by Tracy Garton
I gasped as I saw the mess behind him. The electric fencing had been cut through and completely ripped out. The corner of the field was a hazardous tangle of wiring. As I saw the blood stains on some of the curls of wire, it was obvious what had happened to Fat Annie. She must have got caught in the debris, and pulled herself free. Whoever had been in my fields had been on a mission to get through no matter what. But at what cost? Fat Annie was injured, and they were to blame.
Suddenly, Alan’s weird pacing made sense to me. He’d seen Fat Annie get injured, and had decided that he was going to protect the rest of his donkey friends from the same fate. He made an unlikely bodyguard at just waist height. But while he’d been on patrol the rest of the donkeys had stayed away from the danger zone.
‘You’re a good friend, Alan,’ I said, scratching his favourite place by his ears. ‘We’ll take care of this now. It’s time for bed.’
He looked up at me as if he understood. His job was done, and now he could stand down. Ever loyal to his herd, he’d kept them safe from harm. Yet again, Alan had saved the day.
Together, we walked back up towards the stable as I puzzled over what had happened. Some horrible person – or indeed people – had come into my fields, bust open my gates, destroyed my electric wiring, and rampaged their way through. But why?
As he put the donkeys to bed for the night, Steve had been wondering the same thing.
‘If they were going to nick any equipment, they were heading in completely the wrong direction. Surely they’d have come straight up to the stable blocks?’ he mused.
‘And if they were going to nick a donkey, why would they have crossed through so many fields to do it?’ I added, bolting each of the stable doors in turn.
‘It’s certainly a strange one. I reckon they must have come in last night. They weren’t here during the day, or we’d have noticed,’ he said. ‘I think we had a close call. If the donkeys had been in the fields, it could have been even worse. Except for Fat Annie, the rest of the donkeys seem all right.’
‘That’s thanks to Alan,’ I explained. ‘The bastards cut through the electric fencing too, which must be how she cut her legs. But Alan was standing guard to make sure none of the rest of them trampled into the wiring.’
‘Trust Alan,’ Steve said, raising a small smile. ‘Let’s retrace the intruders’ steps and see if we can figure out what’s been going on.’
So together we walked the route our unwelcome visitors had taken. They’d entered from the far corner, and then headed south-west down the side of our land in the opposite direction from the village. Even as amateur detectives, we could tell they’d been in a vehicle. There were tyre marks in patches of mud along the way. And that explained why the gates had been so battered. They’d driven straight through them at full pelt.
We must have snoozed right through the racket. I could only assume that months of sleeping next door to noisy Alan had trained me not to wake up for anything. I didn’t know what I would have done if I had woken up anyway. I would have panicked and got Steve up to do something, I supposed.
As we got to the end of our land, we looked up and realised what it had all been about. A scrapyard owned by one of our neighbours backed on to our furthest field. The tracks of the vandals were heading straight for it.
‘They must have been trying to nick scrap metal, and we were unfortunately in the way,’ Steve said.
The thought that someone had been on my land made me feel physically sick. It dawned on me just how vulnerable we, and the donkeys, were to people up to no good. We didn’t deserve what had happened, but bad things don’t just happen to bad people.
It turned out the scrap man had been none the wiser to the break-in either. But once we’d explained what had happened, he got straight on the phone to the police. He was really sorry that we’d been in the way, but it wasn’t his place to apologise. The only people that should be sorry were the ones who’d selfishly caused the damage.
There was no use being bitter, though. That wouldn’t help with the repair bill. It cost us nearly £3,000 to fix up all the damage, not to mention the time it took us too. Hours and hours of manual labour could have been hours and hours we spent making life better for the donkeys. I doubted that the vandals had even considered the knock-on effect of their actions. And even if they did, I was almost certain that they wouldn’t care.
