Alan the Christmas Donkey

by Tracy Garton

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, nodding slowly in agreement.

  ‘When my sister and I came out shopping earlier we spotted him as soon as we parked up. We’d been planning a day of retail therapy, if you know what I mean, but we couldn’t leave him there,’ she said. ‘No one seemed to know what to do, so that’s when we found your phone number online. But my sister got a bit cold and fed up. She’s waiting in the car.’

  ‘Let’s make some space then,’ I said, gesturing to everyone to take a few steps back.

  Then slowly, I edged closer to the animal. Since capturing Muffin, I’d become used to being kicked, bitten and shoved by new rescue cases. I wasn’t worried about that anymore, and I had the scars to prove it. But I didn’t want to alarm the donkey by getting close too quickly.

  ‘Hello, who are you then?’ I said soothingly as I crept towards him. He didn’t even raise his gaze from the ground.

  Soon I was right up in front of him. He was too broken to make much of a fuss as I reached my hand out to stroke his rough white nose.

  ‘Here, do you want a couple of these?’ Steve asked, quietly coming up behind me and holding out a handful of ginger biscuits.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll need them with this one. He seems to have given up hope,’ I told him sadly, grabbing a ginger biscuit anyway.

  ‘Look what I’ve got for you,’ I said, reaching out with the biscuit on my palm.

  Only then, nostrils twitching at the delicious smell, did the donkey slowly raise his head. For a moment our eyes met, and I could sense that he trusted me already. Then, as he gently snuffled the ginger snap up and crunched it down, I took a step sideways to check out his physical shape.

  He was very thin. His painfully protruding ribs told me he probably hadn’t had a proper feed in his life.

  ‘Don’t worry, boy, I won’t give up on you,’ I whispered as I ran my hands gently over his body.

  That’s when, under the yellow light of the street lamp, I could see that his entire coat was absolutely crawling with lice. It was almost as if his fur was alive. It appeared to be moving all on its own. The very sight of it made me feel instantly itchy. I could only imagine what the donkey must have been feeling.

  ‘You poor creature, how could someone abandon you like this?’ I muttered under my breath. Thankfully, I’d arrived in time.

  Over the years, I’ve seen many terrible cruelty cases. Hands down, it is the worst part of running the sanctuary. I’ve never got used to it; it still shocks me every time. There are a couple of rescues I know I’ll never be able to forget, though. It is as if they are etched in my mind to remind me why I get up every morning.

  One of the worst cases I came across was Jack, who we rescued from Gainsborough back in 1996 when we were still based in Radcliffe-on-Trent. It was actually Steve who found him. He’d gone to a farm to look at a digger for sale, and instead we ended up with a donkey. Steve took one look at the tragic conditions he was living in and knew he couldn’t leave him behind. Jack was only five, but already he was at death’s door.

  When he arrived back at the sanctuary, the first thing I noticed was his overgrown feet. They were the worst I’d ever seen, and it was no wonder Jack couldn’t walk. But we soon discovered that wasn’t the only thing causing him pain. When he was a foal someone had fitted a tight head collar on him, but as he grew larger they’d never bothered to remove it. His skin had grown over it, and it was like a permanent vice around his face. He could barely open his mouth. Even if he had been given enough food to eat, I don’t think he would have been able to manage it. It was a huge job for the vet to remove it, and Jack ended up with hundreds of stitches after the major surgery.

  But by some miracle he survived and, twenty years on, he’s still living happily at the sanctuary. He’s the most lovely donkey, and you’d never see the mental scars he must have from starting his life in such a miserable way.

  Another rescue I’ll never forget is Lucky, so called because she really was lucky to be alive. This was back in 1994. I’d had a tip-off that there was a donkey living in the front garden of a home in Lambley, a small village about five miles north of our old place in Radcliffe-on-Trent. I’d been warned she wasn’t in a good way, but even I was gobsmacked.

