“The strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct sequence.” — George Eliot

For most of my life, I never imagined living with a donkey, let alone two beautiful sisters. I love my donkeys and now cannot imagine life without them. Our donkeys are wise, serene, and loving when they are in the mood.

Every idea must be theirs, or they are unlikely to do it. They are patient and softly bray, never beg. They have no use for predators or people from New York City who spray themselves with hand sanitizers when they touch a donkey.

They are not easily impressed but get irritated when approached without a carrot, apple, or fawn over too much. They are immune to commands and pleas. They just don’t care what you want them to do.

When they want attention, they come up quietly behind me and butt me in my butt. I get the message. Once they are scratched, they move away. They love some attention, but not too much. They learned years ago how to manipulate me; it’s simple for them; I fall for it every time they want something to munch on.

I love the sound of their crunching on an apple or a carrot. I love that they can hear Maria and I wake up in the morning and bray for some food. I love that they chased a fox who had once captured a chicken all over the pasture until he dropped it, and then they chased him right over the fence. He never came back.

From that moment on, the hen always hitched a ride on a donkey’s back when she went out into the pasture to search for bugs and worms.