Missie was happily grazing on spear thistles one fine summer afternoon when a young boy came pedaling toward us, eyes agleam.
"Are you the American I read about in the papers going about Ireland with a donkey?" he gasped, dismounting from his high "Black Nellie."
"I am," I replied, settling my frightened beast.
He introduced himself as Bryan and immediately nuzzled up to my little brown jenny.
"Where might you be nosed for tonight?" he asked.
"Timoleague."
"Eight long miles, that. Will you find free lodgings there?"
"I will."
"That speaks well of our people, does it not?"
I treated him to a square of chocolate. "It speaks very well of your people."
"What will you do with your lovely donkey once your journey is through?" the inquisitive lad next asked.
Finding myself in a playful mood, I fibbed. "I'm going to find her a good taxidermist."
He choked on his chocolate. "You're joking, mister! You wouldn't go stuffing her, sure you wouldn't?"
"What else can I do," I answered, unmoved. "I can't fly her to America, can I? Once stuffed, I'll be able to crate her home as a treasured keepsake."
His face turned pale around his chocolate-marred gob: "That's bloody awful."
"Why so shocked?” I replied. “There's hardly a house in Ireland that doesn't sport a stuffed fox or pheasant in their window."
"But they're not donkeys!" he spouted angrily. "A donkey carried Mary into Egypt and Jesus into Jerusalem. They're even known to talk on Christmas Night."
"But all famous equines are stuffed," I answered with indifference. "Let my noble jenny take her rightful place with other heroic mounts preserved for history; Roy Rogers' Trigger, Lone Ranger's Silver, and Napoleon's Le Vizir, displayed to this very day in a Paris museum."
I caught sight of the lad's dampening eyes and thought it best to retrieve his troubled heart.
"Bryan of Clonakilty," I bowed, "answer seven questions correctly pertaining to the Riddle of Trees and I'll forego taxidermy and promise to find my dear dapper jenny a most congenial home when our journey is through. Are you ready?"
He bit his lower lip in determination: "There's many tree riddles I know, and many I don't, but with the help of God I'll answer all seven correctly. Fire away, so."
"What tree bears the most terrible curse?"
"The apple tree," he answered decisively.
"What tree is nicknamed the ‘Irish wet nurse?'"
The boy blushed, but had a ready reply: "The honeysuckle."
"The warmest tree?"
"A fir."
"The unhealthiest tree?"
"The sycamore," answered the bright lad, draping a protective arm around my highway queen.
"The tree most fond of wine?"
"A cork tree."
"The one most attracted to women's toes?"
"Sandalwood! Now, that's six, Mr. Donkeyman. One more and you must keep your promise."
I thought long and hard, hoping to advance the game by coming up with a stumper.
"Name the tree whose head is forever lost in a fog?”
He fidgeted in his muddy wellies: "I haven't heard that one before and, if I have, I've since forgotten it."
"Well?" I said, stamping my foot with impatience.
The boy looked far and wide, his blue eyes searching for an answer, until his gaze settled upon my walking stick. He clutched his bursting heart: "By the heavens, Mr. Donkeyman, but I believe it's the very stick you yourself carry--the bewitching hazel!"
"Well, that I may be dead!" I declared, dropping to my knees. "Why, you've courageously saved my long-eared darling from one royal stuffing."
I rewarded the relieved and triumphant lad with another block of chocolate and, in turn, he accompanied us jovially down the Timoleague Road.
"Bryan, do you really think I could harm my little brown jughead?"
"I was thinking ye might or ye mightn't," he answered candidly. "But now I know you're just a champion prankster having me for the cod."
I rummaged through my donkey cart and handed him a Kennedy half-dollar.
"John Fitzgerald Kennedy," he exclaimed, clutching the large silvery coin in his hands. "Now, amn't I the lucky one to come biking into Clonakilty this evening?"
"No, I think Missie and I are the lucky ones."
Hearing that, Bryan shook my hand warmly, gave Missie a tremendous kiss on the snout, and went pedaling happily for home.
Kevin O’Hara is the author of “Last of the Donkey Pilgrims,” which chronicles his 1,800-mile walk around Ireland with a donkey and cart in 1979. Visit his website at thedonkeyman.com
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