Sir Tripod Goat asks me to help in his own way

Sir Tripod Goat told me something loud and clear a couple nights ago, and I told him I would help achieve his wish. Tripod was born with a condition that makes him only able to use three legs. It takes him forever to lay down and he spends most of the time lying down, but is mobile. In fact, when this guy wants to run away for any reason, we call him Roadrunner. However, although at this stage of his life he is strong, he can get off balance in the herd, and has learned to stay off on his own. He was like this when he arrived, and I even put him in the hay barn where he lived solo for a year, with the cats, and any other extreme cases that came in. He told me back then that is what he wanted-he told me by avoiding any animal, and actually finding ways to get away from the herd to sleep on his own where no one could knock him around.

In time, Tripod learned that I was a worthy ally, and I helped him out of jams. I rub stuff on his dry skin too that makes him feel better, and I always watch out for him when the herd leaves the barn in the morning, and returns at night.

He has his own little cubby, and finds his place at night right away, probably to make sure he is safe and secure and won't fall. He sleeps with Opie, Else, some chickens, and now Friede has been sleeping there too. She decided a few weeks ago she wanted to sleep there rather than out with Sophie and Rosie the pig. Friede is also somewhat crippled and old, but has horns, her horns curve backwards so they aren't much of a problem. But she is more pushy around food and I suspect that she might have clocked Tripod recently, because a couple nights ago, he refused to go to his usual barn with the gang. In fact, he went for a skedaddle all the way to the pasture and outer barn.

I told him he was welcome to stay out in the barn, but I was not leaving him in the out shed for the night. While I doubt a coyote or critter would come into that well protected paddock, I am not taking the chance.

"No, I think I want to stay out tonight, alone, under the cooler night air," he told me.

The barn can get stuffy in these humid, hot days. I really was tempted to oblige.

"You can't, I can't let you, I want you to be safe," I told him, and I held his head as I often do. But I could just tell he wanted to be alone.

In the end, I did take him to the front barn, but made sure he was lying down before I shut out the lights.

This weekend, I will get him out to the outer barn, he will be content there I think, but we will see. Once he's there, if he returns there on his own, he will have spoken.

My experience with the animals is, just like humans, they want security and a soft place to land at night, with as little interruption as possible. They are so tolerant of so many things, but I have seen over and over an animal will decide to change bedrooms, out of the blue. it looks like it is out of the blue, but if one pays attention, one often will understand why they made that choice.

Ollie learns the dangers of being like Pooh Bear

"This happened to Pooh once," Opie said to Ollie through the fence.

"Did he get out?" asked Ollie.

"Yes!" Earnest the pig called from another paddock. "Honey was his downfall, as is grass on the other side of the fence for you," and he went about his way.

Ollie looked a bit perplexed, "I have no idea what honey has to do with this."

"It means your eyes were bigger than your head," said White Dog, who came by the gate to assess the situation.

"I think if we push, all together from this side," said Opie.

So Opie, Else and White Dog pushed. Sir Tripod encouraged everyone, "He's almost through!"

But the rescue effort came to a halt.

"I'm hopelessly stuck," said Ollie. "Oh well, she'll come and get me, she always does. And I have the grasses to eat."

"That's how your belly got so expanded in the first place," said Opie.

So I found him just like this, stuck, his hip bones were the culprit. With everyone still gathered, I held his belly in with my hands and pushed with my knees, forcing his string bean body backwards.

POP!

"Thank you ever so much," said Ollie.

"The fence is for you to stay on one side, and those grasses over there are not for you," I told him.

He leapt off in joy, jumped up on his rock, flapped his Nubian ears, and looked happy as can be. A mix of danger, good grass and freedom is a good way to start the day...when you're a 2 month old goat with nothing but time on your hands.

Paco explains summer solstice and Lucia worries her head might explode

I arrived to do morning chores in the outer barn, and there they were, the three of them just as you see here. I stopped in my tracks and took a photo. They did not move, and as I returned to the inner barn to do my cleanup, I heard Paco,

"The summer solstice, also known as midsummer, occurs when a planet's rotational axis, or geographical pole on either its Northern or its Southern Hemisphere, is most greatly inclined toward the star that it orbits."

"Huh, is that so?" asked Pino.

"I don't like thinking of the world as spinning," said Lucia.

