BY SUMMER, most of the horses and ponies at Silver Rock had grown accustomed to Caleb’s smell or appearance — or whatever it was that had freaked them out at first. In fact, Laura reported that placing “Donkey,” as she called him, in a paddock with a new arrival calmed the horse down. Soon, newcomers were placed in stalls near his, on the other side of Ginger, the sweet old mare who had watched so patiently throughout Caleb’s sickness and recovery. At least my odd choice of steed was starting to contribute in a positive way to life at Silver Rock.
Ginger stuck her head over the stall gate and nickered softly at her uncouth neighbor whenever I led him past her stall. Everyone said, “She’s his girlfriend. They can’t stay away from each other.” But it looked to me as if she considered Caleb her gawky, late-life foal. For his part, he seemed indifferent to her, but maybe he was just playing hard to get.
Her love wasn’t entirely unrequited. Caleb liked to play with the gate latches on his stall and in the paddock. He spent minutes tonguing and biting the metal bolts, chains, and clips, all the while shaking his head. I often arrived to find the mechanism covered in warm slobber. It was only a matter of time before he succeeded in releasing himself. And one day Caleb released his stall latch, then walked out and released Ginger’s. He proceeded to lead her on an untethered romp — possibly a once-in-a-lifetime adventure for the old mare — through the barns and around the rings, with several barn employees in pursuit. I was touched that Caleb had chosen to release Ginger and not another horse. This convinced me that he found her special.
Over time, my long-eared Houdini honed his skills, getting out even when one latch became two. Finally, the stable manager added a clip with a spring action, which did the trick. Soon after clips were added to paddock gates and other neighboring stalls, as Caleb showed that mere chains and bolts were no match for him.
Despite our daily struggles in the ring, Caleb continued to be openly affectionate toward everyone he met. Hoofed animals show closeness by leaning against each other; resting their necks on each other’s backs; or head-butting, nibbling, or snuffling. In his pushy way, Caleb nudged my shoulder or hip, and I welcomed the weight of his heavy head on my shoulder. I admit that I craved the warmth of his fur on my face or neck. Sure, he sometimes intertwined a front hoof around my leg to trip me up or kicked me when I attempted to clean his hooves. At times his nips were too frequent, and my slaps and cries came too late to deter him. He always seemed surprised, though, when I reprimanded him. As I well knew, what constituted horseplay for equines, unfortunately, could knock a person down or cause bruises.
Soon I sported a huge inventory of bruises and welts on my left breast and my neck, bottom, and thighs from his “playful” kicks and nips. I had already gone to work with a two-inch-wide purple hickey on my neck. From the smirks on students’ and colleagues’ faces, my blithe assertion that “my donkey did it” convinced no one. In fact, so many bruises bloomed all over my body that — and I wince to recount this — my gynecologist, after a routine examination, pressed a brochure into my hands and patted my shoulder as I dressed. With my glasses back on, I looked at the title: “Reporting Domestic Violence.”
“Oh no!” I laughed in an overly hearty voice. “These bruises are from my donkey!”
Her brief glance and nod said it all: “I’m here if you want to talk about it.” The next visit I showed her photographs of Caleb, which mollified her somewhat. At least I hoped so.
Despite the pain my donkey’s nips and kicks caused, I remained convinced that they weren’t malicious. He seemed genuinely taken aback when I yelled or thumped him on the side. When I met his sparkling eyes as he dodged and trotted away, he seemed to be saying, “It’s just a game, silly. What’s the fuss? You can bite me back, if you want. Go ahead, pluck out some of my hair.”
To my chagrin, Caleb did not treat all humans with such good-humored high jinks or clumsy affection. When Dr. Maria attempted to administer his semiannual vaccinations, Caleb head-butted her right off the concrete platform. Evidently, he hated her after the dual mineral-oil treatments she had administered that saved his life. I learned two things I had avoided acknowledging before: first, Caleb’s head butts were not always affectionate or gentle — they could seriously injure even an experienced adult — and second, donkeys, like elephants, never forgive or forget.
Quite by accident, I discovered a useful training tool, sort of the reverse of unconditional love. One day I was so fed up with Caleb’s antics that I threw down the halter and lead and stomped away. I leaned against the side of the barn out of sight, taking deep breaths until my anger subsided. I didn’t want to slap or yell at a donkey that was, after all, just acting like a donkey.
