Alan the Christmas Donkey

by Tracy Garton

  Alan stood patiently while introductions were made, poking his nose curiously through the metal bars. Then as the donkeys trooped back across the field he turned his head towards me as if to say, Mum, can I go and play too? I could hardly believe it.

  ‘I think I’ll keep him in for the rest of the day, just to be sure he’s ready. I don’t want him to get bullied if he goes back into a sulk as soon as he’s out there,’ I said to Lesley. I was well aware that I sounded just like an anxious parent on the first day of primary school.

  ‘Good idea. What a turnaround, though,’ Lesley said.

  She was right. Alan had been moping around for days but it looked like he’d finally agreed with me that enough was enough. He was ready to become part of the family.

  Lesley and I rushed through cleaning the rest of the stables, driven by a desperate need to get away from Alan’s constant noise. Now he’d finally spoken he wouldn’t shut up, calling to the other donkeys to come back to keep him company.

  Over a ham bap at lunch, I gave Steve the update.

  ‘I could hear him from over in the farthest field,’ he said, munching on his roll. ‘Who’d have thought Alan had it in him?’

  ‘Not me, that’s for sure. I’ve had sleepless nights worrying about that flipping donkey, but it looks like he was attention seeking all along,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘So much for his name. A sensible, quiet and steady sort of name, wasn’t that what you said he suited?’ Steve teased.

  Steve was right. Maybe my little Alan wasn’t such a wallflower after all. Still, it had made my day to see his personality begin to shine.

  That evening Alan seemed almost a bit downcast to be put back in his stable. But I made him a promise as he bedded down for the night.

  ‘Get a good sleep because tomorrow you can go and make friends properly,’ I said, stroking the white patch on the end of his nose.

  I knew I’d sleep easier that night. Alan really had turned a corner. For the first time since seeing him shivering in the corner of that car park I felt sure he’d be fine.

  As my head hit the pillow I was looking forward to waking up in the morning. My to-do list was longer than ever but I couldn’t wait for Alan to start the next chapter of his life. I began to drift off into a peaceful sleep. Then, suddenly, the idyllic countryside silence was shattered. It was Alan again, letting out a noisy bray just to remind me he was out there.

  ‘Is that what we’ll get every night now then?’ Steve moaned, huffing as he tossed and turned to get comfortable again.

  Until that morning I’d wondered whether our little donkey was completely mute. But there was one thing I was sure of – with Alan we would be in for plenty of surprises.

  The next morning, Alan barged me out of the way as soon as I unbolted his stable door. I followed as he made his way straight over towards the gate. There was no doubt about what he wanted. He was ready to go free range.

  I’d already decided that night that Alan would be a good fit for my twelve-strong gang of Hooligans. They were the naughtiest donkeys in the sanctuary, and something told me that Alan had more of a spark than he’d previously let on. Call it instinct. Alan had been trickier to size up than most of the donkeys that had come through the gates, but I was beginning to realise that there was more to him than met the eye.

  The Hooligans had a reputation for causing trouble, and their favourite game was to plot escapes. In fact, it was solely down to them that I’d had to upgrade from electric fencing to solid wooden barriers. Sometimes in the night the battery would run out on the fence, and with me sound asleep they’d waste no time in making a run for it. Much to my embarrassment, I’d been woken up to calls informing me that my donkeys were snacking on flower beds down in the village and napping on people’s driveways. I’d have to leap out of bed and try to herd them back home.

  Even the wooden fences hadn’t put paid to their taste for freedom. On a number of occasions they’d made a gap between the posts and hotfooted it out of the sanctuary yet again. I never saw how they did it as their plots always took place in the dead of night, but I knew even the littlest donkeys had an almighty kick. I wouldn’t have put it past them to line up against the fence and give it a boot all together on the count of three.

  As well as the Hooligans, I had the Geriatrics, which were my OAP residents, and the Mismatches, which was all of the rest. When the time was right a donkey could be moved from one group to another, but it all depended on personality.

