by Tracy Garton
An hour later, we’d finally managed to move Muffin to his second new home of the day. He’d been having so much fun with the cows that he wasn’t going to be caught again without a fight. I could barely watch as we set him free among the sheep in the next field, keeping my fingers, toes and everything else crossed that we wouldn’t have a repeat of his earlier antics. Thankfully, he seemed much less interested in playing with the sheep. They didn’t appear pleased to see him, and gave him a wide berth. He let them be as he lowered his head and started munching on the grass.
‘Thank God for that. I don’t know what we’d have done with Muffin if he’d upset the sheep too,’ I said.
‘Let’s just hope they don’t take any of his nonsense,’ Steve said, glancing up and down the lane. ‘Shall we get out of here before the farmer comes back?’
‘I doubt he’s calmed down yet. Good plan,’ I agreed.
And so, with one final glance to make sure Muffin was behaving himself, we made our escape even faster than those cows had sprinted down the lane.
By the time we eventually got home it was late afternoon. Forgetting about the coffee, I reached for a large wine glass. After what we’d just been through I figured I deserved it. My arms ached from the strain of trying to keep hold of Muffin on the end of that rope, my coat pockets were filled with crumbs, and I looked even more of a state than I had after our first encounter.
However, there wasn’t a single ounce of regret. I couldn’t deny Muffin had been a huge pain in the bum, and I had a funny feeling he’d carry on being one too. But I knew that rescuing him was not only the right thing to do, but something that I really wanted to do. His scruffy brown coat was the exact shade of chocolate cake, and his moody expression had a certain charm to it. He might not like me yet, but I was determined that would change. I’d win him over whatever it took. And, in the meantime, at least he had an abundance of grass and some company to enjoy.
Before meeting Muffin I certainly never had any ambition to own a mule or a donkey, or anything like that. I was quite happy with my domestic pets. It sounds like a silly thing to say but having Muffin in my life immediately felt like a natural fit, as if something had been missing before. I felt excited.
The next day I drove to pick up some hay and a huge bag of carrots, and wedged them into the car boot. I was a bit nervous about heading over to see Muffin, not really knowing what I’d arrive to. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find him in the field all on his own, having chased the sheep away too. If that was the case, I’d never be able to face the farmer again. But, to my relief, I drove up to a scene of domestic bliss. Muffin was calmly minding his own business and the sheep were minding theirs.
I shook some of the hay into a corner of the field for him to enjoy, and popped a couple of carrots on top too. Muffin barely even registered that I was there. This was progress from the day before, when his glare had been almost murderous. I decided I would rather he ignore me than detest the very sight of me. These small steps were still steps in the right direction. Perhaps this arrangement would work out after all.
3
Fresh Beginnings
Muffin’s domestic bliss lasted exactly one week. I’d been down to check on him at least twice every day, morning and evening, with another quick visit to say hello if I could fit one in. My heart had filled with pride to see him happily nibbling on the grass and prancing around. He seemed calmer.
Then early one evening the phone rang.
‘Tracy, you need to do something about this donkey. I’m not having him anymore,’ said a grouchy voice, without as much as a hello. It was the farmer, and he wasn’t pleased with me.
‘Why, what’s happened?’ I asked innocently. A swarm of terrible scenarios started rushing through my mind. Had Muffin escaped? Maybe his friendship with the sheep was over and he’d chased them out of the field too?
‘He’s been biting at my ewes. They hate him. You need to find him somewhere else to go,’ the farmer said.
I sighed. There was no point in arguing; his mind was made up and Muffin had outstayed his welcome.
‘I’ll sort it out as soon as I can. I’m sorry again about your cows too. Are they all all right?’ I asked.
‘They’re fine now. It took me two days to round them all up, though. Plus, there are the apologies I still need to make to everyone whose garden got trampled in the process,’ he said.
I could have sworn I heard a hint of a chuckle in the farmer’s voice. With relief, I realised I hadn’t burnt all my bridges with him – yet. However, I needed Muffin to stay out of trouble until we found him a new home.
