Every day for nearly 15 years now, I’ve heard the soft bray used for me alone. Maria has heard it, but this bray is never meant for her. I first heard it when Lulu and Fanny were together, and I loved alone on the first Bedlam Farm. It is soft, almost like a sigh, and begins the minute I step out of a car or walk outside the house.

From the first, this soft and pleading bray comes alongside Lulu and Fanny sticking their soft noses and round eyes over the top of the pasture gate as they stare directly at me.

The first time they did this, I went into the house, got two carrots, and gave each one. That day sealed my fate. I have never been able to say no or turn away. The minute I hear that bray, I’m done, and they know it.

I sometimes turn to the house, too busy to visit them, but invariably and within a minute or so, I relent. I can’t resist those faces, those eyes, that bray. I can’t disappoint them.

It was sweltering and uncomfortable today, and I shouted to them, “it’s too hot; I’ll catch you later.” What a joke.

But the braying continued, and the noses poked right up through the fence. I cursed, turned, and walked into the barn and opened the big can, and pulled out ow good chunks of hardened alfalfa. I returned to the gate – Lulu and Fanny no longer bothered to bray; the minute I went into the barn, they stopped.

I patted their heads, scratched their noses on the side, rubbed their ears, which they love, and handed them an alfalfa cookie. Fifteen goddamn years I mumbled, and I’ve never said no once, not in storms, hot weather, around bugs, or in huge piles of snow. They never forget, cut me slack, or give up.

While I was at it, the Imperious Hens showed up to stare at me, and I went back to the barn and tossed some ringworms on the ground. Then I came back into the house. Damned donkeys, I muttered. It’s hot out here.