by Jon Katz
We didn’t have too long to wait to meet Bryan. One bitter cold afternoon, I went outside to feed the animals. A freezing rain was falling; the road was slick and the wind merciless. My eyes were tearing up just from being outside. I was heading out to feed Simon in the barn when my dog Rose froze, turned, and growled. The hair on her back went up and she moved toward the bottom of the driveway. She was focused on the big maple tree, where a number of rabid skunks had emerged previously. I was about to turn back to the farmhouse to get my .22—they had to be shot quickly—when I saw a pair of sneakers and skinny bare white legs sticking out from the base of the tree.
I was alarmed, as I couldn’t imagine any good scenario where a pair of exposed young legs would be lying still by the road. I ran toward the tree and as I did, I saw a young boy—dressed in a nylon windbreaker, shorts, and sneakers—jump up, wave, and run off up the road.
I yelled after him to stop and that I wanted to talk to him, but he just kept going, up the hill and out of sight.
What was he doing dressed for summer on such a cold day? What was he doing lying in the shadow of my maple tree?
I saw him several times in the next few days. I knew he lived in the trailer up the hill; I couldn’t imagine where else he might have come from.
One afternoon, I looked out of my study window and I saw him at the rear pasture gate. Simon had walked over to him, and the two were standing head-to-head across the pasture fence. I ran outside, and when the boy saw me he started to move away.
“Wait,” I said. “You don’t have to run off. I’ve seen you around the farmhouse. Tell me what you’re doing here. Can you tell me your name?”
The boy seemed to size me up. He was good-looking, thin, tall with a shock of brown hair. His eyes met mine and he held the gaze. “I’m Bryan,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been here for your Wi-Fi.” Bryan reached into his pocket and took out an iPod. His grandfather had given it to him for Christmas, he said. His grandfather lived in North Carolina, and Bryan had not met him yet, but he sent a present every Christmas. This year it was an iPod, and Bryan loved it, it was cool, but his grandfather didn’t know that they didn’t have Internet and he couldn’t download any music. He saw my satellite dish, he said, and so he had been hiding across the street and behind the tree.
Why, I asked, was he hiding?
“My mom says taking somebody else’s Wi-Fi is like stealing,” he said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been able to listen to any music, it’s making me crazy.” Bryan apologized again, and offered to do some chores in exchange for the Wi-Fi.
I said he was welcome to use the Wi-Fi anytime; it didn’t cost me anything extra to share it with him. I had enough, I said. Would he be interested in coming into the house where it was warmer? He could call his mother and ask permission. I knew his mother; she came by often when she couldn’t find her dog. I knew the dog as well. He was tethered to a tree behind the trailer all day and many nights, even in rain and snow. Sometimes he would break away or chew his way through the tether and run down the road. Maria and I would often bring him back.
In the country, interactions between kids and adults are not as uptight and wary as they tend to be in the city and suburbs. I never would have invited a young boy into my home when I lived in New Jersey, but here, neighbors take care of neighbors, and if kids are late for the school bus or their parents forget to pick them up—it happens—they come by and ask for help. You give it.
Bryan didn’t want to come into the house, though, and I didn’t push. He said he wore shorts all year, and he didn’t need or want a winter jacket. I didn’t push that, either. But I didn’t want him lying around freezing outside in his shorts. So we compromised. He could come into any of the barns where it was warmer anytime he wished and visit iTunes as often as he wanted. I kind of liked the idea. A new use for the venerable and wonderful barns.
I asked him if he had seen the donkey, and he said yes. He asked me his name and I told him Simon’s story. I was surprised to see tears coming down his face.
“I have an idea,” I said. “Simon could use some visitors, and he loves kids. How about if you brush him every morning in exchange for the Wi-Fi?” There were sores and rough spots, I said, but it would be nice to brush his forehead and neck and parts of his back.
Bryan lit up at the idea, and I took him back to the barn. We grabbed a brush and I opened up the back barn door. Simon was standing under the feeder. I noticed he was standing more. His legs were getting stronger, and his balance was returning.