That very evening Steve and I started phoning around everyone we knew who owned land, keeping our fingers crossed someone would have a little bit of spare space. But we drew a blank. Suddenly our garden was looking like a potential option after all. I couldn’t bear to think of the damage that mule would do to our perfectly preened lawn, not to mention what the neighbours would say to his racket. There must be something we can do, I thought, dreading the complaints from next door already.
Over the next few days, we used our evenings to drive around the village on the lookout for the smallest sliver of derelict land. Eventually we hit the jackpot. We pulled up next to a field that backed on to the railway line, not far from where the River Trent ran. It was filled with what I can only describe as rubbish. The ground was strewn with bin liners, empty drink cans and debris. There was even a burned-out car in the corner.
But underneath the chaos I could see shoots of green grass sprouting through. Perfect for a mule. The field was a good size too, and its location in Island Lane was only a ten-minute walk from home. From the state of it, I was almost certain it wasn’t being used.
‘What do you reckon? I think this could work,’ I said to Steve.
‘It’s a wreck but your Muffin needs somewhere, I suppose.’
It wasn’t clear who owned the area, but as it backed on to the railway I decided that British Rail would be a good place to start. Sure enough, after enquiries had been made, it was determined that the field did belong to them, and they were happy to rent it to me. It was pricey, at just over £1,000 a year, but I was desperate. There was only one condition – I’d have to clear it out myself.
After calling the farmer to tell him the good news we set about making Muffin’s new home fit for purpose. With the promise of a couple of pints down at the Black Lion, we roped in some friends to give us a hand in clearing half of the area and re-fencing around the edge.
Before long, Muffin was safely enclosed once more. I was sad to see he’d started weaving again, tossing his head around with boredom. But I was already putting a plan in place to find him some proper friends. I just hoped that this time he’d make a bit more effort himself.
I saw an advert in the local paper, the Nottingham Evening Post, looking for people who would be happy to give a Skegness beach donkey a home just for the winter. I learned that during the summer they stayed in an open field near the beach. But as the colder and wetter weather drew in, the donkeys needed somewhere with a bit more shelter. And, to put it bluntly, most of the owners were too tight to pay for that kind of accommodation. The donkeys didn’t work in the winter, so they weren’t earning their keep. Instead, the owners would appeal to the generosity of the public to keep them warm and fed until spring came around again. It was just the way it had always been done.
I called the number at the bottom of the ad, and agreed to give two beach donkeys a home for the winter. Muffin hadn’t liked the cows, and he hadn’t really taken to the sheep either. Perhaps one of his own kind would be more up his street. In the meantime, we started work on a shack at the edge of the field to provide a bit of shelter. Then, come September, Noddy and Linda arrived in the back of a trailer. Linda was a steady, sensible sort of character, with perfect manners. Noddy was a little bit more of a handful. I wasn’t surprised; his owner had warned me he had a habit of nodding his head until the kids fell off his back. But compare
d to Muffin, he was an angel.
At this point I didn’t really stop to reflect on how the situation had already started to escalate. I’d decided to save one donkey, almost on a bit of a whim. And then there I was with three in my care. Instead, I was excited. I was determined to crack Muffin’s miserable exterior and I felt sure that this would do the trick.
At first, he point-blank ignored Noddy and Linda. They stuck to one side of the field, and he kept firmly to the other. Still, it was better than a repeat performance of the debacle with the cows. However, within a fortnight the two factions had begun to warm to each other. Linda would tentatively snuffle over towards Muffin, with Noddy following behind. Muffin would tolerate them invading his space. Gradually, over time, a bond formed and soon they were even grooming each other, scratching their teeth along each other’s necks. Maybe Muffin wasn’t such a grumpy sod at heart after all.
As all three donkeys settled in to their new surroundings, word soon got around the village about the new residents. Often I’d be down at the field scooping donkey dung onto a spade when a familiar face would pop by to ask whether they could give my furry friends a treat. The donkeys actually enjoyed the attention. Even Muffin would happily stand there for a child to stroke his nose, as long as there was a carrot coming his way. He was a totally reformed character.
