I’ll
never forget the first time I heard a donkey bray. We were in Jamaica
visiting some of the men that come to pick apples on Indian Ladder
Farms. When we spent some time with Vinroy Smalling, who lives in the
southwestern part of Jamaica in the parish of St. Elizabeth not far
from Black River, we stayed in a home owned by his parents who, at the
time were in Philadelphia. The home was located at the top of a small
mountain and enjoyed wonderful breezes. One morning I woke to an ungodly
sound, a sort of strangled scream that built to a crescendo that I
eventually determined was a real-life hee-haw—a donkey bray. When I
looked out I found a small, scruffy-brown donkey tied to a bush, right
outside the bedroom window. Now I have a donkey of my own. His name is
Simon. He is also a small, brown donkey—a miniature Sicilian donkey http://www.ansi.okstate.edu/breeds/other/donkey/mini/index.htm to be precise.
Simon
was a birthday present given to me by my husband and son. He brays a
lot, especially in the early morning, sort of like a rooster, not
necessarily at first light but when he decides it is past time for
breakfast. At first he was a demure, fuzzy little beast with dainty
hooves and huge, brown eyes—skinny, blowing his winter coat, and sorely
in need of a worming. As we got to know him better, and he grew
healthier and stronger we soon found that he had another side to his
personality.
Simon’s
job was to be a guardian for my son’s four Nigerian dwarf milking
goats, who seemed small and defenseless out in the pasture, especially
when the coyotes howled at night. He was a year old and, as it turns
out, intact—as in, not castrated. Never having had a horse-type animal
before I was more accustomed to gentler language, such as “neuter” and
“wether.” As one by one the goats, all female, began to come into heat,
we realized we needed a guardian to protect the goats from their
guardian. Simon relentlessly chased the goats, biting them whenever he
got close enough. One day we heard a hideous screaming. My husband ran
outside to find Simon holding one of the goats in his mouth by the neck
and swinging her around, apparently trying to kill her. Simon went to
live with the sheep (four wethers being raised for meat). He was
indifferent to them and they to him. He pined for the goats, from which
he was separated by a fence. Oddly, despite the fact he was trying to
kill them, the goats wanted to be with Simon as well. They walked up and
down on opposite sides of the fence line with him, and slept beside
him, on the other side of the fence, when he lay down. Periodically we
tried to reintroduce him into the goats’ pasture but always with the
same results.
That’s
when I called the equine vet. I explained the situation. “Castration
can only help,” she counseled. So castration it was. Nearly $500 later
Simon was minus his testicles. The operation, which was done in the barn
with local anesthetic, only quieted him for a day or two. Soon he was
back at it. We, who had expected a miracle cure for his personality
disorder, were very disappointed. But after talking with others we
learned that testosterone takes a really long time to get out of the
body and it could take as long as a year for Simon to calm down. Simon
was castrated in the fall and I’m happy to say he is calming down. He
now resides in the barn with the goats. My husband has created safe
havens for them, where they can get in but Simon can’t and this helps.
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