Instead, we struggled on as we always did. The volunteers rallied to get the fields secured again as soon as possible, and in the meantime I asked the Lincolnshire Echo to run yet another funding appeal for us. The extra cost was the last thing we needed just before heading into winter. I didn’t know how we’d cope if we were faced with a repeat of the previous year’s financial woes. A familiar feeling of dread gripped me as I worried about making ends meet. But I firmly told myself to save the stress for another day. There was no point worrying about things that hadn’t happened yet, otherwise I’d never sleep a wink.
A few weeks later, with Fat Annie fully healed and the damage all fixed up, I had a chance to reflect on what had happened. That was, thankfully, the only break-in we’d ever had and it had shaken me. I felt repulsed, angry and scared by it. Maybe this time we hadn’t been the real target, but next time we might not be so lucky.
I couldn’t feel sorry for myself for long. There was always something going on at the sanctuary to make me smile. That could be donkeys being daft, generous donations from kind-hearted visitors, or just having that sense of making a difference. However, on this occasion, it was none of those. I had a new romance on the cards.
It had come out of the blue; I certainly wasn’t expecting it. My wooer wasn’t even my usual type. Steve barely even noticed, and whenever he did walk in on the flirtation he’d laugh. He had nothing to worry about, though, as my new love was Jemima the duck.
After Geraldine the suicidal chicken met her tragic end, I think Jemima had been pining. She always made out that she didn’t care much for Geraldine, and that the burning attraction had been a one-way thing. We’d previously had some other ducks at the sanctuary, and they’d been her gang. But they’d died and without Geraldine trailing around after her all day Jemima seemed to be a bit lonely.
I had a lovely flock of birds she could have had her pick of. The Cheeky Girls, my pair of Transylvanian Naked Neck chickens, would definitely have indulged her. After being dumped at the sanctuary by an idiot who didn’t realise that they’d scratch up her garden, they quickly worked out how to maximise their charms. Visitors loved their funny antics and they were only too happy to play up to this. They’d jump on the tables and dance around, distracting people while they pinched food right out of their hands. Customers who bought chips and cake were easy prey for them. Just like their namesakes, the Cheeky Girls loved the attention. They might not have been the best-looking birds in the world – with their bare red necks they were often mistaken for turkeys. But still, they had a certain naughty-but-nice charm to them.
However, even with better options on the table, for some reason Jemima decided it was me that she fancied. Or, to be more accurate, it was my dirty green welly boots.
One morning when I let the birds out to roam, Jemima came straight over and lay down on the ground before me. Then she started to rub and ruffle her feathers over my boots, swinging her neck around and making a distinct honking noise.
I knew immediately what she was up to. I’d seen birds do it before, although never at the feet of a human. It was a mating ritual. To my disbelief, she was trying her best to attract me as a partner.
‘Get away, you silly bird! I’m not going to mate with you,’ I laughed, pushing her away before I tripped over.
She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She took every opportunity to ambush me with her best flirty behaviour. I had no idea why she’d decided my wellies and I were a match made in heaven for her. It was never going to work out between us.
But still, Jemima was nothing if not persistent. She’d even try it on with me when we had
visitors at the sanctuary. It was really embarrassing having to explain to curious children what she was up to.
Her antics did cheer me up, though. It’s always flattering to feel wanted, even if it is a case of unrequited love from a soppy white duck.
13
Christmas? Bah, Humbug!
‘Steve, come and get a look at this,’ I called through to the kitchen, from my cosy seat in the living room.
He popped his head around the door to catch what I was watching on telly.
‘And from tomorrow we’re expecting temperatures to plummet. So far we’ve enjoyed a fairly mild winter, but that will be changing from around four a.m. Expect chilly gusts blowing in from the west, with a severe risk of ice on the roads,’ the BBC local weather forecaster warned.
I looked at Steve. We both knew what ice on the roads meant – ice on the fields too. The weather was turning, and not in our favour.
‘Looks like we’re in for a busy week then,’ I said.
So far November had been surprisingly smooth, weatherwise. Other than the odd rain shower, the weather had stayed early autumn-like.