No sooner had I turned the corner than Caleb began to snuffle. Soon his grizzling grew into a full-throated lament. When I returned, my eyes focused on the ground, he abruptly stopped braying and sighed. His head drooped, and he stood like a poor misunderstood beast, waiting. I came up and finished grooming and tacking the chastened donkey silently — no cuddles or treats this time. Until that moment, I think he took my indulgence and forgiveness for granted, even when I lost my temper. But the one thing he couldn’t bear was to be shunned by his dearest friend. From then on, I used this method judiciously, though its effect diminished over time.
Up to this point, Caleb no doubt assumed that he was the main man in my life. Well, he was, as long as Joe remained at sea. While my husband was away, I emailed him updates on the donkey’s latest antics. Sharing Caleb stories, he wrote back, made him the most sought-after man on board the ship.
As soon as Joe came home, we caught up with each other’s lives. Our far-flung field assignments had required lengthy separations — but, as two autonomous people marrying late, we had found a way to make our long-distance relationship work. After a few days of wining and dining, romance and storytelling, I asked Joe, “So, do you want to meet the beast?”
“Sure. Let’s go over,” he said with a grin on his wind-beaten face.
On the six-mile drive to Silver Rock, I gave Joe a crash course in animal communication. As he was probably the biggest, tallest man Caleb would ever meet, I was worried. “Move slowly, and don’t approach him face-on,” I said. “No sudden movements of your hands. Keep them low. Eyes down. No staring. Speak in a low voice.” Above all else, I didn’t want their first impressions of each other to be negative. Though Joe’s opinion might evolve over time, Caleb’s probably wouldn’t. Joe nodded, half listening, not taking me seriously. I steered the car into Silver Rock’s driveway and parked.
Around the corner from the stall, I told Joe to stay out of sight until I led the donkey out. When I had buckled the halter on and tied the lead line to the wall, I said, “Okay, Joe. Come on over.”
Joe charged around the corner at a fast lope, aiming straight at the donkey’s face. Not a good idea, even for people Caleb knew well. When Joe was a foot away, he grabbed Caleb’s muzzle and encased his head in some sort of armlock. He began rubbing the knuckles of his free hand — hard — up and down the astonished donkey’s bony forehead. He was giving him a noogie! I rushed forward to intervene.
Ignoring me, Joe said in a loud voice, “How’s the man, Caleb? Eh, buddy?”
The effect astonished me. Caleb, after tossing his head attempting to free himself, relaxed, and his ears popped straight up. When Joe released him, the donkey gently head-butted him on the chest and made the same grunting, snuffling sounds he made when I first met him.
“He likes you!”
I should have known. Since I’d met Joe, I had witnessed the inexplicable effect he had on animals and children, especially “difficult” ones. Never having had kids or pets of his own, Joe was a magnet for both. Toddlers climbed into his lap and nested there. In fact, I first dated him because he was the only male my scarred old tomcat, Otto, would come near. When Otto first jumped up on his lap and batted at him, I wondered about the inner depths of my quiet neighbor.
Still, I was amazed by Joe’s method of greeting Caleb — giving him a noogie, or what his family called a “Dutch rub” — and even more so by the donkey’s enthusiastic response to the rough gesture.
“Can I walk him?” Joe asked. I untied the line and handed it to him. As soon as I let go, Caleb loped off toward the dressage ring with his new playmate in tow. Joe braced his feet forward and slid through the gravel, trying to stop the runaway. I waited for the inevitable trip-up when Joe would flop forward into the stance Lou Bridgman aptly dubbed “face skiing.” But Caleb had met his match. His new human buddy wouldn’t let go. Instead, Joe inched his way up the rope until he was neck and neck with Caleb. Next, he grabbed the donkey’s muzzle in a headlock and gave him another noogie.
“What are you trying to do? Wrestle him to the ground?” I yelled as I caught up with them.
Joe had no desire to ride Caleb, but he frequently came along to stroll around the stables with us. When pain from my old back injury asserted itself, he would help me clean Caleb’s flying, kicking hooves. Although Caleb was more docile with my husband than with me and seemed to accept him as a buddy, Joe’s arms, like mine, sported lots of bruises from the donkey’s playful nips and kicks.
This affection didn’t extend to interhuman displays of affection, though. If I hugged Joe or even just touched him, Caleb’s ears flattened against his head, and he snorted like a steam engine until we gathered him into the middle of the huddle. Did he want to protect Joe, his new buddy, from unwanted cuddling? Or was he jealous when I showed affection to someone other than him? My guess was the latter.
After two months of shore leave, Joe had to return to the ship. This time he carried photos of Caleb and boasted a bunch of new stories about the big donkey.