Alan the Christmas Donkey

by Tracy Garton

  After a quick break for lunch we cleaned the yard, cleared out the chicken coops, and scooped up the steaming piles of poo the donkeys had kindly left scattered around the field for us.

  By early afternoon, I’d left Steve and the volunteers to bring the donkeys back in for the night.

  ‘I’m going to get on with some accounting,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Come and grab me if you need me.’

  It wasn’t my favourite part of the job, but balancing the books was vital. Our visitor donations would spike and plummet with the changing weather, so it was especially important to keep a close eye on the accounts throughout the winter.

  I scrubbed the morning’s dirt off my hands, before flicking on the kettle and pulling all the paperwork out from the files in the office. I spread it out over the kitchen table, and let out a huge sigh. I’m not a computer person – never have been and probably never will be. All my admin is done the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper. Sometimes I dread looking at the figures, there in black and white to remind me just how much we’re struggling financially. It’s a necessary task, though. After all, the equine dentist, the vet and the farrier all work so hard for us, it’s only fair that they get paid promptly.

  As it was the first week of January, I’d decided to have a good look at planning for the months ahead. It’s always impossible to know what to expect. After all, the donkeys don’t give us a four-week warning for when they’re going to fall ill. If only it was that easy. However, every summer we make a huge effort to get our account at the vet’s into positive figures, so come the winter we’ve already got a head start on paying the bills.

  This winter, however, the cold weather had cost us dearly. We’d had extra medication, several emergency call-outs, and of course vet visits for the new arrivals. We always take in a lot of donkeys over the winter because as soon they fall ill their owners cruelly decide they don’t want them anymore. As a result, that January our account at the vet’s was tipping dangerously into the red.

  I frowned with frustration as I totted up how much we’d spent with our feed merchant too. At the very least, I budget £100 per day for hay, bedding and food during the winter. However, we’d been forced to buy a lot more haylage for the donkeys to eat, as the snow had eliminated our readily available abundance of grass. Haylage is the next best option, as it’s a special grass seed mix which is cut, dried and wrapped on a farm. The donkeys munch their way through it quite happily, but unfortunately this had also eaten away at our cash reserves.

  It would be several months before we would be open to the public again, so we wouldn’t be getting much in the way of donations any time soon. Perhaps we could put an appeal in the local paper, I thought. The reporters there were usually only too happy to help us to promote our fundraisers and events, so I mentally noted to make sure I called them later. However, no one has much spare cash in January, so I knew I couldn’t bank on publicity doing the trick.

  When money was tight, I couldn’t help but get angry about the number of occasions we had donations stolen. Time and time again some horrible person would sneak in with the crowds of visitors, and leave with our donation pot. They weren’t stealing from me, they were stealing from the donkeys. It was so heartless. They might not have made off with that much cash, but here every penny counts.

  Not for the first time, that afternoon it began to dawn on me that running the donkey sanctuary had become so much more than caring for the animals. That was the part of my day that made me smile, always, without fail. However, the bigger the sanctuary had become, the more pressure there was to keep it afloat financially. Just a few months before, it had got to the stage where either we ate or the donkeys did, so Steve did something I never thought he would. He sold his beloved motorbike to put food on the table for us and the animals. It had tided us over, but we needed more money and we needed it fast. If we’d had anything else to flog, we would have done, but I didn’t have any designer glad rags or antique vases stashed away. The only alternative was to shut down the sanctuary, but I spent no more than a fleeting second considering that option. I would never let that happen. Somehow, I’d find a way to put us back on track.

  It certainly would have been easier if I’d put my foot down after taking in Muffin, with only Noddy and Linda to keep him company. If I’d never started a sanctuary, never started caring so much. But then again, would I really have it any other way?

  As if on cue, the phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. Desperate for an escape from the dismal numbers and depressing spreadsheets, I seized the handset and answered the call.

  ‘Is that the donkey sanctuary?’ a woman on the other end asked.

  ‘Yep, that’s us,’ I said, ready to launch into my speech about how we weren’t open to visitors again until March with an apology if that was disappointing. After all, that was why most people phoned.

  ‘My sister and I have found a donkey that’s not in a good way, and I was wondering whether you might be able to help,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, right, what’s happened?’ I asked, suddenly more interested in the phone call.

  ‘He’s been abandoned and he’s ever so skinny,’ her Birmingham accent drawled. ‘Please help. I phoned another sanctuary, but they said no. I couldn’t believe it. But apparently they’re stretched to the limits and can’t take in another.’

  Unfortunately, that was often the case. I couldn’t count the number of donkeys that had come our way after being rejected by other sanctuaries. It broke my heart that policies, space or financial restraints would get in the way of the animals receiving the help they needed. That’s why I was determined that would never be the case at the Radcliffe Donkey Sanctuary. My only rule was never to take in a stallion, unless the situation was absolutely desperate. Male donkeys cause so much disruption before they are castrated, as only then do they seem to calm down enough to be handled. The last thing I need is a tearaway upsetting all the other residents.

