We found this article in the “Expat” section of the English language newpaper in Turkey “Today’s Zaman”.

“From Chesterton, through Floyd to Cervantes”

After I had written about our private forest, I received some correspondence from a lady worried about the health of our donkey: how had she reacted after eating half a dozen two-foot-high cannabis bushes?

Much as I would like to tell a tale of her being stoned for a week, of her singing a medley from “Dark Side of the Moon” and so on, I am bound by the truth (well, most of the time anyway) — she showed no effects whatsoever, she calmly grazed for the rest of the day and demanded her dinner at the usual time in the evening. She did not hurry back to the hidden part of the forest seeking more the next day, and she has shown no interest in seeking out another supplier.

I can tell a better tale of the donkey and drugs, this time a tale in praise of narcotics. A year or so after the above incident she suddenly became ill; she was unable to swallow; she chewed alright but the chewed green mess would only drool out of her mouth and nose. We called the vet, who started by looking for an obstruction in her throat but was unable to find anything wrong. He then telephoned a specialist vet and described the symptoms. That vet told of a disease common to horses in which the larynx becomes paralyzed and as the victim is unable to swallow, the beast eventually dies. There was nothing more to be done.

We let the poor girl suffer for another week, hoping desperately that she might recover. I eventually was forced to contemplate killing her. Now I haven’t previously mentioned her size. She is by breed a “Large Chocolate,” and she is a very large “Large Chocolate.” I had to consider how to get her from our forest to her grave. I would lead her to the bus shelter which is 80 centimeters or so above road level, have her shot and then back a big pickup to the shelter and drag her onboard. She had arrived by pickup and would so depart, standing to arrive and lying to leave. Her grave would be dug by a JCB on village land, ours being too rocky.

Before I could put my cold-blooded plan into operation, the vet turned up to have another go. This time, we tied her close to a tree and the vet shot her full of the best sedative drugs in his armory. She slowly laid down with a glazed look in her eyes and allowed us, with a silly grin on her face, to do exactly what we wanted. The vet shone a spotlight down her gullet whilst I held her surprisingly long tongue out of her face. Unable to spot anything, he then dove in with his arm quite up to the elbow. Still he discovered no obstruction and reluctantly told us she would have to die. We couldn’t do it there and then because, of course, she was nowhere near her loading bay, so we untied her and left her to recover overnight.

The next morning I went to see how she was doing and found her greedily eating and swallowing everything green in sight. She was cured! Needless to say, we were overjoyed and treated her to an extra large breakfast of carrot sandwiches with rye bread and tomatoes, followed by chocolate cream cake for dessert.

When we talked to the vet about the miracle cure he concluded that she had been suffering from a spasm in her larynx and that the narcotics had relaxed that spasm, thus curing her and saving her life.

There are now probably only another half-dozen donkeys left in the valley. Along with horses, they were once the most common means of transportation, the horse being considered more up-market and the poor donkey being the poor man’s mount. That the donkey was cheaper to run and more intelligent seemed not to matter. I suppose the modern comparison between a Range Rover and a little Skoda pickup might be the equivalent.

Now I don’t want to disrespect the other donkeys. I’ve met most and they are all very nice, but they’re very small! I’m guessing that our “Large Chocolate” is about double the weight of most of the little grays we see hereabouts. I will grant them one big credit though, they all bear the cross of Jesus on their backs, a token sadly missing from our heathen.

Old Ali used to ride his donkey into town until about 10 years ago, doing so every market day. He would park his beast at the official donkey-park on the outskirts, do his shopping and ride the donkey the five miles or so back over the mountain to his home, sometimes stopping off at our house for some tea. We once asked him what the donkey’s name was. He looked a bit puzzled at first, but eventually said “Eşek” (Donkey). “Yes Ali, we know it’s an Eşek, but what is its name?” I will not bother to go through the rest of the conversation but cut to the conclusion — it didn’t have a name, it was his donkey. Hey, your car doesn’t have a name, does it? Well, alright then, your food blender? Your wardrobe? Further enquiries around the valley found that farmers having just one cow or goat would not have named it, but those with a couple of animals may well have named or at least numbered them. They must think that Europeans are mad. I’ve known folk with 10 chickens, all of which have names. Just in passing, a friend in England had a male donkey called Enoch (this was 30 or so years ago), a female called Sassy (after Sarah Vaughan) and the eventual offspring of those two was “Donquijote” (Say it out loud).

It’s kind of a bittersweet ending for Ali and his donkey. Both were very old, and when the beast died, Ali died just a few days later. I really hope that ours goes on for many, many more years. God bless her!

25 November 2008, Tuesday