Maggie

I never knew Maggie’s age or what kind of life she’d had before I met her. Certainly, she bore the marks of a long, hard life of ill treatment, and she had a certain way of flinching¹ whenever someone moved suddenly. I hadn’t planned to bring Maggie into our lives. I took the children to Valean Farm to look at donkeys, not buy one. But one look into mine undid all my resolve. I wanted one.

We chose a lively colt whose soft muzzle poked inquisitively² into my pockets, looking for a treat. Small and neat-ly built, Lexy stood no higher than my shoulder. “She’ll want a companion,” said Val, the owner. “Donkeys don’t like to live alone.” My face must have shown the dismay I felt. If one donkey stretched our budget, what would two do?“ I don’t think we can afford two,” I said with a lump in my throat, mentally bidding Lexy goodbye.

“Well, I can see Lexy’d have a good home with you. Tell you what I can do. I have an old donkey here, too old for hauling anymore. I took her on a trade and to tell you the truth, she’s not much to look at. Can’t get anyone to buy her, and I don’t want her. But she has a gentle nature, and if you like, I’ll throw her in³ with Lexy. She’s over there.”

I followed Val’s pointing finger. A gray donkey stood alone, aloof⁴ from the other donkeys still crowding around us. Even at a distance, I could see that her coat was rough and patchy⁵, with dark skin showing through here and there. “Don’t mind the coat,” continued Val. “She has a touch of the mange⁶, but it’ll grow back in soon.” She didn’t look up as we approached, marking it patently⁷ clear that she had no interest in us.

“Her name’s Maggie,” said Val. “She’s been broken to ride and she doesn’t mind the saddle. Here, I’ll show you.” Val pulled a saddle off the fence and strapped it on Maggie. Maggie stood quietly, still not looking up. “Hop on.” Val lifted up my son Nathan, plopped him on Maggie’s back, and slapped her rump. Maggie walked a few paces, looking neither to left nor right. “See?” said Val. “Gentle as can be, and nothing spooks⁸ her.” Maggie turned and came back toward us. For a moment, our eyes met. And in her eyes I saw resignation and despair. Maggie knew that she wasn’t lively and young like the rest of the donkeys around her. She knew that she wasn’t wanted or desired, that she had no beauty or grace. And she knew that she was going to spend the rest of her life handed from one uncaring owner to another.

I walked over to her, put my hands under her grizzled⁹ muzzle, and lifted up her head. “Maggie,” I whispered, looking into her eyes. “You’re coming home with me. I’m going to give you a warm barn with lots of hay, fresh water, a green pasture, and an apple tree to give you shade on hot, sunny days. And I will take care of you for the rest of your life.”

Maggie and Lexy arrived the next day. Lexy bounced out of the trailer and galloped up and down the fields, exploring every nook¹⁰ and cranny¹¹ of her new home. Maggie walked over to a corner of the barnyard and put her head  down. I understood. She’d been disappointed so many times before in her life. She knew better than to trust the whispered words of a stranger.

It took many months before Maggie allowed herself to enjoy her new life. She eventually came to have her favorite spot under the apple tree, her own corner of the pasture where the new grass grew tallest, and her own place in the warm, hay-scented shelter of the barn. Maggie learned to be loved -- to lift her head for a special scratch under her pendulous¹² lower lip, to lean gently against my side so that I could slip an arm around her neck, and to nuzzle¹³ in my coat pocket for the special treat she knew I always carried. She looked up at the sound of my voice, and in her own cumbersome¹⁴ way, galloped down the side of the hill to meet me. She joyfully brayed¹⁵ a welcome through the barn when I appeared in the morning, and snuffled a wet goodnight into my ear as I closed the door at night.

Maggie knew she was loved -- not for how she looked or for what she could do, but just for being Maggie. She died in the spring six years after she came with us. She died in her corner of the pasture, with a wisp¹⁶ of new green grass in her mouth. She died quietly, without fuss, as she had lived her life. But in a departure from how she had lived most of her life, Maggie died loved. For the old, the unloved, and even the unlovable, Maggie is my reminder that love is a one-way flow until the heart learns to trust.