Just quickly, before I start my blog, I am sort of expecting the prompt to be “butter” in a few days. We just had better, and now it is bitter. Butter seems to be the next logical place to go.
Anyway, onto the blog.
When I was quite small, my Grampa got it into his head that he wanted a miniature donkey. I really don’t know why. It was a random idea, but when Grampa gets an idea into his head, he follows it.
You know how Grampas are.
Well, that donkey (who we named Joe) was pretty big when I was 6 years old, and I loved to ride him. Or to simply sit on his back out in the pasture.
He was lazy enough that we didn’t really have to worry about him doing something crazy with me on his back. Heck, he’d hardly move even with Grampa coaxing him along.
One day though, my Great-Uncle was working on his car while I sat on Joe’s back. I’m not entirely certain what happened, but he accidentally backed the car up, into the fence behind it, causing a massive *BANG!!!*.
And that was how we discovered what made Joe move.
He went flying forward, and I sort of sat there in mid-air for a moment, like a cartoon character. Then I dropped hard onto the ground, while Joe kept heading in the other direction.
My poor little tailbone was not so happy, though really, I only fell a couple of feet. Joe is a pretty small mini donkey. But I had plenty of sympathy from my Great-Uncle, who felt back that his auto care had wounded me.
I don’t know that I was actually bitter over the whole incident, but I certainly acted as though I was. It’s always fun, when you’re small, to make a big deal out of a small happening.
But I now own Joe. I inherited him when my Grandparents moved to town. Once in a while, I look at him and wonder how on earth I hurt myself falling off such a little thing.