"Im glad there's gravity or I'd be on the moon," said Pino.

"And your head would burst open if you didn't have a space suit on," Boone chimed in from the other paddock.

Lucia started to hamper, she did not feel good about this.

"It's okay, Lucia, nobody is going to explode. it is a day of celebration, It is the longest day the year, and think about it, we can take more dust baths under the blue sky today than any other day in the year!" said Paco.

"That is something to celebrate," said Pino.

And with that, Paco rolled, and rolled, and rolled.

I might strip down later today, after the hay has been delivered, and do the same. No pictures.

{The majority of our 540 bales of hay arrive today! Please consider a donation to help us refill our Apifera piggy bank. Thank you!}

Sir Tripod Goat talks to an old friend

Around here, some creatures are invisible, but they become friends through their essence, their feel, their smell...

"Where have you been?" the old goat said.

"Away," said his friend.

"I wanted you back sooner," said the goat. "I needed you, you help me."

"I tried, but I couldn't get here as soon as I'd planned," said the friend.

"Well, you aren't leaving soon, are you?" asked the goat.

"I hope not, but I might get pushed around, I'll do my best to stay," said the friend.

"Well, I feel you, in my bones, it feels so good, it helps," said the old goat.

Just then, the little young sprite, Opie, came leaping over Sir Tripod and did a back flip right before he landed.

"It's SPRING!!!" Opie squealed.

"Kids," said the old goat.

Conversation of Misfit goats

"Why are you here? It is not morning." said Opie.

"And it is not evening," said Else.

"It is precisely 1:12 post mayhem or...what is it called?" said Sir Tripod.

"I think it's called 'muffins"..."Post muffins'..." said Opie.

I retreated to the feed room to do spring cleaning. They continued on as I shut the door behind me, arguing back and forth.

"It's 'meridian', guys, 'Post Meridian'," I yelled through the door.

Silence. Cud chewing.

"I like 'muffins' better," Opie said under his breath.

Conversation of the grumpiest pig

I found the pig watching silently, examining the new morning from her private suite. I can only imagine what The World's Grumpiest But I'm Fine As I Am Pig thinks internally in these moments...

Hrumpf...sun, that's, well alright...but slight humidity.

Trumpf OWEEEOWHrumpf!

Too much sun really, not enough wind...FLIES!

Will sleep and hope for some clouds.

Conversation with Birdie, a llama's empathy

Birdie's eyelashes bash. She looks directly at me. She smiles.

In the background I see the Goddesses, their yellow heads bobbing in the light gust that just blew Birdies llama locks out of her big, beautiful, dark, brown eyes. I hear them too, the Goddesses, some humming, others chanting, and one calls out,

Look at me, I am tall today but I am bending, I am lowering to Earth, do you see?

A sheep comes out of the barn, acknowledges our distant figures near the gate and turns to pass the sunflowers, preferring to commune with grasses, chewing some and feeling others under her feet.

Birdie approaches me and curls her neck like a swan, suggesting I stroke her, which I do, how can I not? And she puts her head on my shoulder, we spoon like this all the time, somewhat abnormal for a llama. But she is no ordinary llama.

"Thank you, Birdie, for taking a moment with me," I told her.

Before you go, she says in my ear, before you go, go look at the sunflower. She is leaving soon.

I told you...she is not an ordinary llama.

I leave for the barn to do morning chores, she leaves for her lower field, joining her charges. I can see her looking towards me, or is she watching out for that sunflower?

Animal Conversations: The llama speaks, doesn't she?

Birdie popped her head into the barn the other morning, while I was finishing some cleanup of hay spread by sloppy chewers, and then she departed as quickly as she had appeared. I took this to mean she was just letting me know she was getting out to the field again. the flock comes and goes from the larger field this time of year, they get to eat there in the day and the equines eat there at night. This time of year rotating fields is even more important with the grass beginning to fade.

I didn't think much of it. I had to water the vegetable garden so followed her outside and there she was, standing with the small flock, calmly. White Dog was already out doing his daily periphery check of the fence, his morning obsession and of course his job.

I stood and watched.

You know I have a vivid imagination–we aren't a Disney movie but I have many moments in my life including when I didn't live on a farm, where the scene in front of me comes with a soundtrack, or maybe another way to look at it is I am always seeing scenes as story with sub titles. Every minute of the day can be a story. I get great amusement out of my minute by minute stories here on the farm, or comfort, and sometimes even clarity about internal struggles. The animals I guess are conduits of perspective just like a good Shakespeare play.

