I love donkeys; everybody loves donkeys, or should do. Anybody
who doesn’t love donkeys is probably a soul-dead and cerebrally-challenged goblin
fit for no other purpose than being President of America.
I’ve mentioned here before that there are two of them in a
field off Mill Lane,
but they’ve always been too far away for me to attract their attention. Today
one of them was closer, and when he saw me leaning on the gate he came trotting
over to say hello.
And so he got lots of pats and lots of strokes and lots of
thanks and two handfuls of fresh hay from the verge bordering the lane. Because,
you see, it’s a self-evident fact that few experiences in life can match – much
less better – meeting a donkey. Donkeys just rock in the nicest possible way.
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