I realized earlier this weekend that my donkeys had known me more than any other living being apart from my sister, who also does not know me.

I got Lulu and Fanny nearly 20 years ago while living alone on the first Bedlam Farm. I love the donkeys; they are unlike any other animal I know.

I’ve gotten to know them better than any dog or sheep. They watch me closely, often for hours, every single day. They talk to me softly, with a special bray they only use with me. They seduce me easily; every day I am home, I give them an alfalfa treat in the morning and then again in the evening.

I love their intelligence, their equivalent love, and their independence. Everything must be their idea. They want and need attention only on their terms and for a few minutes. They have manipulated and outfoxed and outsmarted me so many times I just take it for granted.

I accept it. They are more intelligent than me.

They see and hear everything and read me like a giant electric billboard.

I know that they often laugh at me and about me. How do I know this? I feel it.

Donkeys have lived around human beings for many thousands of years. Unlike dogs, they aren’t looking to please every minute; they don’t beg for treats; they insist on them. They are wise and thoughtful, and alert.

I think my donkeys love me, but they also find me amusing, slightly ridiculous, yet (mostly) trustworthy. We have a deep spiritual connection; we speak without words or gestures. Donkeys have long memories, I hurt them once, and they will never forget or forgive me. I am proud of having treated them well.

They love Maria in a special way. They talk to her in a special way. Me too.

My only big donkey mistake was sending them off to another farm for a year when I broke down on the first farm.

Fanny forgave me instantly, but Lulu would not speak to me, come near me, or even look at me for nearly five years. She decided to forgive me, but she has never forgotten. She keeps a close eye on me, and if any big truck pulls into the driveway, she vanishes. She won’t give me a second chance to do that again.

Donkeys see and hear everything. When I leave the house, the donkeys have already figured out where I am going – to the car, to the mailbox, to them. I can see this by their eyes and big all-seeing eyes. We just know one another.

And I can’t imagine ever doing it again.

When I say the donkeys are laughing at me, I don’t mean they are being cruel or nasty. They sometimes find me ridiculous; they know I am a sap,  and I picture them shaking their heads and laughing. as they munch on their cookies or get their butts scratched.

They love tricking me and luring me into giving them that cookie. Sometimes they bray my bray; sometimes their big eyes widen; sometimes they stick their heads up at the gate. They know they are irresistible and are shameless about it. They also have a lot of pride and dignity; I don’t take them for granted and treat them with respect.

I know it is true. They find me amusing. Lord knows they are smart enough and crafty enough.

And you know what? I do the same thing with them.