alan the Christmas Donkey

by Tracy Garton

  Tracy Garton

  with Danielle Hoffman

  Alan the Christmas Donkey

  The Little Donkey Who Made a Big Difference

  SIDGWICK & JACKSON

  This book is dedicated to all the donkeys we have rescued, for the joy and occasional heartbreak they have brought us. There may be sleepless nights spent in the stables with sick donkeys, but there is great joy when they get better. There’s also the joy of chasing escaped donkeys around the village at 3 a.m.! Bless them, they test us every day. We know we have made a big difference to their lives and they have certainly made a big difference to ours.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Lost and Found

  2 Horsing Around

  3 Fresh Beginnings

  4 New Neighbours

  5 A Desperate Plea

  6 Touch and Go

  7 A Donkey with No Name

  8 The Hooligans

  9 Lights, Camera, Alan!

  10 In Too Deep

  11 What Friends Are For

  12 Cruel Intentions

  13 Christmas? Bah, Humbug!

  14 Reindeer Games

  15 The Best Present Ever

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Support Alan

  Adopt Your Favourite Donkey

  Prologue

  Most of us are lucky enough to have a special someone who, when we look back, we can say really has changed our life for the better. This could be a family member, a partner, an old friend, or even just a stranger we had a chance encounter with. I’m fortunate enough to have several special someones. I love my husband of thirty-three years dearly, but two of my most life-changing encounters have been with animals.

  Twenty-five years ago now I came across a lonely, scraggy mule snuffling around in the dirt in a field just down the road from the house I then lived in by the River Trent in Nottinghamshire. I’d always been an animal lover and, as I looked into the creature’s deep brown eyes, I felt a special connection. Somewhere, deep in my gut, I knew that I was there to change that mule’s life.

  Our special moment didn’t last long – just minutes later I was legging it back to the gate in fear for my life, with that scruffy animal in hot pursuit. Hardly an emotional Hollywood-style plot-changing scene. Yet, panting as I vaulted over the fence just in the nick of time, I realised I couldn’t walk away and do nothing. I’ve always believed everyone deserves a friend. That goes for animals too. That mule needed a pal – and why shouldn’t that be me?

  Fast forward two decades, and I look back on my first encounter with Muffin, as he became named, with a smile. If only I’d known just how pivotal that moment would be. He was the founding resident at what would become the Radcliffe Donkey Sanctuary – and he wasn’t the only resident for long. Since that day, I’ve somehow become a fierce protector of hundreds of mules, horses, donkeys, and even the odd zebra/donkey crossbreed thrown in for good measure. Up at 5.30 a.m. every day to start ticking off items on the never-ending jobs list at my sanctuary, it became easy to get bogged down in the financial struggles, health worries, and stresses that I’ve learned the hard way come with the territory.

  But then, amid the rural rollercoaster of ups and downs, I met Alan. I’d like to say that I love each donkey equally – they certainly get equal care and attention. However, being completely honest, that wouldn’t quite be true. I hold my hands up, I do have my favourites. And when Alan came to live at the sanctuary it was only a matter of days before I realised he was special.

  Alan was actually rescued shortly after Christmas, and I like to think that we gave him a festive miracle. He was in a desperate state and surely wishing for a better life, not one starved of the basics of nourishment, warmth and love. Then I came along, as his guardian angel. I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn’t turned up in time.

  Not a day goes by when my lovely Alan doesn’t make me smile but as you’re about to see, he’s also given me more than his fair share of trouble with his cheeky antics – escape plots, public displays of embarrassment and a tug of war with a model’s bikini bottoms to name just a few of his escapades . . . But he also saved the life of his friend and gave me the greatest Christmas gift of all.

  However, before I tell you more about Alan, let me take you back to the beginning.

  1

  Lost and Found

  As I stretched out in bed, the piercing bell of my alarm clock shattered the silence. My eyes were still bleary from sleep but, squinting, I could just about make out the time. It was 6 a.m., time to give the animals their breakfast. And, as if by clockwork, I could hear four-legged footsteps bounding up the stairs towards me.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I called, scurrying from the warmth of the duvet into my snuggly purple dressing gown.