  We picked her up covered in massive infected ulcers, where she’d rubbed herself raw in a desperate bid to get relief from a lice infestation. She couldn’t walk, her belly was full of worms, her teeth were so overgrown that she couldn’t eat, and to say she was already half dead doesn’t do it justice. But despite that, the owner was seemingly reluctant to let her go. I don’t imagine he really cared; he probably just seized the opportunity to make a bit of cash out of me. So I ended up having to fork out £50 for Lucky, before spending all weekend crying at the awful thought of possibly having to have her put down. I bet her owners wouldn’t have shed a single tear, though.

  Lucky was so poorly that I couldn’t put her with the other donkeys. I didn’t want them to catch her infections, and I also needed her close by to keep an eye on her around the clock. So she started her recovery in the back garden of our house. Steve, to his credit, didn’t dare complain when I suggested bashing out the back wall of our garage so we could use it as a makeshift stable. Soon the dust had cleared and Lucky was safely enclosed in our back garden. She was far too poorly to cause a scene, so the neighbours barely even noticed she was there.

  Just a week later, the TLC had started to pay off and her condition took a turn for the better. The local newspaper even ran a piece on her miraculous recovery, alongside a very cheesy photo of us both. I clipped it out and kept it in the office as a memento.

  Lucky lived in our garden for three months in all. I began to rebuild her strength by taking her for a walk up and down the road, in preparation for her eventually joining the other donkeys in Island Lane. Then one afternoon I’d just turned the corner with Lucky in tow when a woman rushed out of a house and hugged me without saying a word. I was completely taken aback, as I didn’t think I’d ever even seen her before.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, emotion cracking her voice.

  ‘That’s okay. But what for?’ I asked, totally confused.

  ‘I swore to my husband that I could hear a donkey at night, but he was having none of it. I thought I was going mad. Now I can tell him I was right all along,’ she said. ‘I genuinely thought I’d been hallucinating, but it’s a real donkey.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I guess we did look an unexpected sight tramping up and down the road together. Lucky lived at the sanctuary for four blissful years, until one day she lay down in an awkward way and broke her leg. When that happens there’s nothing a vet can do, and I sobbed as I gave the go-ahead to have her put down. The only glimmer of positivity was that she was an old lady, and we’d given her a few years of happiness at the end of her life.

  When I think about what some of our donkeys have been through, my blood boils. In my book, there’s a big difference between people who aren’t equipped to take care of a donkey, and those who wilfully mistreat them. It makes me so angry to think about how cruel people can be.

  Whenever I turn up at rescue situations like Lucky’s and Jack’s I really have to work hard to hold my tongue. I remind myself that the most important thing is to get the donkey out of there. There’s no point wasting time yelling at the people who’ve let their animal get into that state. I doubt they’d listen anyway. It’s plain to see that the donkey is in pain, and if they’ve chosen to turn a blind eye, there’s nothing I can say that would get the message into their thick heads.

  As much as I love running the sanctuary, in a perfect world there wouldn’t be any need for it. But for as long as people are mistreating their donkeys, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.

  Back in the supermarket car park, the next hurdle was to get the donkey into the horsebox as quickly and as easily as possible. If a donkey has spent its life getting in and out of a trailer, like a seaside donkey would, it’s a lot easier to tempt the
m inside. They might not want to get in, but at least they don’t have the fear of the unknown. However, if they’ve never been in a horsebox, a donkey can kick up a real fuss. I don’t blame them – I wouldn’t want to be shut in a dark, scary box either.

  By now, lots of the bystanders had loaded up their cars and gone home. That was a relief. It’s always easier to work without an inexperienced audience shouting out their not-so-helpful hints. I asked Steve to open the horse trailer’s rear doors while I worked my fingers into the knot where the rope had been tied around the lamp post.

  ‘Should I do something to help, or . . .?’ asked the woman who’d called us, glancing at the dirty donkey and then her pristine tight blue jeans.

  ‘We’ve got it under control. You just stand back out of the way, please,’ I said. I could swear I saw a flicker of relief in her eyes. Her posh designer jeans wouldn’t be going in the bin that evening after all.