But as December got closer, I was sure I was one of the only people around who wasn’t hoping for a cold snap. Winter weather always spelled trouble at the donkey sanctuary.
I was sick of hearing visitors speculating hopefully whether it would snow for Christmas, and wondering when it would be chilly enough for snuggly hats, scarves and gloves.
I hate winter, and I hate Christmas too. If it wasn’t for the donkeys, I’d be tempted to jump on any plane heading south and come back after it is all over.
Firstly, I can’t stand the fuss and hysteria. At Christmas people shop like the world is ending or we are about to be hit by a national famine. When the shelves in Tesco are empty and customers are practically brawling over the last turkey, it is time to take a good look at our priorities. It’s greed, pure and simple. Surely that is not what Christmas is about.
Secondly, I don’t have enough time in my day for silly decorations and daft songs. Would a bit of tinsel and a poxy Christmas tree really make me feel festive? I don’t think so. I’d never put up a tree before and that year wouldn’t be any different.
And finally, running the donkey sanctuary is a 365-day operation. If anything, we’re busier than ever at Christmas. Nothing gets in the way of that, even celebrating Christmas Day.
One year we even got a call-out for a donkey rescue on New Year’s Day. That was when we lived in Radcliffe-on-Trent. Steve and I aren’t really party people, so choosing between a night packed into a busy pub or putting our feet up at home with a bottle of wine is a no-brainer. The quieter option wins every time.
Of course, one bottle turned into two and we were snoring in front of the TV long before the clock struck midnight. But in the morning there was no time to mope about with a hangover. We still had to get down to Island Lane to feed the donkeys. We were just about to drag ourselves out of the door when the phone rang.
‘Sorry to call so early, especially on New Year’s Day,’ the male voice on the other end said.
I managed to grunt some kind of a reply.
‘One of my neighbours has got this donkey, and I don’t think he’s looking after her properly,’ he said. ‘I haven’t stopped worrying about her. Do you think you could do something?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Derbyshire. The shed’s by the side of a country road, but I can give you decent directions. Please. It’s been going on for months and I don’t know what else to do.’
That was an hour’s drive – the last thing I needed with a pounding head. But how could I feel sorry for myself when that poor donkey was in a real state? I’d get over my hangover.
‘OK, we’ll go and get her today,’ I agreed. How could I refuse?
Steve looked just about ready to murder me when I told him that we had a job to do. I knew he wouldn’t leave me in the lurch, though. Like me, he wouldn’t have been able to turn a blind eye to a donkey in need.
So together we started the new year in the way we meant to go on – rescuing donkeys. When we pulled up next to the shed later that morning I was glad we had done too. The wooden shack was completely battered and the side panels were falling down. It was no home for a donkey.
I braced myself for what we’d find inside and creaked open the shabby wooden door. As I looked into the darkness, the first thing that hit me was the stench. It was like a sewer. I held my jumper up over my nose and took a tentative step inside. My foot squelched into the source of the revolting smell. There were inches and inches of old manure.
My eyes got used to the dim light and I could make out the shape of a small female donkey cowering in the corner. Her little legs were sinking into the dirt, and she was almost up to her belly in manure.
‘You poor thing,’ I sighed. Judging by the amount of donkey dung flooding the ground, it had been weeks since she’d seen daylight.
Steve had opened up the trailer ready, and then he came to join me in the shed.
‘Phwoar, what a state,’ he said, reeling backwards from the pong.
‘How could you leave a donkey in here? Why on earth would someone do that?’ I asked, absolutely incredulous.
‘I have no idea, but let’s not have a chat about that now. Let’s get her out of here before that smell knocks us out.’
Together we trudged up the lane towards the house the neighbour had told us the owner lived in. I was dying to get the donkey to safety but I had to do the formalities first. I couldn’t just take someone’s animal without their permission.