  Alan had already bonded with the Hooligans over the gate the previous day. He’d chosen his tribe himself, and that’s the best way. So, after warning him to be good, I opened the gate and let him join the others in the field.

  Steve brought me over a coffee and together we watched Alan’s introduction into the group. I knew that the Hooligans wouldn’t stand for any more of his misery, not with mischief to plan. So they sussed him out, braying noisily and nudging him as if goading him to fight for the alpha male role. Alan patiently let them size him up; he wasn’t interested in becoming the boss of the group. Instead, he returned their brays but didn’t bite at the invitation for a scrap. Then once the formalities were over and the pecking order was established, the group got down to business doing what they do best – causing chaos. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched Alan galloping across the field, chasing the others around. It was like a game of tag but with no rules.

  ‘I think he’ll be just fine,’ Steve said.

  ‘Me too. It’s just as well really, we’ve got work to do,’ I said, thinking about how much we still had to do with opening day looming frighteningly close. ‘At least that’s one weight off my mind.’

  For the rest of the day, I let Alan enjoy his first taste of freedom. I felt proud of him. After all, that’s what we rescue donkeys for. It’s no life for them to be cooped up in a tiny paddock alone or, even worse, barely well enough to stand. I rescue donkeys so they can enjoy the rest of their lives. Whether that’s years or just a few months, it’s always worth it.

  Alan had probably never played with another donkey in his life. But watching him with the rest of them, I could tell that playful instinct had never gone away. It had just taken a bit longer to coax out of him, that was all.

  As I got down to work restocking our McDonkey’s catering van and brushing the cobwebs out of our public loos, the Hooligans weren’t far from my mind. They never can be. If there was ever any mischief, I could be sure it was that lot who started it.

  Over the years they’d plotted secret escapes, cheeky ambushes, and any ploy they could think of to get attention. I kept a close eye on them, and I couldn’t help but feel that with Alan in the gang that might be even more important than ever.

  By the time the first visitors pulled into the car park at 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning a few weeks later, it was as if Alan had always been part of the sanctuary. He’d fitted in with the Hooligans right away. The next test was how he’d react to the public.

  Some donkeys love a bit of fuss, whereas others are more wary. Often, those that were most neglected and mistreated are more cautious of people. However, dangle a carrot over the fence and I don’t know if I’ve ever had a donkey who’d resist.

  Within half an hour the place was swarming with people. It was great to see so many familiar faces. Lots of the locals visit time and time again, and always turn up on the first open day of the year to say hello. Those that know us best come armed with gifts. We get sacks of carrots, huge parcels of ginger biscuits, and all sorts of bits and pieces for our bric-a-brac stall. I’m always grateful, as even the smallest donation takes the pressure off.

  There were also some not-so-familiar faces, holiday-makers from the coast. At that time of year it was rarely beach weather, so we were often a popular day out. For me it was a case of the more the merrier. Most of the holidaymakers are a pleasure to have around. Some even come every day for the whole of their break, and recommend us to the friends they make back at their holiday park. That’s fine by
me, as long as they leave a donation. We’re a charity for donkeys, not for cheapskates who fancy a free day of fun on us. But the one thing I can’t stand is people who don’t listen to the rules.

  One summer, I was approached by a woman wearing a long flowing white maxi dress, high-heeled sandals and a string of gaudy beads around her neck. As soon as she caught sight of me she made a beeline towards me.

  ‘That man over there says I can’t go in with the donkeys,’ she said, gesturing towards one of my volunteers.

  ‘Well, no, we don’t let people in the fields as it would upset the donkeys,’ I said. It was an explanation I’d trotted out many times before.

  ‘I don’t think that’s very fair, though. I only want to go in to give them a stroke,’ she said.

  A child might get a bit upset at not being allowed in, and that’s fair enough. They’re too young to know better. But she was a grown woman, and rules are rules. But I knew her type. Some people just won’t be told.

