Feeding the donkey

When I was a kid my father would take Daniel and I for walks and hikes at La Purisima Mission in Lompoc, California. We would bring our rat terrier who would chase jack-rabbits in and out of the cacti and sage bushes. We would hike up to a cross erected at the top of a hill, then down to a couple spring fed ponds, and then round the property of the mission. We were there so often we knew the park rangers and were allowed to stay after hours and sometimes feed the cows, bulls, pigs, and horses. We usually didn't feed the goats and sheep because they shit everywhere and goats are assholes. We were allowed to sit on the still operational fountains were we would clean our hands off after petting the pigs (they were usually covered with mud and hay.

On our way out Daniel and I would always stop to feed the donkey. The donkey was very particular about what he ate. He didn't eat weeds he liked grass with long stalks but the problem is he was locked in a field with horses, cows, ponies, and a bull. These animals tend not to leave any grass with long stalks. Daniel and I would collect long stalks of grass during the walk to feed the donkey. He loved us. He got so comfortable he would even nod toward long stalks of grass near us but out of reach for him as if looking for a reason to keep us around. He would bay and nag as we would leave. Once he even grabbed Daniels sweatshirt with his teeth as we were walking away.

I didn't mind feeding that donkey because I fed him on my own terms. Now we have an election coming and two donkeys pushing mandates to make me feed them on their terms. I can't stand government mandates that fall outside of basic civility.