We were put back in our stalls around noon because the foot man was coming for his regular visit. I much prefer him to the medical types who show up in the spring and stick needles in us and peer at our teeth while making clucking sounds. The sounds are followed by a medievial procedure called floating. It involves rasps and gags and lots of noise echoing around the cranium.
The foot man is a pleasant youth of some five decades and he's done my feet since I was an infant donkey. We understand each other perfectly. We were in our stalls and TJ was in the aisle and although the man was calm and quiet and wasn't anywhere near him, TJ had a panic attack and threw himself over my stallguard, landing upside down and very nearly bowling me over. He says the man is an evil entity whose goal in life is to torture mini mules. He then proceeded to have several massive attacks of what my grandmother called the "screaming squitters" all over my clean stall. Very smelly and unfestive. Sigh.
He's now letting the woman rub his withers with her hand but he stands there rigid and ready to flee the whole time. I think it's a cunning ruse because the woman hands him a steady stream of treats. Occasionally he fumbles and a treat bounces into my stall and even though it has mule spit on it, I manage to choke it down.
I am so pleased to have other donkeys amongst my readers; it makes me feel I'm not alone in this strange world of other species.