  ‘Well, you can’t really. Sorry,’ I said, getting frustrated.

  ‘But I’m on holiday and I’m really good with animals,’ she insisted. ‘I know absolutely everything about donkeys.’

  We argued backwards and forwards for several minutes, as I got increasingly annoyed that this stupid woman just wouldn’t listen. Eventually, sick of the situation, I relented. If she wanted to get into the fields, then I’d give her exactly what she wanted.

  ‘Right, fine. Follow me,’ I said, leading her over to the Hooligans’ field.

  ‘Thank you,’ the woman said, giving me a smug look as she tottered into the field. It was only then that I noticed she had a roll of Polo mints clasped in her palm.

  One packet of Polos and thirteen donkeys, are you mad? I thought.

  As I expected, she wasn’t feeling smug for long. The donkeys thought she looked like a walking, talking toy. Within seconds they were all crowded around her, jostling for the Polos. They were chomped down before I could even blink. Then Persil grabbed hold of the flowing fabric at the bottom of her dress, and Yo Yo decided it was time to join in too for a game of tug of war. Meanwhile, Pumpkin took a bite of the beads around her neck and they pinged straight off in every direction.

  ‘Ouch, you brutes,’ she said, trying to shove them away.

  She looked down at the damage and, even from my vantage point by the fence, I could see she was close to tears.

  ‘Have you had enough fun with the donkeys now?’ I called out, opening the gate for her.

  She looked a right state. Her sandals kept getting caught in the gaping hole in her dress, and there was a dusty dirt patch on her bum where she’d fallen onto her arse. If only I’d had a camera. Not that she would have wanted that snap for her holiday album.

  ‘Your donkeys are horrible,’ she sniffed, before storming off. Only then did I let my massive grin show. Some people really do deserve exactly what they ask for. I don’t think it was my ‘horrible’ donkeys that were the problem.

  Within a couple of hours of us opening our gates, Alan had got the hang of making the most of the situation. We sold fifty-pence buckets of chopped-up carrots for the visitors to feed to the donkeys over the fence, and Alan soon realised that he was up against stiff competition if he wanted the tasty treats. But he had more than just his good looks on his side.

  As soon as a new group of people arrived, Alan would make his way straight over to the gate and kick at it noisily with his hooves. He made sure that he grabbed their attention straight away. Then with one look at his sweet little face peering through the bars, people would come straight over. He was a charmer.

  By the end of the day he’d munched his way through piles of carrots and posed for countless selfies with visitors. I’d overheard so many people commenting on how cute he was, and I agreed.

  He was irresistible. That’s why I’d fallen for him at first sight, under the car park street lamp all those weeks before. But what I hadn’t expected was that he was the complete package, with the perfect, cheeky personality too. It was no surprise that by the end of the week Lesley’s pile of applications for donkey adoptions was bulging with requests for Alan. It definitely wasn’t just my heart he’d won over.

  Over the next few weeks I was relieved to see that the visitors kept coming. It was just what we needed to top up our funds after the difficult winter. Alan was certainly pulling his weight in keeping the visitors coming back too. He was a hit with everyone who met him, a definite crowd pleaser.

  It was just as well that our bank balance was getting a bit of a boost as it wasn’t long before we had three more mouths to feed. However, these new arrivals weren’t donkeys, but kittens.

  For a couple of days, I kept hearing a mewing sound every time I went into the tack room. It was driving me mad, and I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. We did have a feral cat that lived around the yard, and despite my best efforts to tame her she was having none of it. But I’d glance out of the stable and see her lazing around in the sun on top of one of my picnic benches. It wasn’t her I could hear.

  I was completely bemused until one day I glanced upwards and saw three little pairs of eyes glinting back down at me from a gap up near the stable’s roof. That solved the mystery: the cat had had kittens up there.

  ‘Steve, will you bring me a ladder?’ I called across the yard to where he was tinkering with the car.

  ‘Don’t tell me, you need me to fix something?’ he said with a sigh, hoisting the ladder into the stable.