The sheep had gathered at the newly opened gate, saw Benedetto had run down to the bottom of the fence line to make sure there weren't any prehistoric elephants or bears and they began to gather themselves into a tidy line, just like I used to do as I entered a subway car in Manhattan decades ago, preparing myself to get in line to get the seat to get to the office.

But it wasn't until they were in a tidy line that Birdie turned her head to them, ever so slightly but deliberately and if there had been a sub title in a Disney movie, she would have said,

"Slowly, one at a time, go on now."

And as I turned to go back tot he house I heard the faintest voice of the smallest sheep voices call out to Birdie,

"Llama! Look, I'm fourth in the line today instead of last!"

"Good work, Sylvia, good work," the llama said.

A chat with a cat

"What will you do today," asked I.

"I shall sit here up high," the cat said.

"But what else as the morning wears on?" asked I.

"I shall sit here some more and watch clouds pass."

"But what will you do after hours of this?" asked I.

"I don't think in hours," said the cat.

Apifera has been home to more than 25 cats at once-back at the old farm. Now in Maine, we have created a special room for elder cats to live, and in time it will also include the upper loft where they can roam and at times meet visitors. We currently have three resident elders, Anna, Tigger and Yume and plan to bring more elders on board soon.

Birdie knows

Birdie has been overly attentive to me since I had my accident. There are skeptics out there, I'm sure, that will say it is because she might be in heat. There is some merit to this argument-when I went to the llama farm in Oregon to pick out a llama, Birdie was under 6 months then, and she came right up to me and was overly amorous. At the time, I was looking for a llama to live with the sheep and I knew that old Aldo was most likely not long for the world since he was almost 20 [he did pass on the next year]. The llama breeder was curious too as to Birdie's overly attentive behavior to me, she said it was not really that usual, and suggested if I wanted a guard she might not be the best candidate.

But I fell for her...hard.

And I'm so glad I did. Birdie continued to show overly lovey dovey behavior to me. Sometimes, I did sort of feel like she was in heat, and I had the sense she just might mount me someday! But she never has. She has proven herself to be a love giver to visitors and I truly believe it is just her way-to be amorous.

So when I came back out to the barnyard the first time after I got back from the hospital, she came right up to me. She followed me in an earnest fashion all over the place. This has continued though my recovery and even last night she was still by my side when I showed up to feed the equines.

I do believe she knows I was a bit off, moving a bit slower than usual. But I think animals have senses they have worked since their birth in ways that perhaps humans once did-that helped us survive as a species. And just as some people have more in tuned senses and a gift for reading feelings of other human beings for healing purposes, I think some animals are more intuitive than others. Birdie appears to be one. Of all the animals I have cared for in the past 15 years, there have been some that just are more in the healer category-Stevie the Kissing Goat was on top of that list, Pino is a healer, Opie is what I would call a joyful healer sharing his joy and zest for life to bring good things to others and Benedetto and Marcella have deep instincts that appear to be healing for me. Benedetto seems to draw people to him and his eyes tell a history of feelings I think, and I often share things with him through our eyes when I need a strong dose of...It's going to be okay.

I particularly loved the image I took here of her walking towards me as I entered the field, the barn centered in the background, her eyes were intent on me. Minutes later I did a selfie of woman and llama-I see the face of a 59 year old emerging crone who is getting used to the looks of that age, and the face of a llama that has eyes of Bambie and a smile to make any age swoon.

I'm glad I listened to my ownself when I picked her out.

In which Paco smells a spaceship

I was able to bring Boone home on Saturday, four days after he and I took a ride that ended in mystery, and it is still a mystery-at least to me, Boone is the only one who knows what happened. It was so good to have him back. He has superficial wounds adding to the intrigue of what happened on that day, and I have some theories I am still pondering. I am recuperating–but I was naive about the after effects, both physical and emotional, of a traumatic event like this. I will write about at some point, but right now, I will share the conversation the donkeys had on his return to the farm. I took these photos of that moment. It's a beautiful thing that donkeys do, they always check each other out when one leaves or returns to the herd. As usual they were full of questions.

"Was it a cougar that jumped on your back, Boone?" asked Pino.