  I opened the door a crack and was greeted by a sloppy tongue licking my hand, with another cold nose snuffling around my bare feet.

  ‘Get down, Jenna, and that’s enough, Rumpole,’ I said, pushing my German pointer’s soft brown head away, and stepping out of the reach of my tubby white bulldog.

  It was hardly a relaxing wake-up call, but this was a pretty typical morning. With three dogs – Jenna, Rumpole and my darling Italian spinone, Ben – two attention-seeking cats – Sooty and Maxwell – and two tortoises – Walter and Betty – out on the lawn as well, my porridge would have to wait.

  I’d always been an animal lover, and when my husband, Steve, and I got married in 1983 we decided not to have children. Just as some couples always know they’ll start a family, we felt sure it wasn’t for us. Instead, we filled our lovely three-bed detached home with furry friends. Steve only had a budgie before he met me, bless him. I’d always known I wanted a house full of pets, though.

  As a child, I’d drive my parents mad by sneaking any creature I could get my hands on back into my bedroom. Injured birds, lost mice, even a bat, I wasn’t fussy. Living in the Nottinghamshire countryside, there was always an animal that I could convince myself desperately needed my help. So I’d scoop them up in my school jumper, and snuggle them safely on top of the pile of books in my school bag.

  Getting past my mum was always the first hurdle, and eventually I adopted the strategy of dashing straight upstairs muttering something about homework. Looking back, that probably set her alarm bells ringing immediately, if my old school reports are anything to go by. I wasn’t exactly the studious type. I spent more time gazing longingly out of the window than paying attention to the blackboard.

  However, once upstairs with my bedroom door closed behind me, I had the next part of the plan down to a fine art. I kept a cardboard box in the bottom of my wardrobe at the ready for my next animal rescue. So, as silent as the mice I would bring home, I’d creak open the doors and deposit my latest find into its new home.

  Inevitably, my mum would find out and, with the exception of one lucky mouse, my little friends would always be turfed back outside. For some reason I got away with keeping Mickey, and he spent the next few years living happily in a cage on my desk.

  By the time I reached my teens, my nurturing instincts hadn’t gone away. In fact, I decided that I wanted to be a vet. I loved the idea of spending all day with animals, and was already daydreaming about swooping in wearing my white veterinary coat and saving the day. However, I’d given much less thought to the qualifications I’d need. My heart sank when our school careers adviser listed the exams I’d have to take, and the years at university I’d need to commit to.

  Soon I discovered boys and make-up, and my dreams of being a vet faded away. Instead I thought maybe I’d be a hairdresser. It sounded glam, and I thought I could always care for animals in my spare time. In the meanti
me, I took a part-time after-school job in a fish and chip shop, and that’s how, in 1980, I met Steve.

  How I managed to appear alluring amid the grease and the strong fishy smell, I’ll never know. I recognised Steve from school, but as he was a few years older we didn’t really know each other. However, after that first night when our eyes met over the chippy counter, we’d always say hello when we bumped into each other out and about. Getting the attention of an older lad was a bit of a coup, and I felt pretty chuffed with myself. I liked his cheeky sense of humour, and I thought he was the best-looking guy in town. Blond hair and a twinkle in his eye, just my type. Then, to my surprise, a passing nod turned into a brief chat and, eventually, one evening Steve plucked up the courage to ask me out.

  Three years later we’d tied the knot, and by 1988 we’d moved from Woodthorpe near Nottingham into our dream three-bed detached home in Bailey Lane at the quiet edge of Radcliffe-on-Trent. The peaceful countryside setting was idyllic, and we loved village life. There was a small parade of shops, a decent selection of beers on tap at our local pub, the Black Lion, and fresh air in abundance.

