Soon There Will Be Snow

Soon There Will Be Snow

Only weeks ago, we could still see the field across the street at bedtime, and the donkeys grazing in the back pasture. But our hemisphere of the Earth is tilting away from the sun, making the daylight shorter. The air is crisp and often chilly, a stark contrast to just a month ago when it felt like walking through a car wash.

Soon we’ll witness the donkeys' short, sleek coats growing out and serving as a down jacket for the colder months of winter.

Louisa the pig, who has only a few sweat glands, shed her coat early this summer to keep herself cooler. She looks like a bald man with a comb-over, but instead of just her head, it’s her whole body. Her pink skin glistens in the sunlight. Soon her hair, too, will fill in to keep her warm. And the same with the goats, the dogs, and even the cats.

I’ll start hanging my trusty old sweatshirt in the mudroom to grab for early morning chores. Within the month, as the temperatures drop, I’ll add my barn jacket.

It’s bedtime, and as I’m reflecting on the changes in the light and the temperature, the dogs start barking. Please don’t let it be an opossum or a skunk. Last weekend, when I was away and Dane was here, Ruben tussled with an unlucky opossum in the yard. This time last year, it was a skunk, and Ruben, Dane, and I were the unlucky ones.

Tonight, not wanting to deal with either situation, Dane peeks out the door and says, “Donkey.”

I’m surprised but also glad there won’t be any smell involved.

The headlamp by the door needs batteries, so I take my phone and use its flashlight instead. Dane, making sure the dogs stay in the house, sneaks out the front door with me.

It’s Carlos! “Hey, buddy, what are you doing out here in the yard?”

He’s outside the fence and only a few feet from the road. I call him over as Dane, and I slip through the gate. We walk and talk softly, and Carlos rubs his long, soft nose against my hand. With his gentle nudge, he seems to say, “Help. I’m not where I should be.”

As I talk to him, Dane opens the gate that leads to the backyard. I start walking through, and Carlos follows along like the best dog ever. Dane walks ahead and opens the gate that leads back into the donkeys’ pasture. Carlos must have walked through the woods, along the outside of the fence, to the front yard.

As we let him back in, I start calling for Diego, my other donkey. The two are always together, but now he’s nowhere I can see. My heart sinks, but I work at regulating my breathing and trying to stay calm. Dane has headed back to the house.

I hear a loud exhale, and although I still can’t see him, I know it’s Diego. He’s on the other side of the creek that runs through their pasture.

As I wait, calling his name, petting and reassuring Carlos, I finally see the outline of his body. His feet splash in the water, and he walks confidently up to Carlos and me and pushes Carlos in the side, as if to say, “Hey, don’t do that anymore. I was alone and afraid.”

The two of them mosey away, and I head up to the house. In the morning, Dane walks the electric fence, finds three breaks, and repairs them. We think they may have been caused by a yearling deer that likes to visit.

Imagine our surprise the following night when Ruben again goes bananas. I come down from the bedroom upstairs, grab the light, and sure enough, there’s Carlos—in the driveway this time, with one foot on the porch step, in front of the gate. Is he trying to get in?!

I slip my bare feet into my rubber farm boots and open the gate. Once again, I lead and Carlos follows.

And once again, I can’t see Diego in the dark at first, but eventually I do. This time, after making sure they're both tucked in for the night, I stay in the yard, turn off the flashlight, and marvel at the night sky.

In the morning, while I teach class, Dane walks the fence again and makes another repair, but the fence is still not hot. He finally tracks the problem to a corroded connection. After fixing it and confirming that the fence works, Dane heads home.

Tonight, I go to bed knowing the donkeys are safe. They won’t be getting out again anytime soon—but if they do, like the best dogs ever, they’ll follow me wherever I lead.

Soon there will be snow.