My Million-Dollar Donkey (6 page)

I quelled my kneejerk reaction to shout a reprimand. Other moms in America were fretting because their sons were bumming a ride to hang out at the mall. If my biggest worry was my kid bumming a ride in the jaws of a tractor careening across a meadow filled with poppies, I really had no worries. Both of my beloved boys—husband and son—were at long last immersed in a world that supported and integrated their masculinity. Life here was raw, dirty, and filled with boyish adventure. I couldn’t help but be happy for them.

As the weeks rolled by, Mark grew ever more adept as a tractor pilot. I’d walk down to wherever he was working and wait until I could catch his eye so I could hand him a mega-sized lemonade. As Mark lifted heavy logs the back tires would lift right off the ground and the cab would tip. I’d catch my breath, certain the vehicle would land out of kilter, but eventually everything would level out and return with a thud back to a centered position and my heart would start beating again. This was the same feeling I had about our entire life now, a feeling that I was holding my breath, waiting fearfully for things to even out and settle rather than topple.

When Mark wasn’t on the tractor, he was stalking trees with his chainsaw, or chainsaws plural, I should say. Every day new tools, wood, and machines were added to Mark’s stack of man-toys in our temporary garage. Our old all-purpose chainsaw stood abandoned in the corner now that several new chainsaws had arrived. He’d bought one for debarking trees, as well as one for cutting small limbs. He’d gotten a Paul Bunyan-sized contraption for big jobs, the size and weight of the machine taxing even before it came in contact with wood. The heavy-duty chainsaw seemed his favorite because he could take down trees as easily as I would weed a garden now, which, to be honest, is a fair comparison because I consider weeding rather hard.

Out with the beetle-infested pines that were as quick to drop at your feet as a fainting goat when you yelled “Boo!” Out with the pesky, spindly trees that took sunlight and nourishment from the hardwoods. Out with the deadwood that made our forest look as ominous as Sleeping Beauty’s castle, engulfed with a hundred years of ignored undergrowth. Out, especially, with those select beautiful wood specimens possessing character and interest because they were destined to be a part of our dream home.

Most of the time, Mark’s calculations were fine, but occasionally he’d emit a low whistle as a trunk came crashing to the earth in the wrong way. “Um...I guess I cut that one at the wrong angle. You didn’t really want that azalea bush, did you?”

“No,” I’d whisper, my breath catching in my throat, but as I watched him sidestep catastrophe, I felt compelled to learn at least the basics of driving a tractor just in case I might discover my mate with a tree lodged on his chest someday. If I didn’t, I imagined myself pushing the wrong buttons, squashing him into that messy little speed bump I was so worried about him becoming.

“I want to learn how to drive the tractor,” I announced, thinking that explaining my request would be too gruesome.

“Why?” he said with that same wary tone a little boy uses when he suspects someone untrustworthy wants to play with his favorite new toy.

“For safety purposes.”

“For safety purposes? Get real. You have trouble backing up the truck.”

“I’ll only go forward, I promise. Besides, I don’t want to drive the tractor; just learn how all those levers work.”

“Is this because my hard hat is now a pansy planter?”

I kicked at the dirt with my toe. “I’m afraid something will happen to you. All these falling trees. The tools. Hillsides. A few months ago, you were gluing sequins to headpieces. Everywhere I look now, I see something that could snuff out the life of my loved ones. I’m uneasy.”

“And I have to worry about a donkey kicking you in the head.”

I glanced over at Donkey, standing docilely at the fence, blinking in slow motion. He was too lazy to shake the flies off his nose. Big threat.

Another tree careened to the earth, causing even the donkey to take a step back.

Mark slid the brim of his new cowboy hat to the back so he could better see debris filtering through the air, and swatted at a sweat bee with an overly dramatic swoop of his hand.

“I
hate
bees,” he said, overreacting in my opinion, considering the bee was the size of a speck and Mark was looking rather Viking-manly-like in his tractor seat.

The bee flew off, allowing Mark to continue carving away at the land as if he was working on the Thanksgiving turkey. I stood there, the roar of our new, quiet life drowning out my plea for his assurance that all would be well.