  ‘Can he walk?’ I said, already racking my brains to think who I could phone for backup, if I needed a bit of manpower for the rescue.

  ‘I think so. He’s tied up, but he’s standing so I think his legs are okay,’ she said.

  That was good news. At least I’d be able to handle this one myself.

  ‘Give me the address and I’ll set off now. Can you keep an eye on him until I get there?’ I grabbed a pen to scribble the directions on the corner of an old invoice from the farrier.

  ‘Of course. I don’t really know what I’m doing, though. Should I feed him or something?’ she asked.

  ‘No, just try to keep him warm. I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ I said, hanging up without wasting time to say goodbye.

  I didn’t even need to ask Steve before agreeing to pick up the new donkey. We had a mutual understanding that we’d always find room for another.

  It was as if the call had come from the heavens, to give me a kick up the rear end. There I’d been wondering whether starting the sanctuary had been a huge mistake. I felt ashamed that I’d let the thought of closing the sanctuary enter my mind, even just for a second. But hearing about a donkey in need reminded me why I hadn’t wanted an easy life. That’s why I’d packed in the job at the hair-dresser’s, quit the jewellery shops, and seized the opportunity to leave my mum’s video-shop business. I wanted to do something that made a difference, and here was yet another chance to give an animal a future.

  Hearing about a mistreated donkey never fails to upset me. Years and years of doing what I do hasn’t desensitised me to that. If anything, it hits me more every single time. I automatically put myself in the donkey’s place and imagine what it must be like to live with no food, no warmth, and no affection.

  But I also can’t help but feel angry. Defenceless animals are at the total mercy of their owners. When we get a call-out, that means that a donkey has been let down.

  Sometimes it’s down to ignorance and stupidity on the part of their owner, not recognising that looking after a donkey is a big resp
onsibility requiring time and money. Other times it’s down to plain cruelty.

  I mean, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that inside an abandoned caravan isn’t an ideal home for a donkey, yet that’s where we rescued Persil from back in 1996. He had a terrible wound on his nose where he had smashed his head through the caravan window. He was probably trying to escape.

  At first he had real anger issues and he would kick out at anyone who dared to try to get near to him. I didn’t blame him. If I’d spent my life shut in a caravan, I’d probably be angry too. But thanks to lots of patience and TLC, today he’s a completely different donkey. When I walk up to him in the field the first thing he does is swing his bum round towards me – not to kick me but so I can give it a rub. There’s no such thing as a bad donkey, only a bad owner.

  ‘Steve, can you hold the fort while I go and pick up another one?’ I said, striding across the yard with the car keys already in my hand.

  Steve was just bolting the final stable door, with all the donkeys safely in for the night.

  ‘And there was I thinking we were in for a nice quiet evening. Of course I can. In fact, we’re all sorted so I’ll come with you. What’s this one’s story?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘I don’t really know yet, but he’s been abandoned so I’d better pick him up right away. It’s over near Birmingham, though, so it might be a late one if he’s difficult,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, well, we’d better hit the road,’ Steve said. ‘I’m sure Lesley won’t mind keeping an eye on things here. She can get a stable ready for him.’

  Lesley was one of our longest-serving volunteers. We’d met in our new local, the Axe and Cleaver, not long after we’d moved to Huttoft. I think she must have spotted that we weren’t familiar faces, and soon we’d got chatting about the donkeys. Lesley was an animal lover too. She lived completely off-grid on the edge of Huttoft in a little cottage surrounded by four acres of land – no electricity other than a generator for occasional use and no gas. I didn’t know how she did it. Those desolate few months when we first moved into the farmhouse were enough for me.

  Lesley was divorced and back then she kept horses for company. She’s only petite at five foot tall. Coupled with her glasses and feminine, long light-brown hair she might look like a soft touch, but I quickly learned that a horse would never dare to think they’d get the better of her. She had a natural instinct when it came to the equine species. That’s not to say Lesley wasn’t a people person too. She was so easy to chat to, and I warmed to her immediately. We bonded over the trials and tribulations of looking after animals.

  I didn’t even have to ask Lesley if she fancied lending a hand around the sanctuary every now and again, as she offered immediately. Like me, if there was a chance to help an animal, she’d leap at it. Now, whenever she’s not working her seasonal job as a beach-hut operator, she’s over with us. I don’t know how we’d manage without her, and I’m proud to call her one of my closest friends. She might have just turned sixty but she’s incredibly fit for her age, and so I have complete faith that she is more than capable of looking after everything on the rare occasion I am out and about. She won’t take any nonsense from my donkeys.

  Steve handed me our emergency rescue box, while he went to brief Lesley. It contained a head collar and a rope, blankets, a sedative paste just in case the donkey became distressed, and an ever reliable supply of ginger biscuits.

