Bob glanced up at the darkening sky. “We may be getting some weather, so Plum might be a bit hesitant with the shift in the temperature. Little things like that can throw her off. Be firm but gentle, Libby. Patience is the name of the game when it comes to getting a burro to comply. Frustration won’t get you anywhere. Remember, the donkey knows.”
The donkey knows.
“Let’s get you out of this trailer, girl,” Libby cooed, tugging on the lead. The burro turned her head and brushed her nose against Beefcake like she didn’t want to leave without him. “He’s coming, too, but first, you need to walk this way,” she said, reassuring the animal. Plum looked her over. It was as if the donkey was reading her and assessing her energy. “You’ve got this, Plum. Let’s do this nice and steady,” she said, taking one step back, then two, then three.
With her hooves poised at the edge of the trailer, Plum nodded as if the animal comprehended the request. It was a slight movement. Perhaps, it meant nothing. A fly could have buzzed by, and that was the donkey’s natural reaction, but it felt like more, like an understanding had passed between them. And with a deft clip-clop, Plum emerged from the trailer.
“Wham, bam, check out Plum and Libby Lamb,” she whispered, stealing Raz’s phrase, as a heady sense of victory had her beaming.
“You did it, Libby,” Sebastian chimed and patted the donkey’s neck.
“That felt incredible. So empowering!” she declared, scratching between the burro’s ears.
“You did good, kid,” Bob said with a tip of his hat. “There’s nothing like passing that first test.”
Libby’s expression dimmed. “That was a test?”
“I’d reckon everything is a test when it comes to working with animals. They see right into your soul. Sometimes the connection happens immediately. Other times, it’s like dancing with a new partner. You’ve got to feel each other out a bit. But I’d dare say that Plum’s taken a shine to you,” the man replied with an approving nod.
“I’ve certainly taken a shine to her. How old is she?”
“We estimate Plum is six or seven years old,” Maud said, patting the Jennie on the rump.
“Like me,” Sebastian replied. “What about Beefcake? How old is he?”
“Our best guess is that he’s a bit older—or maybe it’s his crankiness that makes him seem like an ornery old beast,” Maud answered as the large Jack released what could only be described as one cranky whinny.
“We think he’s eight or nine,” Bob added, then turned to Raz. “You’re up, Erasmus. Now, be careful. Maud was right about Beefcake. He’s a beast.”
“My dad’s a beast, too. They call him the British Beast. He’s a really good boxer,” Sebastian bragged, staring at his father like the man could do no wrong.
Libby observed Raz. The moody beefcake barely cracked a smile at his son’s adoring words. If this kept up, she’d be having words with the human beefcake—and there wouldn’t be any gentle coos or reassurances. No, she’d lay into him.
“We read about your dad on the internet. Are you ready to see these two beasts meet?” Maud asked the boy, gesturing from the British beefcake to Beefcake.
“I am. Are you excited to meet your donkey, Dad?” Sebastian asked when Beefcake released another shrill call.
“Sure,” Raz answered, cringing as he stared at his donkey equivalent.
“Move slowly but deliberately,” Bob cautioned. “Beefcake is no fan of riding in the trailer. I can’t say I blame him. You try staying upright in a metal box that’s bouncing around.”
Maud handed Raz the lead rope, and the man gave a sharp tug. But Beefcake wasn’t having it. The burro shrieked and reared back. A muscle ticked in Raz’s jaw as the donkey stomped, pounding the floor.
Look at that. The asses were two of a kind.
“Did you say something? I heard you mumble,” Raz grumped.
She patted her donkey—the donkey she expertly guided from the trailer. “It appears you’re having some issues with your Beefcake. You both seem to share similar qualities,” she replied sweetly.
He parted his lips, but good old Beefcake, the donkey, beat him to it and let out another shrill donkey complaint.
“It’s not about strength Raz,” Bob said, intervening in their little tête-à-tête. “It’s a balance of strength, patience, and determination. Climb up into the trailer and start there. Remember, the donkey knows.”
“The donkey knows,” Raz muttered skeptically as he entered the metal enclosure. Beefcake gave another round of foot stomps, then stilled as Raz approached.
“There you go,” Raz said, throwing her an arrogant grin when an echoing BLAARRT cut through the air.
And then came the smell—or more aptly described as the stench.
“Whoa,” Bob called, nearly falling over.
Libby and Maud turned away.
“Did you fart, Dad?” Sebastian pressed, moving away from the trailer.
Raz’s cocksure demeanor faded as he pinched his nose. “That was not me, Sebastian. It’s the blooming donkey.”
“Are you sure, Dad?”
“Yes,” he grunted, pulling on the lead rope, as the two beefcakes battled in a foul-scented game of tug-of-war.
“The donkey isn’t your opponent, Erasmus. You’re on the same team. Maybe in the boxing ring, you’re on your own, but in burro racing, you’ve got to trust your partner,” Bob instructed.
“How is trust supposed to get this beast to budge?” Raz bit out, pinching his nostrils with one hand while pulling with the other.
Wobbly Bob and Maud shared a concerned look when a voice called out.
“Easy, there, Beefcake. Your buddy Zen Dougie is here.”
Zen Dougie?
It was as if a whole new donkey had emerged. Beefcake brayed a cooing, lovesick sound as his long ears perked up. The animal stopped fighting and allowed Raz to lead him out of the trailer. The beast craned his neck, looking past Erasmus. Libby followed the animal’s line of sight and turned to find a strapping man in a cowboy hat with a bouncing mane of blond hair striding up the drive toward them.
Where did he come from?
With the appeal of a rustic runway model, the man had to be around Raz’s age. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans that might have been a size too small and looked as if he’d walked off a photo shoot for Handsome Cowboy Weekly.
“Who’s that?” Sebastian asked.
“Bob’s grandson, Doug,” Maud answered brightly as the new arrival embraced the woman.
“People in town call me Zen Dougie,” the man said, pressing his hands into a prayer position and bowing. “Namaste. You must be Libby.”
Libby shifted her stance. “Namaste, yes, I’m Libby Lamb.”
“They also call Doug the donkey whisperer,” Bob added, clapping his grandson on the back. “He’s the reigning Ass-in-Nine champion. He’s got three wins under his belt, and he’ll be racing again this year.”
Doug shrugged off the compliment. “I’m a jackass of all trades,” he said with what sounded like a practiced chuckle. “I’m here for the summer teaching yoga classes at the resorts over in Aspen and helping my grandad and great aunt before heading off to Tibet.”