Featured Image: Sharon Brandwein
And Now You Want to Know Why …
First, let me start by telling you about Archie.
Archie isn’t just a donkey; he’s everyone’s sweetheart. As soon as he catches sight of us, he stops whatever he’s doing to follow us around the pasture like an overgrown puppy. Ears flopping, eyes soft, and always ready for a scratch or a treat.
And boy, does he get what he wants. It’s hard to cuddle with the cows, and Sophie (our Jenny) is still a little skittish, so Archie gets it all. Yes, we hug donkeys around here, and there may or may not be lipstick on Archie’s muzzle from time to time. Our boy is the farm’s most lovable character—and the last animal you’d ever expect to cause trouble and land himself in time out.
This particular story starts during the last snow. Alabama isn’t known for stunning snowfall, but this year it delivered. Fresh snow blanketed the pasture, artfully dusting the brush pines as it fell. The air was sharp, the farm was quiet, and right there in the middle of its picture-perfection, we found a newborn ewe. She was tiny, wobbly, and impossibly adorable. We named her Snowflake, because of course we did.
We watched Snowflake closely all day, checking that she nursed, that she stayed warm, and that mama stayed close. Everything was good. Until it wasn’t.
So what could possibly go wrong?
Archie attacked Snowflake.
Yes, that Archie.
There is no graceful way to describe the moment you realize something has gone terribly wrong. From a distance, we could see him ragging her, kicking, biting, and stomping. We ran hard. We shouted. My boots felt heavy, and my heart sank with each step. As we approached, we were certain that she lay dead in the pasture. Lana (Snowflake’s mama) and Sammy the Ram-y tried to intervene, but they were no match for Archie.
By the time we reached them, Snowflake lay crumpled, silent, and still against what little snow was left. There was no way she could have survived the attack.
My husband got there first and knelt beside her. As he reached for her with a soft stroke, she raised her head. A few seconds later, she was on her feet. She fought. She breathed. She stood. Not a drop of blood on her. No signs of injury.
Somehow, against all logic and expectation, she survived.
This little girl is clearly a fighter, and in that moment, she earned herself a permanent place on our farm (and in our hearts). You don’t come back from something like that and get hauled off to slaughter when the time was right. She was here to stay.
So no, Archie and I are not on speaking terms at the moment. He is in time-out (the donkeys are separated from the herd), and I’m still processing. Still protecting Snowflake like a helicopter mom, and still replaying the “what ifs.”
I learned that day that animals will be animals.
If you take even a quick spin through Instagram, you’ll find tons of farm content that might lead you to believe otherwise. Mini highland cows getting blowouts and pajamas at bedtime (yes, this is happening). Chickens on couches and goats prancing happily around living spaces. The thing is, all of the above is done for clicks, likes, engagement, and entertainment. For the rest of us, full-size cows are not to be trifled with, chickens poop (on everything), and goats are the devil in disguise.
As for donkeys, they are livestock guardians (which is exactly why we have them on our farm in the first place). They’re highly territorial, inherently hate anything in the canine family (dogs, wolves, and coyotes), and are hard-wired to attack tiny intruders on site. Snowflake was new to the herd; she looked like a small dog, and that’s why we think Archie attacked her. Archie wasn’t being cruel, evil, or mean. He’s a donkey doing donkey things, and sometimes those things can collide painfully with our expectations.
I know our tiff won’t last long because Archie is a sweetheart. And this incident doesn’t erase every gentle, lovable thing about him.
Snowflake is alive, Archie is in his own paddock, and multiple fences stand between them.
That day on the farm, I learned that no matter how much we humanize them, care for them, and think we know their habits, we can still be blindsided. Romanticizing life with these animals doesn’t change their instincts, and losing sight of their power can be dangerous.
I also learned that:
Sometimes the most painful lessons come from the ones we trust the most.
Survival doesn’t always look heroic; sometimes it just looks like quietly refusing to quit.
Forgiveness doesn’t always wait for understanding.
And fences matter…
For more about life in the South, click here.
