me with their badges while the boss pulls up to finish the job. I was a goner, for sure. If only I’d had time to leave a note for the kids.
“Well, this gentleman here,” said the deputy, motioning over his shoulder, “says you got a problem on your hands.”
I looked questioningly over to the new guy, who stepped forward, apparently to tell me all about it. It was then that Iwondered about a justice system in which some kind of “donkey problem” is deemed greater than the fact that this man may have driven under the influence to inform me in person. What kind of society is this, anyway? And why aren’t the officers arresting this man?
“Yore donkey . . . ,” he slurred, pointing his finger in my face. “Yore donkey got up into my corral and got at my mare. I’d been keepin’ her away from my stallions, and then yore sorry little donkey broke in and got to her.” He swayed toward me and continued. “Yeah, he got to her, all right. By the time I figured it out and found ’em, they was layin’ down, smokin’ a cigarette. The deed had been done.”
I blinked at him in horror as he capped off his story. “Lady, yore gonna have a baby mule on yore hands, ’cause that’s what you get when you cross a donkey with a horse. A baby mule!” He kicked at some gravel in disgust and let his words hang in the air.
There was an awkward pause as I struggled for an appropriate response. Something about Flash being an “immature” male and incapable of procreation. Something about how he was too young for this kind of monkey business. Wait. Had maturity happened while we’d been up to our necks in our new project, not paying attention to the passage of time and adolescence? Uh-oh.
The deputy cleared his throat and asked, “You gonna go get him tonight then?”
I turned to him and said, “Tonight? I can’t drag him home in the middle of the night! Can’t this wait until morning? The ‘deed’ has been done, so what’s the hurry?” Also, I was in my slippers.
The deputy looked at the man. The horse owner shrugged,the fight suddenly gone out of him. He got back in his truck, slumped behind the steering wheel, and said out the door, “Just get him tomorrow; it’s already too late.”
Morning dawned, and Tom fell into bed, exhausted from the all-night art installation. I decided right then to deal with the donkey situation on my own, so I kept quiet about Flash’s escapade, tucked Tom in, and tiptoed out. I would need tools, so I headed for the local feed store.
“Give me the largest halter you’ve got,” I said to the lady at the register. I slapped my hand down on the counter and looked around the joint like I knew what I was doing.
“Sure. Whatcha got, a hefty Belgian?” she asked, snapping her gum and indicating his height with her hand over her head.
I sighed. “No. No, just a smallish donkey . . . with a gigantic head.” I held my hand chest-high. “I’ve got to get him home from my neighbor’s house, so I’ll need some oats and a lead rope as well.”
Just then, my cell phone rang. It was my friend Priscilla. She and I had met a few years earlier when she’d found my business card and hired me to paint her baby’s nursery. We hit it off immediately and spent so much time talking with each other that the one-week job took about three weeks to complete. Our differences in age, vocation, ethnicity, and life season didn’t matter one bit as we sat on that nursery room floor and dreamed up a beautiful space for the new baby.
Later, even though I had retreated into my work and family responsibilities, she kept after me. Gradually, through her determined effort to break through my wall of busyness, we becamereal friends, and over time I had come to count her as family. She now had two babies in tow, and I hoped to convince her that she and her husband needed to move to the country to raise their family. I thought a house on our quiet road would be a perfect place for them.
“What
“Well, this gentleman here,” said the deputy, motioning over his shoulder, “says you got a problem on your hands.”
I looked questioningly over to the new guy, who stepped forward, apparently to tell me all about it. It was then that Iwondered about a justice system in which some kind of “donkey problem” is deemed greater than the fact that this man may have driven under the influence to inform me in person. What kind of society is this, anyway? And why aren’t the officers arresting this man?
“Yore donkey . . . ,” he slurred, pointing his finger in my face. “Yore donkey got up into my corral and got at my mare. I’d been keepin’ her away from my stallions, and then yore sorry little donkey broke in and got to her.” He swayed toward me and continued. “Yeah, he got to her, all right. By the time I figured it out and found ’em, they was layin’ down, smokin’ a cigarette. The deed had been done.”
I blinked at him in horror as he capped off his story. “Lady, yore gonna have a baby mule on yore hands, ’cause that’s what you get when you cross a donkey with a horse. A baby mule!” He kicked at some gravel in disgust and let his words hang in the air.
There was an awkward pause as I struggled for an appropriate response. Something about Flash being an “immature” male and incapable of procreation. Something about how he was too young for this kind of monkey business. Wait. Had maturity happened while we’d been up to our necks in our new project, not paying attention to the passage of time and adolescence? Uh-oh.
The deputy cleared his throat and asked, “You gonna go get him tonight then?”
I turned to him and said, “Tonight? I can’t drag him home in the middle of the night! Can’t this wait until morning? The ‘deed’ has been done, so what’s the hurry?” Also, I was in my slippers.
The deputy looked at the man. The horse owner shrugged,the fight suddenly gone out of him. He got back in his truck, slumped behind the steering wheel, and said out the door, “Just get him tomorrow; it’s already too late.”
Morning dawned, and Tom fell into bed, exhausted from the all-night art installation. I decided right then to deal with the donkey situation on my own, so I kept quiet about Flash’s escapade, tucked Tom in, and tiptoed out. I would need tools, so I headed for the local feed store.
“Give me the largest halter you’ve got,” I said to the lady at the register. I slapped my hand down on the counter and looked around the joint like I knew what I was doing.
“Sure. Whatcha got, a hefty Belgian?” she asked, snapping her gum and indicating his height with her hand over her head.
I sighed. “No. No, just a smallish donkey . . . with a gigantic head.” I held my hand chest-high. “I’ve got to get him home from my neighbor’s house, so I’ll need some oats and a lead rope as well.”
Just then, my cell phone rang. It was my friend Priscilla. She and I had met a few years earlier when she’d found my business card and hired me to paint her baby’s nursery. We hit it off immediately and spent so much time talking with each other that the one-week job took about three weeks to complete. Our differences in age, vocation, ethnicity, and life season didn’t matter one bit as we sat on that nursery room floor and dreamed up a beautiful space for the new baby.
Later, even though I had retreated into my work and family responsibilities, she kept after me. Gradually, through her determined effort to break through my wall of busyness, we becamereal friends, and over time I had come to count her as family. She now had two babies in tow, and I hoped to convince her that she and her husband needed to move to the country to raise their family. I thought a house on our quiet road would be a perfect place for them.
“What
Similar Books
