I’m in the paddock by our red barn with an enraged 500 pound donkey. Ears are pinned. Teeth are bared. Eyes are wide. The body language is unmistakable.

Calvin steps forward. I step back. My daughter Claire is behind me. We just finished picking his hooves. He seemed fine, until we removed his blue halter.

Now, we are in danger. A donkey can kill a coyote, wolf or mountain lion with a single kick. And the bite force of a donkey is so powerful, it can crush bone.

The Flood

We adopted two donkeys from Peaceful Valley a month earlier. We named them Calvin and Hobbes. It was a busy time. I had to find a vet, farrier, and hay. I had to buy a truck and trailer. But life with donkeys was good, until it began to rain.

The deluge lasted three weeks. In the paddock, grass turned to mud. Calvin got thrush (an infected hoof). Hobbes got grumpy. When the vet came by for a wellness check, our big donkey put up a big fight. It scared us — the way he threw his body around.

Life was difficult outside the paddock too. We lost Thelma (our beloved, free-spirited, fence-hopping bantam hen) to a predator. We discovered the ground nests of yellow jackets, the painful way, three times in three weeks. Our dog Asha was gashed by the jagged edge of a fence. We had three broody chickens stinking up the garage. And everything was breaking: doors, gates, cars, household appliances, backs, and hearts.

That’s when the acorns began to fall from the oak tree in the paddock. Acorns are toxic to donkeys, which isn’t usually a problem, since most donkeys don’t like the bitter taste. But Calvin turned out to be an addict. So I spent an hour a day picking up acorns in the rain and mud. It was awful. And it wasn’t enough.

Identity Crisis

What sort of dumbass leaves a successful (and safe) career as an information architect to start an animal sanctuary with chickens, goats, and killer donks?

It’s 4:30 am the next day, and I can’t sleep. My mind swirls with questions and doubts. Last night, I asked Peaceful Valley to come get the donkeys. We can’t have dangerous animals at our sanctuary. I can’t live with the risk and the fear.

It’s not his fault. The acorns gave him colic. Donkeys are stoic. They hide pain. Most likely, he was in agony, and we made it worse by accidentally bumping his belly while picking his hooves. We don’t blame Calvin. But we can’t make it work. Our property is chock-full of oaks and littered with acorns. We have no way to keep him (or us) safe.

So I’m lying in bed, questioning my life choices and wondering how to explain why we disowned our donkeys, and I start to cry. And I decide that I don’t want to be a person who gives up without a fight. We love these donkeys. They are family.

The Ark

A plan begins to form. If we move our roosters from the gray barn to the new coop that we just completed, we can move our donkeys to the gray barn. And, if we build a new fence, we can create an acorn-free pasture. It’s a ton of work. And colic can be fatal. We don’t know if Calvin will recover. But we must try — because that’s who we are.

So we move the roosters and donkeys and build a 500 foot woven wire fence. And we rent a skid steer to spread 14 tons of rock dust and 4 cubic yards of soil, to reduce the risk of thrush. And I climb way too high up a rickety ladder to secure the barn door.

In the midst of this madness, the donkeys vanish. We left a gate open. They are gone. As darkness falls, we search woods, fields, and roads. I’m terrified they’ll get hurt or Calvin will eat acorns. At last, we find them in a neighbor’s yard. We try to corral them. They rear up and run away. We and they are afraid. It’s a big setback. Nevertheless, we persist. All told, it takes a couple of 70 hour weeks to build an ark to save our donkeys.

Then the hard work begins. We must find a way to mend our broken trust.

Donkey 101

Donkeys are magical creatures. They have big eyes and a 350 degree field of vision. They have big ears and a loud bray, so they can talk in the desert (their natural habitat) over a distance of 60 miles. They smell water a mile away and dig wells six feet down. Donkeys form bonded pairs (lifelong friendships) and may die of heartbreak if they lose their buddy. Maybe that’s because donkeys are extraordinarily heartful. On the underside of each hoof is a soft, sensitive, heart-shaped “frog” that pumps blood with every step. A donkey has five hearts. Perhaps that’s why we love them so much.