As months slipped by, I grew more adept at country ways, though I felt more like I was on vacation than permanently encased in a new life. I longed to feel as at home in our new world as Mark seemed to be, but my old persona clung like a deeply embedded tick. Certainly there must have been a time when dance didn’t define me, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember when.

I did recollect spending one summer riding horseback as a child. That was a glorious, carefree summer filled with great non-dancing memories, and perhaps the origin of why I found a donkey so appealing now. My new life mascot was like an old dream that went blurry around the edges, turning the great steed of my deep youthful desires into a plodding ass, a fair match for my middle-aged self.

I was only eleven on that dance-free summer. My sister, ten years my senior, had gotten her first job and bought herself a high-strung palomino. Inspired, my father “rented” the family a second horse so we could all ride together. We devoted that entire summer to horseback riding, experiencing what you could call “limited-liability horse ownership.” Whoever paid the monthly rental fee was responsible to ride and groom the beast, so my summer responsibility was to provide exercise and care for the horse, and ride as much as I could to validate the rental fee.

I still had vivid memories of riding through the mountains, pausing to pick blackberries or swim in the lake while my horse, Chiquita, grazed nearby. I was a fearless pre-teen, standing up in the saddle in an attempt to master tricks, urging the horse to run every time the land opened up, and when I wasn’t in the mood to hoist the heavy saddle I’d ride bareback, even though the horse’s sweat made the skin between my thighs itch for hours afterwards.

Every day, I toted a quarter to the stables to buy a bottle of orange soda from the vending machine. I’d pour the pop into my hand and share with my chestnut mare, her warm tongue lapping at my palm as her trusting and appreciative eyes gazed into mine. I gave her baths, soaping her up like a car, both of us ending up squeaky clean as the water cooled our mid-summer flush. If I held up the hose just so, the water cascaded over my wrist to form a fountain. We took turns drinking, both the horse and I, sucking water through pursed lips, nudging each other aside to assert our right to the next gulp.

Occasionally, all thousand pounds of Chiquita would accidently step on my boot and I’d yell and punch her, but I followed the reprimand with sugar cubes, two for her and one for me. I’d suck the sweet sugar slowly, running my hands through Chiquita’s mane and whispering that she had to watch where she stepped. It never occurred to me that I should take my own advice.

I don’t remember when or why we gave up that horse. I don’t recall saying good-bye, or pining for her months later. Most likely, school started, so Dad simply stopped the rental program and I went back to the dance studio, my horse affair becoming nothing more than a summer fling once I returned to my true love, dance.

Thinking about horses now felt like rewinding my life to that specific point when I decided to choose dance over all other interests. No one ever told me I had to make a choice, yet make one I had, and suddenly the idea that my narrow youthful mindset might have stopped me from exploring the world beyond dance seemed a correctable mistake. Where better to rediscover the love of a horse than on 50 acres?

“Donkey needs a companion,” I told Mark while running a curry comb over his coat (the donkey’s, not my husband’s). We were the only family in Fannin County with a donkey groomed as finely as a prize show dog. “Donkeys are herd animals, and without a herd to hang out with, he’s unhappy; I can tell.”

Mark looked at the donkey, now blinking calmly and munching on the M&Ms he found in my pocket. (Again, the donkey, not my husband).

“He looks perfectly content to me.”

“He’s not. Trust me. He needs a horse.”

Mark was cleaning up fallen wood around the pasture. He stepped over a tree trunk and put his chainsaw on a stump.
“He
needs a horse?”

“We
need a horse. What’s the purpose of having 50 acres if you don’t use it for something?”

“We
are
using it. We’re building a house here. What do we know about taking care of horses?”

“What do we know about building log cabins? Nothing, but some things you just rely on instinct to accomplish. For your information, I had a horse when I was young. I was quite the rider. If we get a horse, I can teach Neva all the basics. I thought we were moving here to spend more time together as a family. So far, you have been doing your thing alone, and the kids spend their time in school and soccer. If we had a few horses, perhaps the kids will ride with me. We need to do things as a family to forge togetherness.”