  By now, my hairdressing ambitions were long gone. I’d done the training and, after just a few weeks’ working in a local salon, I’d realised it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I wasn’t living the dream creating glamorous up-dos or experimenting with the latest colour trends. In reality, I was washing and perming old ladies’ hair while faking an intense interest in how the weather had been lately and the week they’d booked in Spain.

  After that I spent seven or eight years in the jewellery business, working in shops in Nottingham, Grantham and Leicester. The money was good, and I actually enjoyed learning all about the different gemstones and how to decode a hallmark. Soon enough, though, I began to get bored. Instead, I started working for my mum and stepdad, who owned a small chain of video rental stores in Radcliffe-on-Trent and West Bridgford.

  On one particular day, a Friday in 1991, I’d spent a long afternoon in the shop helping customers to choose their movies for the weekend. The best part of my job was watching previews of the films so we could select which we wanted to stock, so I was always ready with a recommendation or two. Back then it cost around £100 for us to buy in each new release, so it was a big responsibility making sure we only shelled out for the good ones. Eventually, the last rental had been booked out and I headed straight over to the Chinese takeaway in the Radcliffe-on-Trent high street to pick up a late dinner for me and Steve. It was our regular weekend treat, unless we fancied heading into Nottingham to our favourite curry house.

  ‘I hope you’ve got some prawn crackers in there,’ Steve said, as I nudged open the kitchen door and set the bag of greasy goodies down on the table.

  ‘Of course! I’m absolutely starving,’ I replied.

  Steve was still tugging off his work boots, having worked late in his job as a travelling printer-engineer. Soon, though, we were perched on the sofa with full, steaming plates on our laps and some nonsense on the telly in the background.

  ‘Before I forget, I spotted something interesting on the way home,’ Steve said, between mouthfuls of chicken chop suey.

  ‘Oh yeah, what’s that then?’

  ‘Well, you know that field just before you arrive in the next village? I reckon it’s got a donkey or something in it,’ he said. ‘It was too dark to get a proper look, but I think he was on his own. I hope he’s all right. I felt a bit sorry for him really.’

  It was early March, and the weather had been particularly cold and wet. Like Steve, I didn’t like to think of a donkey out there in the frost either.

  ‘I’ll pop over tomorrow on the way to work, just to check on him,’ I said, chewing thoughtfully on a forkful of sweet and sour king prawns.

  We settled down to a night of channel flicking through the telly. Neither of us are big TV fans, and after a long afternoon in the video shop I couldn’t stomach a movie. However, that evening I don’t think it would have mattered what we were watching. I just couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept drifting back to the conversation with Steve, and I was imagining that poor, sad donkey in a field all on his own. There wasn’t much I could do at that time of night, but if it hadn’t been for the wintry darkness I would have driven down to the field there and then.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but he’ll be fine until tomorrow,’ Steve said, reading my thoughts. ‘It’s Friday night, relax.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said doubtfully.

  I flicked the kettle on to make us each a cup of tea, telling myself that Steve was right. However, setting my alarm extra early for the morning wouldn’t hurt.

  The next day I was up and out of bed before the dogs had even opened their eyes. That gave them a bit of a shock. I hurriedly slopped the tinned Pedigree Chum into their bowls, before scorching my mouth as I gulped down a mug of coffee. I was a woman on a mission.

  I wasn’t due at the West Bridgford branch of the video shop until 10 a.m., in time to start booking back in the Friday night rentals. It would be a twenty-minute drive on a busy Saturday morning, as the roads were bound to be snarled up with all the shoppers heading for a day in Nottingham. But that still gave me plenty of time to get down to the field in Holme Pierrepont and take a look at this donkey.

  Peering out through the kitchen window, I could see my back lawn glistening from an overnight downpour. It was going to be a muddy day. So I tugged on my green welly boots and, as an afterthought, doubled back into the kitchen to grab a carrot from the veg rack. That donkey deserves a treat after spending all night out in that miserable weather, I thought, shivering at the morning chill as I unlocked the front door and stepped onto the block-paving driveway.

