Saving Winslow: Chapters 27–49

It was a maddening thing about Nora, and about most people who did not say much.

All those words pouring out of their mouths in gushing torrents: “blah blah blah blah blah blah Did you know blah blah blah did you hear blah blah blah I felt blah blah blah I saw blah blah blah.”

Winslow buried his muzzle in Louie’s stomach and munched on his sweater.

“But he’d raise such a ruckus! He’d scare a stranger away.”

The imposing form of Uncle Pete, clad in a blue plaid shirt, overalls, and rubber boots covered in muck, did not reassure Nora.

The imposing form of Uncle Pete, clad in a blue plaid shirt, overalls, and rubber boots covered in muck, did not reassure Nora.

At that moment a single shaft of sunlight pierced the fog and shone on Winslow’s head.

Nora crossed her arms defiantly. “Tell them, Louie. Tell them why not.”

“Is it true you have a donkey on the premises? Is that it out back? Complaints have been made. This neighborhood is not zoned for farm animals.” The officer handed Louie’s father a pamphlet outlining animal control regulations and a notice to remove the animal within seven days.

Louie hoped he would never have a job like hers, but if he ever did—if he was forced, say, to have a job like that—he would look the animal in the eye and he would kneel beside it and he would listen to the boy or the girl who was with the animal and he would never be cold or cruel or dismissive of the boy or girl or animal.

“It’s a shortcut. Been here before?”
Louie was disoriented. “No, I don’t think so. Where does it end up?”

Winslow strained at the halter and continued to bray, unleashing a furious diatribe of urps and arps and onka-onkas.

“Hey, there! Go on, wander around. Check out the newborn lambs and calf! I’ll be back soon,” and he rumbled off on the tractor into an adjacent field.

In a smaller pen, separated from the rest of the sheep, was a ewe and her twin lambs, so tiny and scrawny, with short, sparse white hair revealing pink skin beneath.

“Are they going to make it?” Nora asked. “I hope they’re going to make it. But they seem so frail, don’t they?”

They strutted this way and that, clucking in quick bursts.

From around the side of the house, a scruffy brown dog ambled lazily in their direction.

There had always been a donkey at the farm, a touchy, protective, and stubborn donkey.

The braying was loud and relentless.

It seemed to be coming from the garage loft.