  I grabbed the box, and started the engine of our black Toyota Hilux to back it up to hook it to our horse trailer. We were still using the one kindly donated by the Co-op all those years before. My adrenaline was already kicking in, thanks to not knowing what I’d find when I arrived in Birmingham. I was nervous, but I was also excited at the chance to help another donkey. The buzz of doing that has never worn off.

  Sure, the timing could have been better. As the accounts had made clear to me just half an hour earlier, we could have done without another mouth to feed. Yet, January is traditionally a time for a fresh start, and it felt good to be on my way to give this donkey a shot at his.

  6

  Touch and Go

  On the way down towards Birmingham, Steve and I barely spoke. I was happy to leave the driving to him. I had other things on my mind.

  With any donkey rescue, I always find myself running through every possible scenario in my head. There is so much that could go wrong. Until we arrive, I don’t know what kind of health the donkey will be in. Neither do I know how other people will react to us swooping in to save the day.

  We’d never take a donkey without the permission of whoever it belongs to, and actually most of the time it’s the exasperated owner who calls us for help. But in the case of an abandoned donkey like this one was, we’re always very wary. I’ve had to become something of an expert at dealing with aggressive and difficult donkeys, but confrontation of the human kind isn’t my thing. I’m always worried that an angry man will turn up out of nowhere to accuse us of stealing his animal.

  I gazed out of the window, lost in my thoughts as frosty white fields whipped by. We were well on the way by the time Steve interrupted my worries.

  ‘What a time to abandon a donkey, just after Christmas,’ he said, as we passed the outskirts of Loughborough. ‘I know we’ve been doing this for years, but I’ll never understand what goes on in some people’s heads.’

  ‘I know,’ I sighed. ‘People never fail to surprise me, and not in a good way.’

  It was comforting to have Steve there with me. Without him, I’d have been a nervous wreck. Since that evening when he came home to tell me he’d spotted Muffin, he’d been by my side supporting me every step of the way with whatever mad plan I came up with next.

  I was the driving force behind what the sanctuary had become, but Steve was just as involved, emotionally and practically, as I was. True to our wedding vows, he was always there for better and for worse. As for ‘for richer and for poorer’, he was still patiently waiting for us to give the first, better option a try.

  ‘I know you’re worrying, but didn’t you say the lady on the phone reckoned he was reasonably healthy?’ Steve reminded me.

  ‘She seemed to think so, yeah. But then she did admit she had absolutely no clue about donkeys,’ I said.

  ‘Well, we’ll find out in about three-quarters of an hour,’ Steve said, heading towards the twinkling lights of the city as the early evening winter darkness started to fall around us.

  We found ourselves in an out-of-town retail park. This was exactly the kind of crowded and noisy place I hated, which was why I loved the Tesco online delivery service. But, thankfully, by the time we arrived most of the shops were closing their shutters for the day. At the far end of the car park there was a supermarket, and I could see a small group of people gathered around slightly away from the main entrance.

  ‘Park up down there,’ I said to Steve, pointing out the crowd.

  As he pulled the vehicle across a couple of vacant parking spaces, a woman broke from the group and came tottering across the tarmac towards us.

  ‘You came, thank goodness for that,’ she said, wobbling on her black high-heeled boots.

  I recognised her Brummie drawl immediately. She’d been the one who phoned earlier that day. But I was a bit surprised. She was dressed up to the nines, with bleached blonde hair piled up on top of her head with a sparkly clip and an expensive-looking leather handbag pulled over her shoulder. I can only guess what she must have thought of me, as I jumped out of the car in a dirty old fleece, mucky shoes, and smelling of donkey dung. She didn’t look like the donkey rescuing type, which goes to show that you shouldn’t make assumptions about people. I had to give her credit for doing the right thing. Hundreds of people must have ignored the little donkey, with their cash burning a hole in their pockets, while she’d cared enough to call me.

  ‘Of course we did, I told you we would,’ I said, a bit bemused. ‘So, where’s this donkey?’

  She gestured with a carefully manicured finge
r over to the far corner, next to a clump of overgrown bushes strewn with empty drink cans and cigarette ends.

  ‘He was there when I found him. It wasn’t me that left him there,’ she added quickly.

  I didn’t doubt that. A pedigree chihuahua would have been more her kind of thing, not a scruffy donkey. I walked over, and squeezed past a few more shoppers who’d put their bags of tat down to gawp.

  There, in the doom and gloom, I found the cutest little dark brown donkey, shivering in the cold. My heart melted as I took in the adorable tuft of mane that flopped forward over his eyes. He hung his head in an almost

  sheepish way. It was as if he was thinking, Sorry about all of this fuss.

  He’d been tied to a flickering lamp post with a dirty old rope, not more than a couple of metres long. There was no sign of any food or water left for him. But I was relieved to see that the woman had been right and he was at least standing up.

  ‘He’s been there at least a day,’ the woman said, interrupting my mental analysis of the situation. ‘Apparently, some travellers parked up in the car park for a few days, but when they went on their way they left him behind. It’s horrible, isn’t it?’