“Your sister was the horse woman. You danced. Besides which, horses are expensive to keep, aren’t they?”

I gestured to the pasture. “Not like you have to have a million bucks to own a horse. They eat grass. Everyone living around here has a couple of horses, and none of them are millionaires. You promised that if I agreed to sell our business we would devote some of our money to recreational toys and trips, but you don’t want to buy a boat, or take a trip.”

I was beginning to suspect that if I didn’t convince him to allocate some of our money to play now, there wouldn’t be anything left when he was finished building. Mark seemed blind to any notion of proportion or conservation, so my chance for enjoying just a small portion of our windfall was now or never. Animals, while a small concession to what I really felt we needed, were at least “fun”. I let my eyes slip to the chainsaw next to him, a subtle insinuation that all the tools he had purchased and the snazzy new workshop he was building were a much greater investment than a measly little horse could ever be. Donkey let out a loud bellow as if to add his pro-horse vote to the conversation.

The mention of travel always made Mark’s eyes go blank, as if my reminders of his travel promises made me the greatest bore on the planet. “If a horse will make you happy, and you believe the kids will be into riding, get one,” he said, turning his back on me once again.

I should have been delighted, but his acquiescence seemed obligatory rather than enthusiastic.

The next week, a man named Eric came out to fence in another section of pasture.

“Awful nice pasture for just a donkey,” he said.

“I’m getting a horse to keep him company,” I proudly boasted. Eric nodded in that slow, country way common to those born in Appalachia. “What kinda horse didja buy?”

“I haven’t bought one yet. Mark just decided we could get one recently.”

“It just so happens I’m sellin’ a horse, if ’n you want to come have a look-see.”

Here I was, wanting to buy a horse, and the first person in the country I mentioned this to just happened to be selling one. I marveled at the coincidence.

That evening we went over to Eric’s farm—just to look, of course. Doghouses were plopped around like plastic houses set up on a hard dirt Monopoly board. Several dozen oversized, collie-type dogs wandered about, but I didn’t see any horses.

We parked in front of an old barn with graying boards and rusty hinges and were immediately greeted by three carefree children with sunburned faces and dirty jeans. Each child held a puppy, the youngest one’s dog dangling like a stuffed animal with paws sprawled over his forearms and the animal’s head flopping to and fro like a rag doll.

“Come see our pups,” the boy said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand and wiping the hand on the dog. My son lifted his eyebrows as the kid grabbed his hand and pulled him into the barn.

“How many dogs do you have?” I asked, losing count because the animals wouldn’t stop moving.

“Twenty-three or so...not counting the puppies.”

Blue Ridge had an epidemic problem of strays, despite the efforts of several grass roots organizations trying to make neutering affordable. Country residents considered drowning an unwanted litter or dumping strays on the side of the road more practical and cost-effective than paying for neutering. Eric obviously was an exception to the rule. I liked him for that.

“Must be hard to find homes for all these puppies,” I mumbled, petting one dog’s matted head as I followed Eric into the barn. “That’s why I’ve got twenty-three dogs.”

Inside, eight adorable puppies nestled around a nervous border collie mother. My son, a dog aficionado, fell to his knees before the snuggly, whimpering pups and was instantly lost in the bliss of puppy heaven.

“Why don’t you take one home?” Eric said, ruffling my son’s hair. “They’re ready.”

My son turned hopeful eyes up to his dad, and to my utter surprise, Mark nodded. “Go ahead. You’ve been asking for a dog.”

This, from the man who’d been complaining for years about our little schnauzer, griping that the dog smelled, dug up the yard, and farted every time we gathered to watch TV?

“Is he kidding?” my son whispered as Mark stepped outside to talk to Eric.

“Just pick yourself a dog and say no more,” I advised, deciding I would employ the same tactic when we got around to looking at the horse. I watched my son bend down to tenderly pick over the puppies feeling a powerful sense of rightness. It was such a small thing, allowing a child to pick his own dog, but the moment felt symbolic, as if we were offering our son not just a dog, but a chance to experience a world of new, expanded choices.