"I heard there were elephants up that way," said little Lucia.

"It wasn't a spaceship, was it? There are marks on your body,"
said the resident casual conspiracy theorist, Paco.

"I think I do smell a spaceship on him," said Paco.

But Boone did not answer.

Conversation with chickens

I was minding my own business, doing chores in the front barn, and was kept company by a chicken conversation. They were in their coop while I was attending feedings, manure cleanup and water bucket cleaning. Their clucks and whirs kept me company, and amused.

"Move over," one of the Secret Sisters said.

"I was here first," another hen replied.

"Na-uh," I heard.

A series of clucks in varying degree of irritation erupted.

"Can you speed it up, my egg is killing me!" the intruder exclaimed.

"I can not rush perfection," the hen replied.

"My eggs are much larger," intruding hen said.

"Na-uh," was the response.

It went on like this for sometime, until I finally came upon them in their preferred hen laying box. You give a bunch of chickens a lovely array of nesting boxes and they prefer to squish into one.

By the time I left, they were still at it.

"Good Lord! I hope there isn't a fire today or you will be fried," said the intruder.

"How crass," said the laying hen. "Go lay somewhere else-you are disturbing by peace and it will effect the taste of my egg."

I swear I could hear the eye roll.

Conversation of donkey and pig

A version of this piece is available at the shop

"We look so different," said the donkey.

"Your ears are fabulous," said the pig.

"Thank you. I'm impressed by your nose. To be able to root up the ground must be thrilling. I must use my feet," said the donkey.

"My nose is worthy of your respect," said the pig. "But your hooves can kick away badness and strangers."

"True," said the donkey. "I see you have adorned yourself today with daisies?"

"I like daisies," said the pig. "You too, I see?"

"Yes."

And the two that look so different went on with the day.

Mother Matilda: a conversation

"Animal Conversations" are a gift of my life and I want to share a conversation I had many years ago, when Mother Matilda arrived–some of you might recognize this from one of my books, "Misfits of Love" {Healing Conversations in the Barnyard}. It is Matilda's 24th birthday so if you have time to read this, it will celebrate her spirit. If you are able, consider also honoring her and our work here at the 2017 Fund Drive.
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Her job was to be a brood jenny even as she entered into her senior years. Living in neglect, she subsisted only on straw in a cold climate. Her fortunes changed after a donkey rescue found Matilda and eight other neglected herd mates. Eventually they connected with Apifera and she arrived after a day-long journey. She had the same name as my elderly mother—surely this detail was not lost on the universal forces in charge that brought her to me.


“I remember her ear tips as they drove away,” the old donkey said.

She was speaking about one of her many children.


“No matter where they took them, they came to the earth through me,” the donkey continued.

They can’t take that from her, I thought.

I put my arms around her neck and lay my head on her withers, looking back over her sagging spine. She didn’t move, except for ear motions to redirect a fly or acknowledge a fluttering hay stem.

“I never watched them get in the trailer,” she went on.

She reached over with her nose, touching an area of her back where scratching would be appreciated. I obliged.

“I could see their ear tips coming out of the trailer window as they drove off. They were pointed toward me,” Matilda said.

She scratched her knee by nibbling on it with her wiggling, giraffe-like lips.

To say the soul is not a physical entity could be disproven by looking into Matilda’s eyes. For there was a river of sentiment flowing from her glance into any viewer. I have seen it silence the outspoken, calm the over- energized, and touch the brokenhearted. Journeyers onto Apifera often write and share the more profound moments from their visits, which always include the simple phrasing,

“Matilda’s eyes.”

Arriving at Apifera, Matilda was placed in with the three resident mini donkeys. Her larger, white and brown spotted body must have seemed mythological to the gray minis who had never seen such a creature.
“She seems to have acquired spots somehow,” said Pino, the first donkey of Apifera, when he initially saw her.

“She’s very theatrical appearing,” said Paco, quite a serious thinker.

On the day of her arrival to Apifera, the always observant minis cautiously gathered around Matilda. I took note that the spacing between each mini appeared to be equidistant. I sensed this might be some kind of donkey ritual, of which I know they have many. I did not ask and they did not explain, nor did they share what was said in the huddle. It lasted a minute, if that, and then the little ones ran up and away to their favorite spot on Donkey Hill. Now their mini bodies were little gray spots with tails
prancing about, heads down in donkey play, but all the while they were looking back toward where Matilda stood, her sway back casting a shadow like that of a fertile mountain valley.