The donkeys’ growing popularity also had another, more unexpected, effect. People had started to give me a call whenever they spotted a donkey living in unsuitable conditions. I don’t know what they thought I’d be able to do about it. I was certainly no expert. But just as I’d been unable to shake the thought of Muffin living unhappily alone, every donkey I heard about found a place in my heart. There was plenty of space in the field, and looking after Muffin and his two pals was proving no trouble. How could I refuse to help any other donkey in need?
By the time Linda and Noddy were picked up for work again in the summer, I’d taken in another two donkeys – Martin and Charlie. Former beach donkey Martin had been ditched by his exasperated owner for taking the children down to sea but refusing to bring them back again. Charlie’s story was even sadder, as he’d been abandoned in a lonely paddock in Chapel St Leonards near Skegness with no food or water. By some miracle, he’d escaped without any serious health problems, but he was incredibly thin and very aggressive. I spent months taming his temper and feeding him up. Fortunately, once he’d been castrated he calmed down, but it still didn’t stop me having sleepless nights over him. He was the first donkey to need such intensive rehabilitation, and I was determined not to let him down. I’d never intended to start a sanctuary for old, unwanted and mistreated donkeys, but before I knew it that seemed to have happened. It snowballed, despite the sensible side of my brain telling me that my hands were full enough.
Soon we’d rented a second field on the opposite side of the road, and five donkeys became eight, ten, twenty . . . Linda and Noddy joined us permanently and even the RSPCA shelter on the outskirts of the village had started putting people in touch with me. Every time I got a call I’d borrow a horsebox and set off to pick up another rescue case, travelling across the whole of the Midlands and sometimes even further afield. I’d find them through tip-offs from slaughterhouse workers, customers at cattle markets, and concerned members of the public.
I was still holding down the job at the video shop, but looking after my rescue cases was taking up every spare moment I had. Steve and I used to love travelling to Portugal at least twice a year. We’d lap up the sunshine and enjoy the scenery of the Monchique mountains in the south. But from the day we took in Muffin, there was no time or money for anything as frivolous as a holiday. Even pints at the Black Lion had become a rare indulgence. Instead, knackered from hefting bales of hay and hammering fence posts into the ground, I preferred to wash off the mud and climb straight into bed. I soon realised I’d made a huge commitment to these donkeys. But if I didn’t look after them, who else would?
I can’t say that launching the donkey sanctuary was easy. It was exhausting, expensive, and time consuming. But despite that, it honestly made me happier than I’d been in years. Back when I’d worked in the hairdresser’s, I’d known by the end of my first day that it wasn’t really for me. I’d enjoyed working in the jewellery shops but knew it wasn’t something I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Even working in my parents’ video stores was just a stopgap. They’d needed an extra pair of hands and, at the end of the day, a job was a job. But getting up in the morning to take care of my donkeys gave me such a sense of fulfilment. Not a single day went by that didn’t make me smile.
Before I knew it a few years had passed, the two fields were filled with donkeys under my care and I felt happier than I ever had. Muffin still loved giving me the run-around, so not much had changed there. I’d wasted many an hour chasing him for the farrier to check over his hooves or so I could give his muddy legs a brush down. He liked to remind me that he thought he was the boss, as if he owed the place. But one afternoon I noticed he wasn’t his usual cheeky self. Instead of coming straight to the gate to see what treats I’d brought him, he hovered at the back of the field. Even when I shook some hay out, he didn’t dash over. I watched as he walked gingerly through the grass, wincing at the pain his back legs were causing him. They were so stiff.
I got in touch with the vet immediately, who by this time was no stranger to us. Matthew Barlow from the Chine House Veterinary Hospital in Sileby, Leicestershire, really was a miracle worker. He’d been with us since the beginning, from the day he handed me a worming tablet for Muffin and gave him a tetanus shot. He understood that I was ready to go above and beyond to save a donkey, when others might take one look at the state I found them in and declare them a lost cause. That’s why I trusted his judgement. He would always be honest with me, and do everything he could to find a solution.
