Living at the farm in Gaston, Oregon, our lives revolved around the animals. Every morning I was greeted with honks and haws from the four Littles, a family of miniature donkeys. Owned and managed (okay, their food slave) by Leslie, mom, dad, and two children were the rock stars of the farm.

Karina was the old mother, pushing near 30 give or take. Rocko was the old man, a sucker for having his matted backside dug into and scratched for hours on end, if he had his way. Nina was the girl, fairly young and delicate, a bit skittish and yet pushy when something got between her and her food. Guido was the little boy of the family, looking like Karina with his soft gray coat, and spoiled beyond belief.

In their winter coats, I caught the four waiting for food along the fence. In winter, when the ground was muck and cold, they’d stay close to the barn and house, just hanging around for food. During the summer, they’d wander all over the property eating everything and anything that wasn’t high off the ground. Our own mammal lawn mowers.

Still, I miss those cute guys.