Donkeys, Dogs, Chickens and a Dead Rooster
We first came to Tahlequah in 2006, bringing with us our 4 month old border collie that I named Mocha. The plan was to see if we wanted to move here.
In searching for a house we drove over to Hulbert because I had seen a photo of a house on Realtor.com that I liked, and it sat on 5 acres, which I also liked.
We drove down a long gravel road for maybe 5 minutes and pulled up to the house. I loved it. It was my dream house. It was just like the ones I saw in books I read as a teenager that was about mountain people, like maybe The Shepherd of the Hills. It had a front porch with a chimney on one end, but most of all it was painted a moss green. I love moss green. $35,000.
My husband said, “NO.” The house was falling apart and had been patched with plywood. My husband was a Jack of all trades, a master carpenter, plumber, etc. He could fix anything. “NO,” he said again, “You can’t fix this unless you tear it down.” “But it is green, and it has a chimney and a front porch,” I pleaded, “Plus, we have the money to fix it up,” I continued. We found another house, and my husband built me a back porch and for a compromise on the chimney we got a woodstove.
Well, the reason why I am telling you this story is so that you will know that I have no taste in homes. My tastes are rugged. I can do shacks. Actually, the reason I am telling you this is because there was a donkey on the property, and he was standing near us, and this is the only story of a donkey that I have to tell, and it needs telling:
Our dog got out of the car along with us, and while I was taking photos of my dream house, I was not paying any attention to her. She went under the fence and began sniffing the donkey’s rear end. Not good. I saw her and yelled, “Mocha! Get over here!” She came back to me immediately. Border collies are smart, and they mostly do what you ask, and I was grateful that she minded me then. I should have been paying more attention to her, I know, because donkeys can be mean; they can kick. But the donkey in this book doesn't seem to be mean at all, not until the very end. But if you have ever been kicked by a horse or a donkey, you will not wish to be around them either, not unless there was a fence between you. I like fences.
Well, as of July 3, Mocha is no longer with us. She had to be put to sleep. So, when reading this book, I thought of her, and I was fighting back tears. I should have known better than to read a rescue book so soon after losing her, but hey, this was a donkey, not a dog, so it should not have reminded me of her. Well, it did, and I can tell you now, I will not read this author’s books about his dogs, nor will I read any other dog book for a very long time. Unlike the author, I will not go out and get another dog. We are old now and can’t really care for one.
I really liked the author of this book, Katz, more than I did Simon, whom he had rescued, but that is because he cared for him and cares for all animals. He doctored the animals and fed them well, but more than that he played Willie Nelson songs to one of his donkeys because he believed that he enjoyed his soothing voice. Maybe he did. He then read “Platero and I” to Simon, a book about a man and his donkey traveling together and enjoying nature. This helped them bond. Maybe I should have read that book instead of this one, but I imagine that the donkey will die in the end. They always do.
I learned some things about donkeys. For one thing, I learned that they are used to protect sheep from predators. One day a fox decided he wanted some of Katz’ chickens, so he came into the corral and Simon created such a ruckus that Katz came running out of the house and was able to save them. One of the hens ran into the bushes to hide, as they do when frightened, I was told, and this because they can’t fly. Maria, Katz’ wife, called to her, and she came out of the bushes and ran up to her for protection. I wondered then if they finally eat their chickens, and I thought of how that would really be a betrayal of trust. Now, I am worried about their chickens.
So Katz took a rifle up to the fox’s den, but then he realized that he couldn’t kill it. Yet, he did kill a rooster that attacked his wife. Well, I will go along with him here.
We have a fox, well, actually two, and they come around the house, but they have never killed any of our cats. I consider that fortunate for the cats. One day a fox began walking up to two of our cats, and the cats got up and hissed at him, but before I could run out our own door to save them, the fox went away. Cats have teeth up front and claws underneath. Don’t mess with cats.
So now we have Simon pacing the fence line. He can see the fox whenever he leaves his den, and if the fox goes left, Simon goes left, if he goes right Simon goes right. He is such a good guard donkey, and one of the hens who knew this got up on his back for more protection. And the stories go on.
Katz finally puts Simon into the corral with his two female donkeys, and one of them begins kicking him in the head, over and over and for months and months. I learned then that donkeys have hard heads, and I think that their hardheadedness must filter into their personality.
Sometimes, this story is more about how Simon caused Katz to become more compassionate, but I believe it was because he had read Thomas Merton, which was only one of the books he listed. He tells us how he had tried to learn to have compassion for Simon’s last owner, the man who almost did him in. So, he went to see that man, and he learned that he was poor and could hardly feed his own family. Knowing these things caused him to have compassion for the man. “Who is to care for them? he asks. I say the man should have called the Humane Society like his 10 year old son finally had the sense to do. While I can have compassion for the family because they are suffering, I can’t have compassion for the man who did what he did to Simon.
I have also read Buddhist books on compassion. I sat in a monastery for 3 ½ years learning compassion by meditating, listening to the Abbot and reading. Years later, I learned that more often than not, compassion is just a belief, a feeling that you get when you meditate, when you listen to lectures or read books. But these feelings can go right out the window when you are confronted with violence or real evil. Yet, this doesn’t make it a bad teaching in my mind, but it can prevent a person from taking action when it is really needed. Sometimes the most compassion thing to do is to shoot the rooster.