  ‘Not this time,’ I said. ‘I think we’ve got kittens.’

  I crept up the ladder and poked my head into the gap. Sure enough, there were three tiny little black and white kittens looking back at me. I already knew their mum was nowhere to be seen, as she was busy sunbathing.

  ‘Hello, little ones,’ I said, letting them sniff at my hand.

  As I looked back down the ladder, I could see Steve rolling his eyes at me.

  ‘I’ll bring you some cat food, shall I?’ he said.

  For the next few weeks I felt like I was constantly back up and down that ladder, trying to tempt the kittens to come down. It wasn’t just because I wanted a cuddle with them. I didn’t want my sanctuary to become overrun with more cats so, as soon as they were old enough, I planned to capture them to be neutered at the vet’s.

  Eventually I coaxed them down and they proved to be much friendlier than their mother, who had now been named Mummy Cat. They’d loiter around for scraps at lunchtime, and soon would let us stroke them too.

  Then the day came for their little op. First I needed to catch them. They were only kittens but they had definitely inherited more than a hint of their mother’s wild side. So, deciding to be cautious, I put on a thick pair of winter gloves to protect myself from their sharp little claws before scooping them up. I loaded them into boxes and drove them down to the vet’s myself.

  ‘We need to register them, so what are their names?’ the receptionist asked, tapping away at her computer.

  ‘Erm, well . . .’ I said, hesitating.

  The thing was, the cats did have names but it was embarrassing to have to say them out loud. They weren’t exactly conventional. I’d sort of named them in my head and the names had stuck.

  I had Cutie Cat, who was obviously the best looking of the litter. Then there was Scaredy Cat, who it had taken much longer to win over. And finally there was My Friend, so called because when I tried to tempt her with food I’d say, ‘Come over here and you can be my friend.’

  So, reluctantly, I mumbled the names to the receptionist.

  ‘Pardon?’ she said loudly.

  I was forced to repeat myself loudly, blushing with embarrassment and instantly regretting the silly names.

  ‘But we call them the Three Micekateers,’ I added, as if that somehow made the situation better.

  ‘Oh right,’ the receptionist said, looking at me as if I had three heads.

  If she overheard some of the ‘conversations’ I had with the donkeys
down at the sanctuary, she’d see how mad I really was.

  9

  Lights, Camera, Alan!

  Over the next few months, Alan really made himself at home. I felt privileged to watch his transformation from a shy, downtrodden and neglected donkey. Soon he was just like any other donkey his age should be. Carefree, playful and mischievous.

  Whenever I was working in his field, scooping up dung or fixing up the fences, Alan would always be the first to come over to say hello. He’d do his best to interfere with whatever I was trying to get done. He tipped over my wheelbarrows as soon as I’d loaded them with manure, and one afternoon he even made off with my hammer between his teeth. But I found it impossible to get angry with him. At school there was always a cheeky but lovable kid in the class, who the teacher let get away with murder. At the sanctuary, that was Alan.

  It’s hard to explain, but from the first time I saw Alan I felt that we had a special bond. It wasn’t just that he was cute, although that helped. There was something about the way he looked at me. His attitude seemed almost humble.

  You could give me the most awful, badly tempered, unlikeable donkey and I’d still pull out all the stops to help them. But when you sense that a donkey really is grateful, it hits you in the heart. Alan had certainly found a place in mine.

  As the days got longer and the weather got warmer, Alan seemed to really blossom. I could understand why – I was more at home in the sunshine too. The longer, brighter days made even the toughest chores more tolerable.

  Summer has always been a special time at the sanctuary. In years gone by it was the most important time of the year, as it marked the season for our annual open day. I only had to think of the memories and it made me smile.

  The open days started back when we were still based in Radcliffe-on-Trent. I wish I could take the credit for them, but they weren’t actually my idea. That honour goes to a pair of elderly spinster sisters, Jose and Pauline Miller, who lived nearby in West Bridgford.