Written by Mark S. Meyers

Every morning I see him standing in the same spot as I open the gate to the sanctuary. A lone, dark shape distinguished from the others only by his broken and bent ear. Snoopy, a name I gave him as he entered the trap that was set up in a remote Nevada Desert a few years ago, hasn’t forgotten his previous life. His territory is no longer an expanse of desert wilderness shadowed by majestic peaks, but is now just a little spot of ground inside of Paddock 1. From the time of his arrival here in Tehachapi, this has been his spot. He stands there and stares south, and I would trade what little I have to be able to listen to his thoughts.

Snoopy was one of many wild burros that were “too many” for the government’s liking. Reduction, elimination, removal for ecological stability, name the euphemism and it still boils down to burros being removed from the wild. I have studied the issues, read the reports and been personally involved in the management of wild burro herds. Nothing in all of my studies or my experiences has ever taken away the guilt I feel when I look into the eyes of a burro like Snoopy. Snoopy is a wild burro, not a politician or a cattleman or “special interest” group, and he will spend the rest of his life trying to understand why he is no longer in his beloved desert.

Within days of his capture, Snoopy was a fairly friendly guy. He was the only male captured in this particular group and spent his quarantine time alone away from the jennets that had come in with him. He was never aggressive and never snorted at my approach as so many of the new arrival jacks often do. Snoopy was quiet and he and I spent a great deal of time talking and getting to know one another. The truth be told, I did most of the talking. Snoopy wasn’t ready to talk. These strong silent types often don’t like to share their feelings and Snoopy was no exception. After his castration and all through his recovery our friendship grew. He didn’t like strangers and would avoid me if anyone else was around. Some of the staff even thought that I was joking when I would talk of our friendship, after all, they had never seen it.

Snoopy is a member of our B herd. B means nothing more here than “Not A”. The “A” herd gets most of the attention from the guests, field trip children and training staff. The “A” herd is our adoptable group and therefore are the safest ones to be around. The “B’s” are a large herd and have their own social order. Many of the B herd have come from abusive or neglected backgrounds. They are here to heal emotionally. In this setting they can become a donkey again and forget some of the horrors of their past. Others, like Snoopy, are captured wild burros trying to adjust to a domestic life. Many do: they adjust, accept people, and find a new adoptive home with a loving family, but not all.

Snoopy stands his post, on his spot, every minute of every day. When the feed wagon comes by, Snoopy is the last one to leave the field and find a place to eat. As soon as he has finished his meal and satisfied his thirst, he returns to his spot and resumes his southward stare. I try my best to provide everything that the donkeys within my care need. The lengths I go to and the things I have done are the subject of many jokes by my friends and family. The Herd assignments, the Paddock rotations, the types and placements of shelters are all thought, and rethought, and then anguished over. But I can’t help but think I have missed something when it comes to Snoopy.

Why that spot? Why hasn’t he found a friend or a group of buddies? Why does he always stare South? I stood out there, on his spot, and stared South with him for awhile just the other day. It was a rare treat. These days I spend more time on airplanes then in paddocks. Instead of talking with donkeys, I talk to donors. I kind of miss the simpler times. The times when my business covered the Rescue’s costs and I could spend as much time as I wanted with my beloved donkeys. But now with ever growing hay costs, increasing medical expenses and our plan to effect the plight of donkeys on a national level, I am the only one who can plead the donkey’s case and so more and more of my time is spent on the road.

During our brief visit on his spot I asked him if he was thinking of his desert home. I inquired if he had friends there that he missed. I tried to explain politics and why some burros were rounded up and others where shot. But mostly, I did the talking and he just stood there and stared south.
If only I could listen to his thoughts……………