Protect the Therapy Donkeys

Genie Joseph
11 minutes ago
3 min read

MONSOON MOMENTS

Donkeys Don't Like Getting Their Feet Wet

Seven o’clock. I had just settled in front of the TV with my Trader Joe’s chicken marsala dinner, looking forward to a peaceful evening watching Grantchester on PBS when—

FLASH! Sparks flew. Power gone. Dinner interrupted. Grantchester gone. Civilization as I know it—gone… Nothing to do but sit at the window and watch my favorite tree being assaulted by 60-mile-an-hour winds, its 50-foot branches whipping like battered flags. My mind just as turbulent:

Are the wild baby rabbits safe? Where do the birds go in a storm like this? Is my roof going to hold? Are my windows? My porch rocking chairs tumble like gymnasts. The red plastic kiddie chairs go sailing across the yard like drunken sailors.

And sitting there alone in the dark, I find myself wondering:

Is it easier to survive a storm with someone beside you?

Or, when the storm comes, do we ultimately face it alone?

And don’t get me started about my donkeys.

Rosie and Lilly are out back. Donkeys hate getting wet—especially their feet. Their three-sided barn has an open front, and the rain is blowing almost sideways.

Nothing is visible in the storm, but I picture them squeezed into the one corner that's a few inches higher, trying to stay dry while thunder and lightning tear open the sky above, hammering their tin roof.

I know they are frightened. I don't know how frightened they are.

Ninety minutes later, the wind and rain finally subside. But the crashing thunder doesn't. It rolls and rolls and rolls.

I look at my bright yellow, never-worn galoshes and think: I could do this. I could run out there with some calming carrots.

But every two seconds, bolts of lightning crack across the sky. It's a Pink Floyd laser show designed by Nature —and Nature has the volume turned all the way up.

So I wait. And wait. Another hour passes. And now another horrible thought sprouts in my mind.

Do Rosie and Lilly wonder why I'm not coming?

And finally….At midnight, the power snaps back on. My precious Trader Joe's groceries will survive.

Then morning comes. The sun is shining as if nothing untoward happened. Blue skies as far as my eye can see -- with that infuriating innocence of someone who has absolutely no idea what you're upset about.

I go outside and start taking inventory. One wild baby rabbit. Safe.

Two brave little birds waiting at the feeder. Safe.

And then I walk toward the donkey gate. I see Rosie and Lilly. Standing side by side. Waiting for me. Watching me with those enormous, soulful donkey eyes. And I swear they're saying:

"You didn't come."

Oh, the guilt. I empty four inches of filthy rainwater from their troughs and bowls. I bring out their morning hay. Rosie and Lilly lower their heads and begin munching happily. No recriminations. No lecture. No withholding of affection.

With just the miracle of hay – I am forgiven. And I think back to the question I asked myself while sitting alone in the dark:

Ultimately, do we all face the storm alone?

Maybe we do. But what a difference it makes to discover when morning comes...

Rosie and Lilly are waiting for me on the other side of the gate.

And monsoons? That's how nature reminds me who's really in charge.