I showed Bryan how to check Simon’s wounds, and told him to keep away from the sores and the blackened skin. Then I stepped back. Simon looked at me and then he pricked up his ears and turned to the boy. He seemed excited to see him, almost as if he recognized him. He uttered a soft bray—a whisper, really, as he didn’t have his voice back yet. I wondered if he was thinking of the boy at his old farm, the one I knew had fed him.
I asked Bryan if he was familiar with donkeys; he said no, this was the first one he had ever seen. He was completely at ease. Country kids are not cloistered in the way city kids are. They see animals all around them and often approach them. I suspected Bryan had done a lot of roaming in his life and was comfortable with all kinds of animals.
Donkeys pick up on things like that. I had noticed they get skittish around city people and their kids who approach them fearfully and carefully. They sense their unease immediately and often get wary themselves. Simon liked Bryan and understood he was a friend, and perhaps he sensed the boy could use some healing, too.
Every morning after I visited and fed him I saw Simon look up the road for Bryan, who would pass by on the way to the school bus stop. Bryan usually ran up to the gate on his way down the hill and called out to Simon—sometimes he had a piece of apple for him. In the afternoon, Bryan would come up the hill, walk up the driveway, and wave to me in my studio. He would unlock the gate, walk through the barn, and come out the other side into Simon’s pasture.
Bryan would take out his iPod, go to iTunes, and download some music—I got him an iTunes gift card as an advance on his work with Simon—and while the music was downloading, he would talk to Simon, brushing him carefully. Simon listened attentively, looking at Bryan as if he were soaking up every word. Donkey lore is filled with stories of the love donkeys and children have for one another. In the Kabbalah, an old rabbi explains that God made donkeys the guardians of children, because children are pure and filled with love and emotion, not yet tainted and corrupted and made angry as their parents often are. The rabbi says that donkeys are sacred messengers of God, and that children and donkeys talk to one another.
I saw that happening on my farm. Bryan, like most boys his age, was not comfortable talking. He told me that his mother had told him that I was famous and that he was not to bother me. He was never really at ease around me, although we came to like and respect each other.
As I sat across the driveway in my studio, though, I could hear a steady chatter—Bryan could hardly stop talking to Simon, and when I looked up, I saw the two of them head-to-head, conspirators in some ritual I was not invited to be a part of. I came to love seeing Bryan and Simon together. Sometimes, Bryan would invite his brothers and sisters to come and say hello, but they were too shy and clearly uninterested.
I could see that Simon connected with the needy, perhaps broken, parts of people. When I came out to say hello to Bryan one afternoon, I paused at the barn door, not wanting to intrude on the conversation I could hear, but also curious.
Bryan seemed to be telling Simon about his father. There was a restraining order out against him, he said. He had fired off a rifle one night when he was drunk and he was not allowed to visit. He missed him, Bryan told Simon. They were supposed to go hunting together, but now it looked like it would never happen.
Bryan told Simon about school, about the soccer team, and about an English teacher he hated and who hated him.
Simon seemed to be snorting in response; he was
listening carefully. It is all too easy to project our thoughts onto an animal, but he looked sympathetic—it’s the only word I can think of to describe Simon’s demeanor. And if Bryan perceived him that way, then what a gift to them both. I knew that Bryan didn’t want to share those stories with me, and I respected that. Animals are the world’s best listeners. It’s one reason so many people love them.
I opened the door and walked outside, and Simon brayed softly at me—his bray was just a squeak really. Bryan kept on brushing. He told me he had fifty songs on his iPod now, and he thanked me for the Wi-Fi. I wondered if Bryan would be leaving his job shortly, now that he had his music.
I needn’t have worried. Every day for the next three months Bryan came by twice a day. Once when he was sick and home from school, he came down to see Simon in his bathrobe and pajamas, to talk to him and brush him.
Then one day Bryan didn’t come. Simon waited for hours at the gate, but as it got dark, I think I knew he would not be coming again.
