I knew Gwynny was sick, but I didn't expect her to die. All summer, she had minced around like a Geisha, but I hadn't worried about it because she was old, 28 years is old for a donkey, and her doctor had told me years earlier to expect arthritis in her old age, given her history of white line disease. But by August, she didn't want to walk anymore. She looked stuck in place, interested but unable, as if her feet were glued to the ground. I had to take her morning corn stalk to her in the field, finally, because she wouldn't walk to the gate to get it. And she was slow. She didn't limp, she didn't falter, she just trudged. I could see she was uncomfortable, but I didn't think she was in pain, and I never thought she would die. I never thought she would die.
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| Gwynny in her first year with us, always the extrovert. |
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| Gwynny in her prime, always the opportunist. |
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Gwynny in her heart's home, always with her beloved Benjy.
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