The Humane Society of Greene County is an independent, non-profit organization, run by volunteers. |
The Humane Society of Greene County is an independent, non-profit organization, run by volunteers. |
In March 2025, we got a call about two donkeys living in poor conditions. One had severely overgrown hooves, likely from founder. When our humane agents visited the property, it was clear both animals were in distress.
With the owner recovering from a serious injury, they asked if the Humane Society could step in—and we did.
March 13, 2025 – First Look at Wooly and Doug
I pull up the drive and step out into a quiet morning. The property isn’t the worst I’ve seen—not by a long shot—but it’s not great either. Wooly and Doug are down in the lower field, standing in a patch of tired grass.
I make my way to the house first, knock, and wait. Nothing. No one home. That means I can’t step onto the property, but I can still observe from the gate. So I do.
Doug is the first to notice me. He ambles up the hill slowly, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth—not from dehydration or starvation, just… Doug being Doug. It’s kind of his thing, I guess. He’s definitely not missed any meals, but he has missed a few farrier appointments. His hooves are cracked and in need of a trim, but I’ve seen worse.
I stay by the gate at the top of the hill, watching. Doug keeps inching closer. I reach into my pocket, hoping I still have a couple horse treats. Jackpot.
Holding one out, I wait. He stretches his neck toward me, cautiously. Not too close—he's clearly watched enough true crime to know better than that—but close enough to snag the treat. Smart guy.
Not long after Doug makes his move, I notice Big Wolly watching from a distance. He’s sizing me up, ears forward, thinking it over. Eventually, he seems to decide I might be his type.
Since Doug already gave me the stamp of approval—and maybe the treat didn’t hurt either—Wolly takes a more confident approach. He walks right up, no hesitation, like we’ve known each other a while. No games, no slow creep like Doug. He’s all in.
It’s always something special when animals who’ve been let down by people still choose to trust. Even a little bit.
With no one home, I leave a note on the door—just enough to let them know I stopped by, saw the donkeys, and would like to talk.
Later that day, my phone rings. It’s the owner. She’s kind, but clearly overwhelmed. She explains she’s been trying to find a farrier, but hasn’t had any luck. I tell her I’ll see what I can do.
I make a few calls, pull a few strings, and find a farrier willing to come out. When I call her back with the good news, she pauses. Then she tells me the truth: she can’t do this anymore. Her health’s taken a turn, and caring for the donkeys just isn’t possible. She asks if we can take them.
We say yes.
I line up both the vet and the farrier—miraculously, they both rearrange their schedules so we can do everything in one visit. Huge props to both of them.
The visit goes as well as it possibly could. The boys get their vaccines and a little sleepy-time help. Their hooves get some much-needed trimming. Doug’s feet are manageable. Wolly’s are another story. He’s foundered and will need ongoing care and multiple farrier visits, but it’s a start.
I work out a short-term plan with the owner: I’ll come out twice a day to feed and spend time with them. Build trust. Make sure they know me. Because eventually, we’re going to ask them to walk into the big scary aluminum rolling box—the horse trailer—and that’s not something you spring on a donkey without a little groundwork.
The next two weeks were all about the slow work—earning trust, twice a day, every day. I showed up with feed, fresh water, and pockets full of horse treats. We were making progress.
But before the vet and farrier came, I had to do something a little tricky: get halters on these two unhandled mustangs. I had a plan.
It was a bad plan.
They let me know just how bad it was.
See, they liked the nice guy with the food, the water, the sweet talk. But the guy with the halter and rope? That guy was a total jerk. We were not on speaking terms.
I did manage to get halters on both of them—eventually—but it came at a cost. Every time I pushed them out of their comfort zone, I paid for it the next visit. Doug, especially, would hang back like I’d broken some kind of unspoken treaty. Wolly would still wander over, hopeful that there might be something good in the old coat pocket. But Doug? He took his time.
So I made a rule. Still use it. You want what I’ve got? You come get it. I’m not chasing. I’m not forcing. Kindness is the key—but I’m also not trying to raise a couple donkeys who throw a fit in the middle of Walmart because they didn’t get their way.
After the vet and farrier visit, there was still one more unpleasant milestone before the boys could officially take up residence at the McKee Road Home for Misunderstood and Mildly Troubled Equines: deworming.
Now, I’m not a monster—I explained it to them ahead of time. I told them it wasn’t personal, that everyone has to do it, and that it would be over quickly.
They were not convinced.
With paste plunger in hand and optimism in my heart, I approached. I left with dewormer all over my coat, zero in their mouths, and a bruised ego. 0 for 2. Clearly, it was time for a new strategy.
So I sweetened the pot—literally. I whipped up a feed-topper so irresistibly sweet and sticky it could’ve passed for state fair taffy. Basted their grain with it like I was glazing a holiday ham.
They weren’t thrilled. But they ate it.
Doug, however, held a grudge. Two full days of side-eye and cold shoulders. You’d have thought I stole his favorite hat.
I hooked up the Humane Society’s horse trailer (thanks to your generous donations) and headed out. It was a mild spring day, with scattered showers—not ideal, but the schedule said “today,” and we had help lined up.
Backing the trailer down the narrow driveway proved... entertaining. Doug watched the whole thing with mild amusement as I made a few less-than-perfect attempts. Eventually, I got it right, and it was time to load up.
Halters? Check. Ropes? Check. Feed, treats, a bit of optimism? All packed. These things can go sideways quickly—because donkeys and trailers go together like oil and water.
Doug was up first.
He gave the trailer a solid look, then firmly declined. Apparently, he wanted to trade his first-round pick to Wolly. Unfortunately for Doug, we’d already invoked the “no tag backs” clause. After some negotiation (and a few choice words on his part), he was in. Time: 15 minutes.
Wolly, your turn.
Wolly wasn’t buying it either. The property owner figured it had been at least 20 years since either donkey had left the land. No trailering, no traveling—just standing their ground for two decades. So this wasn’t going to be easy.
Geometry, physics, and a small amount of human blood (none from the donkeys) were sacrificed. But eventually—finally—two donkeys stood secured in the trailer.
We were on the road.
neighborhoodcats__shelter_.pdf | |
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humanesocietyfactsheet.pdf | |
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lost_and_found_pets.pdf | |
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resource_list.pdf | |
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