Matthew drove straight over to see Muffin and I explained that I thought he must have injured himself or strained a muscle. Then Matthew leaped over the fence and cornered Muffin for a thorough examination. I watched as he soothingly ran his hands over Muffin’s hind quarters, feeling for a problem.
‘His legs seem fine. I don’t think that’s the issue. He’s actually got an undescended testicle – we call it a “rig”. It means one of his testicles is still up in his abdomen and I think that might be what’s causing the pain,’ Matthew said.
‘Is it dangerous?’ I asked, fearing the worst.
‘It’s not as rare as you might think. He’ll need surgery but after that he should be fine. It explains his bad temper, though. Too much testosterone,’ he said, with a knowing smile.
I felt relieved. Muffin might have landed me with another expensive vet bill, but at least he’d recover. So I arranged with Matthew that I’d bring Muffin over to the operating centre the next day. He would be castrated, or gelded as it is referred to in the equine world.
By now we had our own shiny blue Ifor Williams double horsebox, which had been donated by the local Co-op as part of their Community Dividend scheme. They’d asked me what I needed, and I’d told them I was desperate for some hay. But they decided that they wanted to donate something that they could put their name on. The trailer was worth around £3,000, and would save me the cost of hiring one every time I needed to take one of the donkeys off to the vet’s. In the years to come it proved to be an invaluable asset.
So on the morning of Muffin’s operation I loaded him into our horsebox and then gave him a little cuddle as I dropped him off.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be right as rain soon. Be good for the vet,’ I said, handing him over to a kind-looking veterinary nurse.
‘We’ll take good care of him. You’ll get a phone call later when he’s ready to be picked up,’ she said, taking the rope from me.
‘He’s a bit of a lively one so . . . erm . . . be careful,’ I added, almost sheepishly. Muffin had calmed down considerably since I’d first taken him in but I still wouldn’t have put it past him to cause a ruckus if
he felt so inclined. I didn’t fancy a long list of pricey repairs being added to my vet bill too.
For the rest of the day Muffin wasn’t far from my mind. I knew Matthew would be looking after him but still I couldn’t help but worry. I imagine it’s like being a parent with a poorly child. You feel helpless. I spent the morning clock-watching, waiting for the call to pick up my mule.
Then the phone rang. Steve got to the kitchen first and picked it up, while I hovered in the doorway waiting for the nod to grab my keys and head back to Sileby. But then a serious expression fell over Steve’s face. He frowned as he listened to what the vet had to say.
‘If you think that’s best, then that’s what you should do. You know we trust you, Matthew,’ he said.
I had to stop myself from grabbing the phone out of Steve’s hands, desperate to find out what was going on. I could tell it wasn’t good news. Steve put down the phone, and shook his head sadly.
‘Matthew got him on the operating table, but then he found that Muffin’s testicle has turned cancerous. The tumour’s big, and there’s nothing he can do,’ Steve said.
‘There’s always something! People are cured of cancer all the time, so why not a mule?’ I cried.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Steve said. ‘Matthew told me it would be kindest to put Muffin to sleep while he’s still under general anaesthetic. You heard me, I told him we’d trust his judgement.’
Saying I was devastated doesn’t do it justice. Muffin was the founding member of my donkey sanctuary, and I hadn’t lost a rescue case yet. It didn’t seem real. He’d gone to the vet’s for a routine op and now I was being told he wasn’t coming home again. I couldn’t even say goodbye.
I spent the rest of the day in floods of tears. There was nothing Steve could say to comfort me, as he was just as upset as I was. I felt guilty for not realising there was something wrong with Muffin before, even though Matthew had already assured me I couldn’t have known. I felt like a failure. I was supposed to have rescued Muffin so he could enjoy a long and happy life. Instead, it had been cut so tragically short.