What happens when city boy meets country critter? I think it might go a little something like this:
Part of this past weekend’s wedding’s festivities involved a BBQ near Aurora, Ontario — and our kind hosts just happened to have a real live donkey on their property. The noble beast proved docile enough to pet, and as I gently stroked the bridge of its long nose I noticed two large nostrils flaring for a sniff. As my hand moved towards that general area the donkey’s lips quivered a bit; thinking I was in for a lick, I moved my hand towards its mouth.
Before I knew it, a set of extremely strong teeth clamped down on the third knuckle of my index finger. I tried to wiggle them loose but the donkey just bit harder, getting what felt like pretty darn close to bone. I had two of my best friends on either side of me, who didn’t know what to do except laugh nervously.
Fortunately, one of kids who lived there came skipping in, saw what was going on and offered the donkey some straw as a diversion. It worked, and my purpled finger was finally freed.
Later, some guests with more experience on a farm than me informed me that horses either can’t see or don’t know the difference between a carrot and a finger. And the owner of the donkey was heard to remark: “Well, I’m glad you got your finger out of my ass”.