Eric led us across the barnyard to a stable that looked in even worse shape than the barn. Half the wall boards were missing and those still in service were held up by two-by-fours wedged against a nearby tree. Two miniature horses, a dozen chickens, and a few donkeys watched me with curious eyes as I gazed at an animal I considered the most unappealing horse to ever set hoof on the planet.

“Hope that’s not the animal he’s selling. That has to be the ugliest horse I’ve ever seen,” I whispered to Mark.

Eric flashed an amused grin. “Probably because that’s a mule.”

I blushed as I realized he had heard me. “I knew that,” I lied.

“I’ll take a mule over a horse any day. Mules are smart, good-natured, and stronger than any horse.”

I paused to take a good look. The beast had a big head, long ears, and a scraggly coat, but otherwise resembled a horse in every way, as if a mule was a horse with the beauty gene removed, leaving only muscle, buck teeth, and the barest hint of equestrian finesse behind.

“Is that one pregnant?” I asked, pointing to a rather portly mule farther back in the corral.

A small dimple appeared in Eric’s cheek. “Nope. She’s just fat. Mules themselves are sterile. You can only get a mule by breeding a horse with a donkey.”

“I knew that.”

Eric, no doubt, could guess I didn’t really know the reproductive cycle of a mule. Heck, I didn’t know the difference between mules, ugly horses, donkeys, or probably unicorns for that matter. But kindness in the country was offered up as freely as a flick of the middle finger in suburbia, so he was warmly tolerant of my naïveté.

He led us to a riding ring where a lovely bay mare named Dixie was standing. I don’t know if it was luck or fate that this horse happened to be the exact replica of my childhood horse, Chiquita, but the moment I saw her there was no question whether or not I’d be taking her home. I took a two minute ride around the ring, pulled out my checkbook, and wrote the price quoted me. It didn’t occur to me to bargain. How was I supposed to know the price of a horse was a starting point, like when buying a car?

Eric acted surprised, guilty even, at how easily the transaction occurred, so he threw in some tack, a saddle, and offered to deliver the horse for free.

“You’re getting a good bargain considering this mare is pregnant and all,” he said, leading Dixie to the trailer.

Mark’s eyes doubled in size. “Pregnant?”

“I bred this horse to my best stallion a few months ago.”

“We’ll have a baby horse in the spring, honey. We’re getting a great deal, two horses for the price of one.”

“I don’t know...”

Eric waved his hand as if we were being silly. “You’ll have a mule of your own next season if you keep this mare with your jack after she drops this colt. At least by buying a pregnant mare, you won’t end up with a mule this season.”

“Our donkey’s name isn’t Jack.”

“Every male donkey is called a jack. A female is a ginny,” he explained patiently.

“I knew that.” I not only didn’t know that, but until that moment, I had no clue I’d been named after a female ass. I was, however, feeling like one more and more nowadays.

We got into our car and followed Eric’s trailer towards our land. Kent cradled his new puppy with more reverence than he ever afforded his X-box or Legos. I listened to him gush forth lofty plans to train his dog to be so perfect Lassie would seem like a slacker by comparison. I wanted to throw my arms around Mark and kiss him for saying yes to our son, to me, and to life in general.

I leaned over in the car to offer the kiss, but he shrugged me away. “Are you sure you’re ready to deal with a baby horse?” he said, as we watched Dixie’s tail swish at flies a few car lengths before us. “You have the donkey to take care of already. A horse and a donkey is enough to make our property feel like a farm, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.”

I craned my neck to get a closer look at a bunch of chickens pecking in the dirt at the side of the road. “Gee, but chickens are interesting! The kids would have fun raising chickens, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want chickens. I want a puppy like Kent’s. Can I have a puppy too, Dad?” Neva said.

“One pet at a time,” Mark said as he craned his neck in the same direction as I. The difference was he wasn’t looking at chickens.

“See that tree they are cutting down back there? I wonder if I could nab a section of the trunk. I could make something nice out of that.”