  I loosened the rope, and then walked around to face the donkey again. I crouched slightly to level my head with his, so I could look directly into his deep brown eyes.

  ‘We’re going to take you to your new home now. You’re going to love it. There’s grass, and warmth, and you’ll make lots of new friends. But you’re going to need to get into my cosy horsebox first,’ I said.

  I’m not daft, I knew that he wouldn’t understand a single word I said. But at the very least, I hoped my voice was reassuring.

  The donkey just stared back at me, a lost look in his eyes.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get this done,’ I said, pulling the rope ever so slightly.

  I held my breath waiting to see how the donkey would react. To my instant relief, he took one tentative step towards me. This was good news as I didn’t fancy plan B. The little donkey would easily have been light enough for me and Steve to pick up, one at each end, and carry him into the horsebox. But the thousands of lice didn’t make that a particularly appealing option.

  ‘Chuck us another few biscuits and I think we’ll be fine,’ I called over to Steve.

  ‘Let’s hope so. It’s already going to be late by the time we get back,’ he said, rustling the packet.

  I waved the biscuits out in front of me, tugging encouragingly on the rope again. Gradually, step by step, the donkey limped forward on his overgrown, split hooves. He let me lead him right up to the horsebox ramp, then, with just a few moments of hesitation, he hobbled all the way inside. I don’t think he had the strength to refuse.

  I made sure he was safe and secure, ready for the drive back. Then I gave him one last ginger biscuit.

  ‘Well done, that’s the hard bit over,’ I said to him. ‘Now, sit tight and we’ll take you to your lovely new home.’

  I secured the rear breast bar to stop the donkey slipping around inside and swung the horsebox doors closed with a gentle click. I turned just in time to see the donkey’s rescuer waving him goodbye.

  ‘Right, we’ll look after him now. Thanks again for phoning us,’ I said to her.

  ‘No, thank you for coming. I don’t know what I’d have done with him if you hadn’t. I don’t think he would have fitted in my car,’ she said with a little laugh. ‘He will be okay, won’t he?’

  ‘He’s not in a good way, but we’re used to that. Don’t worry, he’ll see the vet as soon as we get back to the sanctuary,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you give us a ring in a few days, and we’ll let you know how he’s getting on.’

  ‘I will, definitely. And maybe I’ll come to visit him when you’re open in the summer,’ she said.

  I just smiled, not expecting to see her again. Nearly every time we picked up an unwanted donkey the owner would promise us a generous donation in the post to say thanks. Needless to say, the cheques never arrived. But this woman didn’t owe us anything; the donkey wasn’t her responsibility to begin with. I was just glad she’d made the call when she did. One more night in the cold and that poor donkey might not have survived. I didn’t tell her that, though; I didn’t want to alarm her.

  ‘Right, we need to go,’ Steve said, jangling the keys to push the point home.

  So we said goodbye, and as we pulled out of the miserable, dark car park I was glad that was the last time the little donkey would ever see it.

  ‘I’ll phone Lesley with an ETA, and I think I’ll ask her to get the vet over too,’ I said as we started the 130-mile journey home. ‘I don’t think we should risk waiting until the morning, just in case.’

  I told myself that the little donkey would pull through. He had to. But there was something about him that worried me. It was as if his spirit had been completely broken. That’s never a good sign. I’ve known donkeys to give up on life altogether, and refuse to eat or drink no matter how I try to tempt them.

  ‘Let’s hope there’s no traffic. The sooner we get back the better,’ I said to Steve, willing our newest resident to hang on in there. Once he saw the miles of lush countryside and met his new donkey friends, he’d have something to live for.

  7

  A Donkey with No Name

  The return journey to Lincolnshire felt even longer than our fraught dash to Birmingham had been. We pulled over several times to check on our new donkey. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t getting distressed or upset. But I needn’t have worried. Just like in the car park, he couldn’t muster the energy to make a fuss.

  Eventually, by late evening, we pulled through our metal gates and rumbled up the stone-flecked track towards the yard. The other donkeys heard us arriving from their stables, and some of them shattered the nighttime silence by braying in welcome. Lesley was there to meet us, blankets and other supplies at the ready.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she asked hopefully, as Steve and I clambered down from the horsebox cab.

