THE SLOW, RHYTHMIC CLIP-CLOP of Caleb’s hooves blocks out the roar of cars and trucks racing past only a few feet from my elbow as we walk along side by side. There’s no time today to walk to some woods I discovered behind the old psychiatric center, so we stick to the roadside. There’s no point in urging Caleb to hurry. He forces me to explore the world at a donkey’s pace. Thanks to my recent retirement from teaching and Joe’s from sailing the high seas, we’re all on Donkey Time.
Since our first donkey-and-mule show, Caleb has appeared in many horse shows, hunter paces, and church pageants. When offered a spot in a trailer, we gladly go along for a trail ride. As a team, we are both older, if not wiser. When it suits him, Caleb remains blithely indifferent to commands. I never know if he will wow the audience with a perfect pattern or play the scene for laughs. Though I respect the rules and try to follow them, nowadays I laugh right along with the crowds. A dedicated prankster at age twenty-one, Caleb still escapes from his stall or paddock and leads the horses and staff on merry chases. Recently, he uprooted an iron gatepost in a paddock and stepped over the fallen gate so that he could join the ponies at a child’s birthday party.
I look at my watch. The gate to Silver Rock will close soon. As we turn back, our silhouettes cast long shadows onto the roadway. When he lowers his head to nibble my watch, I recognize the cocky tilt of his head, the twinkle in his eye that precedes mischief.
Before he grabs my sleeve, I say, “Don’t even think about it, Mr. Smart Ass.”
He backs away, tossing his head, all wide-eyed innocence. I cup his muzzle in my hand and look into those dark brown eyes. “It’s almost dinnertime, big fella. Race you back?”
His look says it all: Race?
I ruffle his spiky mane. “Just kidding.” I drape my arm over his shoulder, and we retrace our slow steps back home.