Saving Simon

PROLOGUE
 

It was McKenzie Barrett,
the animal control officer’s daughter, who named him Simon. A name from the Bible, she said, and she thought if she named the donkey Simon he would be blessed and never be hurt again. A New York State Police trooper had come by earlier in the day, climbed the hill nearby with his binoculars, sketched out a map of the donkey’s enclosure (he wasn’t sure what to call it, it was so small), and distributed copies to everyone assisting with the raid: the other troopers, the vet, the local animal control officer, the driver of the trailer that would take Simon away, dead or alive. It was difficult to tell through the binoculars. He thought it might already be too late.

The property had a farmhouse and a large barn that fronted the north side of the road. Between the house and the old barn, a dirt road—little more than a path at some points—wound back through a meadow and a stand of pine trees, then alongside a small wire mesh enclosure. The structure, completely out
of sight from the road, sheltered by brush and trees, was small, the fences sturdy. Even standing by the farmhouse, no one would have imagined it was there.

It was probably built for pigs or a couple of goats—animals that needed strong fences and barriers to keep them contained in a small pen. It was ugly and primitive, a mud path surrounded by heavy mesh fence. Two or three pallets stood up to form a V, low enough for a pig or some chickens to get inside. Through his binoculars the trooper had seen that the donkey was lying down with his head under the pallet, perhaps seeking shelter from the rain. Perhaps to die.

From the slime and muck that coated the creature’s side, the trooper saw he had been lying there a long time. His skin was black. They call it rain rot—an animal’s skin dying, turning black from lying in the rain and cold for weeks or months and never being dry.

The pallet was an island in a sea of mud, waste, and bits of rotted wood and fence post. The donkey was sunk—stuck, really—in the mud up to his shoulders. He was almost buried in his own manure. The smell was awful, the stench reaching out across the meadow, into the wind.

The trooper estimated the pen was ten feet by ten feet, barely big enough to accommodate the donkey’s prone body. If he could stand, the donkey would barely be able to turn around. But he was absolutely still.

Even from the distance, the trooper could see the awful condition of the animal’s legs and coat, the skeletal ribs protruding. He could not see any sign of the stomach rising or falling. The animal’s home was more like a place to dump garbage or waste, rather than a shelter.