In the days to come, the minis treated her much like the Mother that she was. She groomed her little herd mates and they reciprocated, a charming equine behavior of acceptance. Matilda’s first weeks at Apifera were spent in carefree fashion, sunning and adjusting to her new heavenly diet of hay, grass, apples, and animal crackers. Old growth savannah oak gave her shade and at night she was free to dream deep in a century-old barn that had proven to be full of much motherly love itself.

“My purpose was to be a mother. I am old now. My children are scattered,” she said to me one day as I brought her berry branch clippings for a treat.
The conversation did not go past that, but as she chewed, I felt her searching for and then spotting the little clump of minis down near the stream.

Days turned into weeks, summer air became cool, with morning fog blanketing Old Barn. And one morning, the normal routine of the donkeys was diverted. I had gathered all the donkeys in a paddock and shut the gate behind me.

“What’s this?” the minis queried, speaking in ear twitches. “Is it shot day? Farrier day? So soon?”

Matilda’s soul streamed into me, questioning me with concerned eyes and active ear movements. The last time she was herded up like this, she was put in a trailer and after hours and hours, landed at Apifera.

I reassured her without words, gliding my hands up and down her back and neck, but I was soon interrupted by the cars coming up the drive. Matilda stood close to the minis and observed the strangers walking toward them.

They were all very polite and quiet, and carried nothing that raised suspicion—no vials of medicine, no syringes in chest pockets, no halters with long ropes.

Once in the donkey paddock, the people walked all around, slowly, watching, listening, and drawing things on paper tablets. Many seemed to gravitate to Matilda, who stood motionless.
“I am here, come closer,” the old donkey said with her eyes. “I will mother you.”

They began resting their hands on her in silence, gently rubbing her shoulders or her mane and temples. Matilda acknowledged each person’s space and then looked into their eyes, deeper and deeply. Some put their ears next to hers, others leaned on her body, running their hands on her
curved spine of age and neglect, recognizing it as a sculptural sensation.

“I felt compelled to get close to them,” Matilda told me later when everyone had left.

“They gazed on me like a Rubens painting of clouds,” she went on to tell me. “They shared the symphonies that play in my ears,” and she paused to eat some grass.

Her new purpose at Apifera was now sealed and she clearly understood her present and future task.

“I shall stand and be me, and love.”

She slightly bowed her head before me so I could use it like a head pillow. We spoke not a word while clouds blew over Donkey Hill.

{Excerpt from "Misfits of Love" {Healing Conversations in the Barnyard} by Katherine Dunn}

White Dog Eye Conversations

I often take photos of The White Dogs faces, their eyes are hard to look away from, as you can see from these images of Marcella. I have told you how I have conversations with them both without words, speaking only with our eyes. I was told a long time ago that looking deep into your dog's eyes makes them happy. There are situations staring into an animals' eyes will not be good, or will provoke agitation or be construed as a threat. But my daily eye conversations with both White dogs are a beneficial encounter to both of us. They seem to bring clarity to what I am thinking or percolating.

We never really knew where Benedetto came from. It was and is a beautiful mystery. In a way, I think it is good we didn't know the entire story. But the fact a white dog, of a breed that not that many people know let alone own, and a breed the is hard to find and is expensive, showed up at our rural farm where the same white dog breed lived...is a story that never ceases to tire people's imaginations. I knew back then there was a message Benedetto came with, I knew it was important. I tried starting some stories about his life, but never finished them. I suppose writing those stories was my way of trying to find the answer of why he came to us.

There are many spiritual mythologies about white animals. I am not a historian of those but I do know the many white animals that have graced Apifera have brought deep stories, deep sentiments from all who meet them. Aldo the Elder was one, Old Victor the crippled goat was another...to name just two. Benedetto is happy here, he is more settled here than at the old Apifera. I have asked him in our eye conversations,

Is it you who was meant to come here, not just me, or Martyn? Is your destiny all wrapped up here too?

I have been coming to the realizations that we are attracted to certain places, certain land and certain creatures-both human and otherwise- at certain times in our lives to help us do the work we are meant to do. Perhaps as I've read by some spiritualist writers, these companions have been working with us for a long time before we meet in the physical world. I think both White Dogs are of that caliber relationship with me.