The next day I drove up the hill to the trailer. It was empty; the family had moved out. A “For Sale” sign was tacked to the door. I heard some barking and walked up to the side of the house, and I found the dog tethered to his tree, a quantity of kibble scattered across the ground, a filthy water bowl almost empty. Bryan’s mother had left a note with my name on it.
She had met another man, she wrote, a good Christian man, and they had moved to a small town south of Albany. They would not be coming back. Thanks for being good to Bryan, she said, and would I say good-bye to Simon for him? He loved that donkey. Oh, and one more thing. Their new home didn’t take dogs. Would I possibly take their dog onto the farm and care for him? Or if not, would I find him a good home?
The dog, a five-year-old golden retriever named Jake, was a mess. His fur was matted and he barked obsessively. I did find a home for Jake with a family down the road, but I heard later he got loose and was struck and killed by a car.
Simon never saw Bryan again, but every afternoon he waited for him to come up the hill. Simon never forgot to look for him.
FOUR
Simon’s First Home
When Simon was removed from the place where he had suffered such neglect, the farmer had told the police that the donkey was not his—that he had taken him as a favor to someone who had sold him two horses and then dropped him off for just a short time. Simon was already in bad shape, the farmer claimed, and the donkey’s condition wasn’t really his fault.
I didn’t know if the story was true or not. People often dropped donkeys off in trades, or unloaded them as part of some bartering arrangement. What made me consider it was Simon’s obvious affection and trust for people, especially children. I was convinced that Simon had been some family’s donkey, almost surely a farm family. Perhaps he had been a guard animal, protecting sheep. Perhaps he pulled firewood or kept a horse company. Maybe he was a child’s donkey, and was ridden around a farm.
I decided to try to find out. The donkey came from Maplewood, Vermont, the police were told. Vermont is right next to the part of New York State where I live. I’d worked as a reporter in a number of major cities; I ought to be able to find a farm in Vermont.
I wasn’t quite ready to see the farmer who was charged with neglect; his hearing was still some weeks away and I thought I ought to wait until that was over. Several people had warned me about contacting him, thinking it wasn’t a good idea to approach him after his arrest.
I knew I would have to do it someday, though. I began to understand that Simon had triggered a journey, literal and figurative. I was curious, of course; I wanted to know about Simon, but I kept going back to the compassion thing, too. What was it? Why do some people have it and others don’t? Why do we feel so much compassion for animals and so little compassion for people? Why was it sometimes so easy, sometimes so hard?
One morning, I drove to Maplewood, a small farming community about two hours from my farm. There was a coffee shop, a convenience store, and, down the road, a farm supply outlet. No one at the coffee shop or convenience store had any information that could help me with my search, but the owner of the farm supply told me there had been a farm down the road, one with donkeys, horses, and sheep, but the farm had been sold more than a year ago.
They had two donkeys, the man remembered. Nice people—had two kids, an older girl who lived in Boston, and a young boy whose name he couldn’t recall. The name of the farmer was Jim Tunney. He thought he was a mechanic now, working for the John Deere dealership near Rutland. The Tunneys lived over in the next town now. Bad year for small farmers.
I had a feeling the Tunneys might be who I was looking for. I drove to the next town—a village, really. I asked around with little success, but lucked out in a small grocery store. I was told the Tunneys lived just behind the tiny town’s shopping center.
I drove around, found the modest yellow split-level, and knocked on the door. I saw a small corral in the back with a pony inside. Two cats scurried away from the front of the house.
A woman answered the door; she seemed gracious and welcoming. I guessed her to be in her midforties. I told her who I was and why I was there. I heard someone playing a video game behind her in the living room and could see a boy about twelve behind her at a console.
I gave her the name of my website and told her she could check it out while I waited—something I used from time to time as a form of ID. She yelled to the boy, Sean, to come over. He shook my hand, and I asked him to look up www.bedlamfarm.com. I said I didn’t know if they had owned the donkey that was now on my farm, but I warned them that the pictures might be disturbing.