We knocked on the door, and thankfully the man was in. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and my temper, and explained as briefly as possible why I wanted to take his donkey. I didn’t even need to give him the spiel about our excellent facilities and the care we’d provide – he couldn’t have cared less. As soon as he grunted his permission I tugged Steve away from the door and dashed back to the donkey. I had been dying to give the man a piece of my mind, but I knew better than to bother. The most important thing was to get the donkey out of there. If he’d been difficult, I wouldn’t have hesitated to phone the police or the RSPCA for backup, but he seemed glad that the animal wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Back in the shack I edged towards her inch by inch. She was petrified. Her nostrils flared with fear every time I took a step closer, and her breath heaved quickly in her chest.
‘Come on, I’m not going to hurt you,’ I whispered in a silly sing-song voice, showing her the head collar so that there were no surprises.
The only good thing about the mountain of manure was that it rooted her to the spot. She couldn’t have kicked out at me if she’d tried. I cornered her and, gently but swiftly, put on the head collar. The fear in her eyes nearly broke my heart. I knew that back at the sanctuary I’d have a lot of work to do to get her to trust me. But first I needed to get her out of the shed.
I led the way with the rope, tightening it so that she’d get the message that she had to follow. Steve held the door wide open so that she could see she wasn’t being trapped. Still shaking, she trudged through the manure behind me and I led her right up into the trailer. She didn’t put up a fuss, and that was purely down to shock. Her poor body didn’t know what to do.
When we returned to the sanctuary, we began nursing her back to health. We treated her for a nasty lice infestation and spent hours restoring her confidence. She’d been so frightened that she’d developed stringhalt, a nervous condition that causes donkeys to snatch up their back legs as they walk. She got a name too, Holly. It was my one attempt at something festive that year. After all, it was the Christmas season.
Just like Alan had, Holly began the year with a fresh start and soon thrived. It wasn’t long before she was barely recognisable as the terrified, starving donkey she’d been when we rescued her. In fact, the only sign of what she’d been through was her appetite. Like Fat Annie, she always ate as if it was her last meal, much to
the disgust of the other donkeys.
I could easily have said no to the rescue, and crawled back into bed with a packet of painkillers instead. But seeing Holly’s transformation started my new year in the best way possible. Donkeys like Holly are why I’m dedicated to the sanctuary every single day of the year, no matter what the occasion. If I hadn’t have been there for her, who else would have been?
Despite my moans and groans, there was one part of the build-up to Christmas that I did enjoy. That was choosing my favourite photos for the sanctuary’s new calendar and the Christmas cards. We sold both to raise extra funds to get us through the winter. I loved looking back through all the snaps on the computer, reminiscing about the year gone by.
Thankfully, despite the wind whipping across the fields, the sanctuary survived the previous night in one piece. So the next morning we fastened the donkeys into their warm winter coats, which had been donated by a kind supporter for when their naturally thick fur wasn’t enough. Then we sent them out as usual for a bit of fresh air and exercise. I hurried through the mucking-out duties so I could grab half an hour of peace before I was needed for the end-of-the-day routine.
Eventually, I was perched in front of the computer in the office with a steaming mug of coffee beside me. It was time to get the calendar sorted. I clicked to open up my folder of pictures, and immediately felt a sense of happiness wash over me. I would challenge anyone to be stressed or depressed when flicking through albums of my cute donkeys. They never fail to make me smile.
There were shots of donkeys sprawled out in the sunshine, and frolicking in the fields. Some of them had the real ‘aww’ factor. The snaps of Alan were the ones that really made me grin, though. His transformation since he’d arrived had been incredible.
In the first photos, he was barely recognisable. He was loitering at the back of the field while the other donkeys hogged the limelight. He was shy, sad and scrawny. But as the year went on, you could see his confidence growing. One photo in particular really made me laugh. One morning I’d popped my baseball cap on poor Alan’s head and, to my amusement, it almost suited him. He peered up at the camera from under the brim of the white hat, as if he knew just how cute he looked. That was a dead cert for the calendar. I gathered together a collection of my twelve favourites from the year, with Alan’s snap number one on the list.
