Jack and Jill

Ronnie Corbett was an English comedian some time ago. He was a little man wearing large, horn-rimmed glasses, and was always exceptionally funny. But I recall him as particularly hilarious in an extended sketch he performed with two other comedians. Each one of them was representative of one of the English classes, and would explain how he would handle a particular aspect of life. The tall, stodgy individual would proclaim himself the upper class. An energetic, medium sized man would proclaim himself the middle class. Then Ronnie would come on and open with the line, "I am the lower class, I know my place."

I had never had any personal experiences with donkeys. All I knew about them was what I saw on television, usually on snippets about some under-developed country or other. There would be a donkey dragging a cart with a huge load on it, or carrying an enormous load on his back. At other times, there would be a donkey trotting along with a man on his back who looked like he should be carrying the donkey, not the other way around. In all instances, the donkey would be trotting along with an expression on his face, "I am a beast of burden, I know my place."

This went through my mind when I heard the voice of an old man advertising two donkeys for sale on the radio. In cattle country, there is not much demand for donkeys, and I wondered what the lot of these two might be. When they were still being advertised the following week, I called. Having no idea of the price of donkeys, I called the only experts in Donkeydom I knew of: The Donkey Sanctuary of Canada, in Ontario . The woman in charge thought the asking price quite reasonable, in fact, downright low for Ontario . And so I agreed to buy them. (Protests from Cherie: "You are doing enough already!") One problem: The old man lived three hours drive away, and neither he or I had a trailer to transport the pair I had decided to call Jack and Jill. But a friend of his was coming down my way with an empty trailer in a month's time.

I thought at the time I could take on the additional responsibility because I had a helper. She had arrived with great pronouncements on how much she wanted to live with the purpose of helping animals. All lies. She had the money to travel in Europe all summer and was looking for a free place to live for as little work as possible so she did not have to spend any of it. Then one Sunday she announced she would leave on Tuesday to attend to a family matter. And with one last lie that she would be back, was gone. I learned later that she had found a house-sitting job in Vancouver . In other words, a free place that required no work.

With winter coming on and facing all that work alone, I phoned the old man, apologized and explained why I did not dare take on two more animals. He was very gracious and understood.

And then the matter was taken out of my hands entirely. I was driving along a country lane in search of two dogs who were goofing off when I came to a pasture with two donkeys. I stopped to talk to them from the truck. They eagerly came to the fence, happy to be talked to. Two days later, the phone: The owner of the two wondered why I had stopped. Was something wrong? I assured her I just enjoyed talking to animals. "Would you like a couple of donkeys?" It turned out, the pasture, a flat piece of land with only a single 4 x 8 foot sheet of plywood set vertically, and a tattered piece of blue tarp set on two sticks as shelter was the only place she could keep them, and winter was coming. "You have all that bush and tree where they can shelter.” she said. Two animals needing help; nothing to think about: "Of course I'll take them, and never mind the bush, I have just the solid wooden shed for them." Two days later, they were here, and living on two acres of the corral with Little Bit and three old cows who had difficulty walking. The three old dears, although used to horses, stood with their heads up in suspicion: "What kind of animals are these?" They had their problem, I had mine. I had set my heart on having Jack and Jill. These were two Jacks. Jack and Bill? Jack and Will? Either one would be close, but I wanted Jack and Jill. After a bit of thought, I, although in no way authorized to do so, conferred French citizenship on one of them and named him Gilbert, (pronounced jill-bear). Abbreviated, that would of course, be Gil. And so I have my Jack and Gil.

just the two of us

Cows and donkeys got along fine, peaceably ate from the same hay pile, but both sides were only biding their time. I saw the donkeys standing one day, upper lip raised, nose crinkled, sniffing the air from due south, the direction of their former home. Bits of straw stuck to the coats of both groups from the rest in their comfortable shelters, but they were plotting. Opening and closing gates is difficult for me, so if I need to go in somewhere to do some work, I leave the gate open until I leave. Two of the old cows gave those strange animals one last dirty look, and marched off down the driveway. Jack and Gil followed a little later. Having finished some lengthy repairs, I found the two old babes had done exactly what I thought they would do: broken through the fence back into the main pasture. No sign of Jack and Gil. No wait, there they were, more than two miles away, resolutely marching home. I roared after them, slowed to a crawl, passing them, squeezed to the side of the road, two wheels on the shoulder, and turned around to face them.

"Aw rats!" said Jack and Gil, "He caught us." And marched back to the ranch, with me following at their pace. They obediently turned into the drive, the corral and started eating hay.

The next time I had the gate open, they left again, but it was a half-hearted attempt. They got as far as the road, and were milling around at the entrance to the ranch; no intention of going any further. They actually ran back, when I told them to go, and peace has reigned among cows, horses and donkeys since.

The only thorns in their side were Waggles and Blackie, sister Black Lab crosses who would occasionally stand and bark at them. Jack and Gil were seriously insulted by this. Donkeys in Canada are not used as beasts of burden but as guard donkeys to protect sheep and small calves against coyotes. And here were these two, who were something like coyotes, barking at THEM. The nerve! Then, the revenge.

where's that dog!

Jack and Gil had come through the broken fence into the inner yard and were peacefully feeding on the haystack, looming in the inner yard. In a comfortable lair, under enclosed steps, lived Cranky, the fifteen-year old large, longhaired Black dog who would occasionally go for long walks in the yard. Here was Cranky only a few feet away from Jack, preoccupied with taking a dump. "Aha!" thought Jack, "Here is one of those black creatures who have the gall to bark at me!" I knew what was coming, and there was nothing I could do. Jack would not have reacted had I called to him. Cranky, hard of hearing, would have finished his business before obeying, if he had heard me. As it was, Jack's head went down, two or three quick bounds, and in a cloud of dust amid the flashing hooves, there was Cranky, rolling, rolling on the ground.

I was glad to see that. The least dangerous automobile accidents are rollovers. All the energy is dissipated in the rolling. The vehicle will look like a dented tin can, but the interior is usually undamaged, and the occupants will walk away with nary a scratch. In a collision all the energy is spent on the spot in destroying the vehicle and contents. Had Jack made contact and flung the old dog through the air, that would have been a collision, and probably meant broken bones. In this rollover - I had not seen any hoof touching Cranky as best as I could make out in that cloud of dust - the dog might have a bump or bruise, nothing more. And that, I was relieved to see, had happened. Cranky picked himself up, gave Jack a dirty look, and stalked off to his lair on unsteady legs. (He is the other old man around here having difficulties with his hind legs). There he stayed, sulking, with nothing but his pride hurt for half a day and re-emerged none the worse for wear.

peace finally

Does it sound like I am happy to have Jack and Jill? I am. The great surprise is how different they are from horses. There are the disproportionately large heads with deep-set eyes and long ears. The coats are shaggy and they are so dainty. Slender legs and tiny hooves. They both will come whenever I appear and stand within arm's reach. I will take Gil's velvety muzzle in one hand and rub his face with the other. Jack is more stand-offish. His head draws back, no matter how slowly I reach for him. He gives me a suspicious look: "Were you trying to grab me just then?" But I found one approach he tolerates and even likes. If my hand comes from in front I can rub his forehead and between his ears. He obviously enjoys it and we are becoming friendlier as time goes on.

home on the range

I learned one other thing from Jack and Gil. I will have to change my way of cursing.

I have been in the habit of snarling, "Jackass!", when confronted by someone particularly stubborn and stupid.

How wrong I have been.