And, make no mistake, they do touch our hearts. A donkey hears our heartbeat from five feet away. And when we spend time with a donkey, our breathing slows, our blood pressure drops, and our hearts beat slower. This “synchronization” is why donkeys are used in animal-assisted therapy at schools, hospitals, and hospices. And it’s why it is so vital and so difficult for us to rebuild trust. You can’t fool a donkey. If you’re afraid, they’re afraid — fear creates a downward spiral.

A scared donkey is an immovable object. He’s not stupid or stubborn. He simply won’t do anything that he thinks is dangerous or dumb. You’ll never hear a donk say that he was “just following orders.” Folks who know equines know that “you tell a horse, you ask a donkey.” It’s a relationship that requires patience, respect, and trust.

The Warrior

I’m at a low point in this donkey saga, when I happen to talk with a warrior. He is engaged in dangerous “save the world” activism and asks me to join the cause. He wants my information architecture expertise and says that it’s not my “highest and best use” to be a donkey farmer. I must hire someone to care for our animals, so I can help him to make a difference. I find this provocation to be irritating and intriguing.

Mending Spell

How do you stop being afraid of a donkey? I do it the only way I know how. In the name of love, I swallow my fear. I don’t mean that I repress or dissociate. I simply decide not to be afraid. It’s simple but not easy. It works like magic.

I talk to our donkeys. I listen to what they say. I walk beside and behind them. I hug Hobbes. He’s a teddy bear with chocolate brown fur. I hug Calvin, who scares easy, but just wants to be loved. The donkeys can kick or bite me. But they don’t. They are gentle. My wife and daughters join us. Together, we move slowly and mend beings.

Meta-Crisis

I’m struggling with elderhood. What is my identity? What is my purpose? I am 55 years old. I care for the cats, dogs, goats, chickens, and donkeys of Sentient Sanctuary. We welcome visitors and volunteers for farm yoga, goat walks, library talks, book clubs, and donkey hugs. Together we foster local community to cultivate empathy, belonging, and purpose. I believe in our mission of “more happiness and less suffering for all sentient beings, including humans.” I do what I can. But is it enough?

I think about the story of the girl and the starfish.

One day, an old man walking on a beach littered with starfish washed ashore by the high tide came upon a young girl throwing them back into the ocean, one by one. Puzzled, the man asked what she was doing. The girl replied, “I’m saving these starfish.” The old man laughed, saying “There are millions of starfish and one of you. What difference can you make?” The girl picked up a starfish, tossed her into the sea and said, “I made a difference to that one!”

What is my duty in the metacrisis? The stakes are high. The scale of suffering is massive. Is it enough to save a few starfish? Or must I join the warrior in direct action to make a difference at scale? He is confident. He says the ends justify the means. I am doubtful. I know that I don’t know. I explored this quandary in Animals Are People. I have covered this ground. Yet here I am today in the midst of a personal meta-crisis.

Donkey Time

La hora del burro is the hour of the donkey. It’s time for an afternoon siesta. In an agricultural society, by midday, after six hours of back-breaking work, a donkey may simply lie down and refuse to carry on. Some say they’re stubborn. I say they’re smart.

Not for donkey’s years means forever and a day. It’s an olde English expression and a pun on the impressive length of donkey ears. It’s also a sign that donkeys bend time.

I visit our donkeys in the green pasture. My breath slows. My heart softens. I vanish. Only to awaken donkey’s ears later in perfect contentment like Rip Van Winkle.

The world is changing. It’s not easy to know who to be. In our liminal era, there’s wisdom in the way of the donkey — be strong yet gentle, kind-hearted, a calming presence, a fierce guardian; and stubbornly resist the orders of those you don’t trust.

I am not a warrior. I love wisdom, not war. I do my best to write and speak with honesty and compassion. I play with words. I value free-thinking-feeling-being. I love and care for our creatures and our community. I make a difference my way. That is enough.

I am an animal philosopher. Now is my donkey time.