Cindy then introduced herself, invited me in, and told the boy to wait a minute. Her husband, Jim, was at work, she said, and yes, they had once had a nearby farm. They had to sell it nearly a year ago, she said, and they had to sell their donkeys, too, which broke their hearts.
She then told me that they had had two donkeys on the farm, a female and a male named Aengus, spelled in the Irish way.
They were able to keep Sean’s pony, but there was no room for the donkeys, no money. It was a hard thing, and I could see that from the sadness in her face. Sean was watching me intensely now. He asked his mother if he could look on my website and she nodded. The room was simply furnished but comfortable, a mix of old sofas and tables that I was sure had come from the farm and new things that seemed to fit the house more closely. I looked over at a coffee table next to the sofa—on it was a photo of two donkeys, side by side, a small, freckled-face female and a larger donkey with big ears and wide round brown eyes. It was Simon, no doubt.
“Oh, God,” said Sean, looking at the photos on my website. “Mom, look at this.” The two of them browsed through the photos, Cindy shaking her head, the boy looking as if he were about to cry. He didn’t. I told them the story. I said I hadn’t come to upset them; I was just looking for Simon’s story.
Cindy told me how the farm had gone under. They couldn’t make the bank payments any longer or buy feed. They decided to keep the pony—it was manageable—but they had to find a home for their two horses, two donkeys, and twelve dairy cows. They sold the cows to a neighbor. The female donkey went to a farm near Montpelier; Cindy said she knew that was a good home. The new owners wanted to breed her, and she was fine there. Jim had found a buyer online for the horses and the other donkey. The buyer had a farm in New York State. It was a hard time, she said. They couldn’t afford to ask too many questions.
Jim hadn’t liked the man in New York much, but he traded in equines and said he would find a good home for the animals and take a cut from the sale. He was a trader, really, as well as a farmer. Jim said it was the best deal they could get, and they didn’t have a lot of choice. Simon was part of the deal. The buyer had told Jim that he was confident Simon would end up at another farm.
Cindy and Sean were shocked and shaken. I knew how hard it was to find another home for an animal you cared about; you always worried about how they were doing.
It seemed a leap of faith under the best of circumstances, and I understood that Jim had done the best he could under the worst of circumstances. There aren’t a lot of places to send an animal like a donkey, especially not in hard times, when people were abandoning donkeys and other animals all over the country.
They peppered me with questions about Simon—how was he doing, how much space did I have? They asked if they could come and see him; they were so grateful he was at my farm. They wondered what had become of the horses.
Cindy told me that Simon had come to their farm a couple of years before Sean was born. They had bought him for their daughter, who was now a web designer in Boston, but he had become Sean’s donkey. He had been named for her grandfather, who emigrated from Ireland. The whole family loved Aengus; he used to bray at them all day from his pasture right behind the house.
Sean had ridden Aengus when he was little, and they walked all over the farm together. Sometimes, in the summer, said Sean, he would sleep out in the barn with Aengus and then they would walk out in the woods behind the farmhouse. Aengus was good on a halter, he said. He loved to walk around the woods, nibbling on leaves and underbrush.
Cindy made me a cup of tea, and I told them about our plans for Simon, our commitment to healing him. I didn’t want to stay too long. I imagined this wasn’t pleasant for them.
Cindy’s eyes were moist as she walked me to the door. Sean, quiet, had gone back to his video game. “He and that donkey were together their whole lives,” she said. “It was just awful when the trailer came for Aengus. Sean said he wanted to be there, so we agreed. Maybe that was a mistake. It was awful, Aengus—Simon—just bucked and kicked and screamed when we put him on the trailer. He knew what was happening, and Sean just stood there hugging him and crying. What could we do? We couldn’t afford to feed him and we weren’t going to starve him.” Maybe, she said, it would be good for Sean to see him again. She’d talk to Jim about it. Maybe it would be upsetting for both of them. It was, she said, the toughest thing she ever had to do. Aengus was like a member of the family; he did everything but come into the house for dinner. They all loved him.