Today as I did chores, I was thinking about how I want to evolve this Apifera. I have been holding back a bit, for reasons I won't disclose here, for now. But this morning I knew that my animal work needs to come back to the front burner. And my goal of making this a healing place for people and animals is on my mind. Somehow looking at these White Dog eyes reminded me of the work I really love doing-helping special need animals.

While Dog Play (copyright Apifera Farm) #apiferafarm #maremmas #whitedogs #whitedogsofinstagram

A video posted by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Nov 26, 2016 at 7:53am PST

Horse and Pig speak

"I admire you," the pig said.

He was looking up, toward the blue sky, into the muzzle of a red horse.

"I know," said the horse. "But I am nothing special."

Of course he was special, even though in terms of grand looks or flashy movement, he had neither.

"You undersell yourself," said the pig. "I am small compared to many of my kind, but I have spots that many don't."

"Yes, the spots are catchy. I don't have spots either. Or a long top knot," said the horse.

"But you smell of horse, this is an exquisite attribute to have," said the pig.

"Perhaps," said the horse, "to another horse."

The White Dogs arrived. They leapt up to greet the horse as usual.

"The pig is right, your smell is fabulous," White Dog said.

Back in the house, a woman worked on a painting. She was trying to capture the smell of her horse. She heard a whinny, and left her indoors to be outdoors, and headed towards the world's most exquisite smell.

Today's guest blogger: Paco the Poet

{I have asked Paco to write today's post. It's a good way to let him express himself and it gives you all a fresh view on life. Paco is our resident poet, and worrier, but he's very loved and no donkeys have been mismanaged to bring you this post.}

They keep telling me to come over.

"On that wood? It seems skinny. I am not skinny," I told them.

I was worried. I might float away on the skinny rivulet below.

They could hear my thoughts.

"Don't worry, Paco, it won't break or float away. We want you to come. There is so much to eat up here."

That was Pino. He is the star. He was the first donkey and he is a star. He has books and a pie day and he is a star. I am a normal donkey.

"Mother Matilda, are you going to go over it?" I asked her.

She just trotted by me and never even looked back. She does that. She is confidant. She shows me in action what to do, without words.

"Wait, you are leaving me here?" I asked them as they turned away.

And they did. They climbed the hill and left me in the pasture.

I will be brave. I will eat here today.

This isn't so bad.

Wait, I can see their ear tips up on the hill. I must call them so they know I am still here.

"I am still here!" and I brayed and brayed.

I see their ear tips again. They acknowledge me with their ears forward. But now their ears are relaxed, in bramble. They are not worried about me.

I was brave all day. The sheep came down and I took them to the barn. I protected them from possible hawks. You never know when a huge hawk is going to swoop out of the sky and pick up a 200# sheep. I worry about that. It could happen. So it is good I'm here for them.

Animal Conversations: Pig & The Shadow

For those of you who know the story of Rosie and Stevie, this is from their early years.

Pig grumpily arrived at her bed of straw mounded in a dark corner of a large stall in the old barn.

With her arrival, there was the nightly exodus of each and every barn animal that might have been standing nearby at her passing. They left in an orderly fashion–but with a clear purpose–to get away from Pig.

Making sure she was indeed alone, finally, Pig began to prepare her humble bed, by carrying clumps of straw in her mouth and mounding it into a pile, and then burying her self under it, creating first a tunnel and then a womb to lie in.

"Good evening," said a gentle voice in the shadowed corner opposite her.

Conversation with Mother Matilda

"Animal Conversations" are a gift of my life  and I want to continue to share them with you, and explore the feelings and ideas that stem from them.  I hope you will find time to listen to these creatures too. To start out, I am posting a Conversation I had many years ago, when Mother Matilda arrived–some of you might have this one in the book.

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Her job was to be a brood jenny even as she entered into her senior years. Living in neglect, she subsisted only on straw in a cold climate. Her fortunes changed after a donkey rescue found Matilda and eight other neglected herd mates. Eventually they connected with Apifera and she arrived after a day-long journey. She had the same name as my elderly mother—surely this detail was not lost on the universal forces in charge that brought her to me.  {This Conversation appears in the book "Misfits of Love"}


“I remember her ear tips as they drove away,” the old donkey said.

She was speaking about one of her many children.