  As I drove the ten-minute journey down to the field, I was surprised to realise I had butterflies in the pit of my stomach. I think it was not knowing what I’d find. I was sure Steve was right, that this mysterious donkey would be fine, but what if he wasn’t? What if I was too late? He could be up to his knees in mud, cold and starving. Or, perhaps even worse. I felt the same way I’d done aged seven, telling myself that those little mice needed me to look after them. I felt some silly sense of responsibility for this creature, even though I hadn’t set eyes on him yet.

  I pulled up on the grassy verge next to the fence, and got my first glimpse of what Steve had seen the night before. It wasn’t a donkey, though, it was a mule. To many people, a mule and a donkey would look almost identical. After all, a mule is a hybrid of a male donkey and a female horse, so of course they share lots of physical characteristics. But after two decades of horse riding and hanging around the yard I was fine-tuned to the little giveaways. For one, mules are quite a bit bigger than donkeys. They also have longer, slimmer ears, and a sleek, swishy tail like a horse. I couldn’t blame Steve for not spotting the difference, it had been pitch-black when he’d driven by. But in the stark light of day I could tell that this was most definitely a mule, and an unhappy one at that.

  The first thing that struck me was the way he was pacing up and down the paddock, swinging his head around wildly. That kind of behaviour is called weaving, and I’d occasionally seen horses do it too. It’s a sure sign of boredom or stress. I got out of the car, and pulled my anorak hood up to keep the drizzle off my naturally curly hair. Then I leaned over the fence to get a better look.

  It was no wonder the mule was so miserable. He was trudging through the sticky mud all by himself. My heart panged for him. All animals from the equine species thrive on company, and it’s not unknown for a lonely horse or pony to give up on life completely. The poor thing must have been bored out of his mind.

  The next thing I noticed was that there wasn’t even so much as an overhanging tree for him to shelter under. His dark brown coat was absolutely sodden, and his stocky little legs were sinking into a puddle.

  It was time to take a closer look. So I hitched my leg up onto the fence and swung myself over into the field. As I landed in the mud with a squelchy thud, the
mule immediately turned his head towards me. Even from fifty metres away I could tell he was sizing me up. I didn’t want to spook him so for several minutes I just stood there, letting him get used to my presence. He didn’t take his eyes off me. Slowly, I inched my hand into my pocket where I’d stashed the big juicy carrot, and held it out towards him.

  I could see his nostrils twitching, and his firm gaze didn’t waver.

  ‘Come on, you know you want to take a bite,’ I said, my voice barely above a whisper. My breath curled in the frosty air as I spoke.

  My plan, if you can call it that, was to tempt him over so I could take a closer look at what kind of state he was in. But still he didn’t take a single step.

  Oh, I see, you want me to make all the effort, I thought, realising if I wanted us to be friends I’d have to go over to him.

  So, as if I was moving in slo-mo, I started creeping across the field, still grasping the carrot in my numb hand. I was willing him to trust me. Slowly, I reached forty metres away, thirty, twenty . . .

  Then suddenly, as if a starting pistol had launched a race I didn’t know we were in, the mule shattered the silence with a deep bray and began bolting towards me. I dropped the carrot in an instant, and started legging it back towards the fence. My wellies were slipping around in the mud, and dirty splatters were covering my back. I didn’t even turn around. The sound of the mule’s thundering hooves behind me told me to keep running and running.

  I was panting from the effort as I reached the fence and hauled myself back over it. Only then did I glance behind me to see the mule bucking violently. I’d made it just in the nick of time. Ten more seconds and I’d have felt the full force of his muscular hind legs in my backside. It had been a close call.

  He finished his antics, and then turned to give me a cool, calm look. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He’d won, and he thought it was hilarious to give me such a fright. But my heart was pounding. I hadn’t found it so funny. Then, flippantly, he trotted back to the middle of the field where I’d dropped the carrot. I could have sworn he was mocking me as he snaffled it up and chomped it down, right in front of me.