  ‘Well, we’ve got him,’ I said. ‘That was no trouble at all really. But he’s not in a good way.’

  I took a quick peek into our isolation stable to make sure it was ready. We have one dedicated block where we always put the new arrivals, slightly away from the other donkeys. Lesley had already made it cosy for our newest resident.

  ‘He’s a cute one, isn’t he?’ Lesley said, shining a torch into the back of the horsebox. Steve had already got the doors open ready to unload.

  ‘I know. How could anyone not want him?’ I said.

  So it wasn’t just my heart the donkey had melted. His little face and sad eyes were irresistible. As I stepped into the trailer and made my way down the partitioned side, I could see that he still had that same sheepish expression. He reminded me of Eeyore.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get you sorted,’ I said, untying his rope. ‘We’ve got a lovely stable ready for you.’

  He barely gave a flicker of interest. But, obediently, he hobbled down the ramp behind me.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Lesley, getting a good look at him for the first time. ‘Those hooves, ouch.’

  ‘You should be grateful it’s too dark for you to see the lice. He’s absolutely full of them,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s just as well that Norrie will be here any minute now.’

  Norrie Chapman had been our vet ever since we arrived in Huttoft. She’d come highly recommended by Matthew, our old vet, and she’d lived up to the lofty expectations he’d given us. She’s the owner of Rase Veterinary Centre in Market Rasen, and from the first day I met her I knew we were in safe hands. She was slim, tall and well groomed, but I quickly realised she hadn’t got a hint of vanity. She was ready to get stuck in and get her hands dirty. Plus, she certainly knew her stuff and the donkeys seemed to trust her too. They’d be seeing a lot of her, so if they were happy, I was happy too.

  This was the umpteenth time we’d phoned Norrie for a late-night call-out, but she breezed in looking as perky as ever. I don’t know what her secret was, but she was always so fresh-faced and pretty. If I was the type of woman to care about that kind of thing, I’d be incredibly jealous. Fortunately, I’ve long given up on looking glam.

  ‘You’ve got anoth
er then?’ she asked. ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘He’d been abandoned in a car park, of all places,’ I explained. ‘He’s very thin and he’s covered in lice. There doesn’t seem to be anything major, but he’s feeling very sorry for himself. I’m a bit worried about pneumonia, though, as I don’t know how long he’s been out without a shelter.’

  Unlike horses and mules, donkeys aren’t naturally waterproof. That’s why it’s so important for them to have at least a shack, if not a stable, during the winter. If the cold and wet weather penetrates their coat, they can go downhill in just three or four days.

  ‘I’ll do a full check, don’t you worry. And what are we calling you?’ Norrie said, turning her attention to our little donkey.

  That was a good point. Some donkeys come to us with a name already, and we’d never change it. It’s said that it is bad luck to rename a donkey, and mine usually needed all the good fortune they could get. However, I had no idea what this donkey was called. That was assuming his previous owner had even bothered to give him a name.

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it yet. When you’ve seen as many donkeys as I have you kind of run out of ideas after a while,’ I said, racking my brains.

  ‘Well, we can’t keep calling him “him”. What shall I write on all the forms?’ Norrie said.

  We’ve had all sorts over the years. Teddy, Mabel, Hannah, George. I don’t always go for human-sounding names either. I’ve got Dolly Daydream, Oklahoma Lewis, Yo Yo. With some donkeys the name comes to you once you get to know their personality. But I didn’t have the luxury of that with this one. There was no time to sit down for a ponder when his life was at stake.

  ‘How about Alan?’ I said, plucking the name almost out of nowhere.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Steve, popping his head around the door after clearing up the horse trailer.

  Actually, as I looked at the little donkey, Alan seemed to suit him. It was a steady, sensible sort of name. That seemed to sum him up down to a tee. It wasn’t the name for an extrovert or a mischief-maker, and our new donkey obviously wasn’t one of those.