Big Swiss(108)

She closed the lid and made her way to the donkey pen. She passed the bowl of bees ravaging honey. She passed Walter the rooster, who was walking upright and doing high kicks, some kind of bizarre soldier march. She passed Pi?on, lying in the shade of a locust tree.

In the pen, the donks stood face-to-face, blowing into each other’s nostrils, their version of kissing. Greta opened the gate and whistled. They trotted toward her and then stopped, stared, and deliberated. They never did anything without considering its necessity, its potential for harm or danger, its goodwill. But they were also timid around Pi?on, now sitting at Greta’s feet.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I will never hurt you, and neither will Pi?on. Right, Pi?on?”

Pi?on opened his mouth and smiled.

The donks approached and gently sniffed Greta’s bare knees and thighs, inhaling her with their incredibly soft nostrils. It was the same careful way they drank water—not by lapping, but by inhaling.

Now they followed her to the bag of grain. She fed them small handfuls.

“Do that thing,” she said.

They knew exactly what she wanted. They leaned against her legs, one on each side, and chewed.

“Ha ha, yes,” she said. “Yes!”


THE END