Donut Adventures with Henry: A Saturday Sweet Treat
Saturday mornings on the farm always feel a little lighter, like even the animals know it’s the weekend. The chores don’t disappear, of course, but there’s something about the rhythm of a Saturday that makes the whole place buzz with a bit more fun. And around here, fun usually means two things: me trying to sneak in a sweet treat, and Henry—the ever-watchful donkey—plotting to get in on the action.
Last Saturday, donuts were on the menu. Not just any donuts, mind you, but a big, warm box of glazed perfection from the local bakery. I walked into the barn with my coffee in one hand, the donut box in the other, and a plan to enjoy at least one bite in peace while the animals munched their breakfast. That plan lasted all of thirty seconds.
Because Henry Boggs has a nose for snacks.
The moment he heard the crinkle of the paper bag, his ears shot up like radar dishes. He brayed so loudly the goats startled, and then he came trotting over, eyes locked on the box as if I’d just opened a treasure chest. If there were ever a donkey with donut-detecting superpowers, it’s Henry.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned, holding the box out of reach. But Henry doesn’t do subtle. He planted himself in front of me, stomped a hoof for emphasis, and gave me the sassiest side-eye I’ve ever seen. It was less “Please share” and more “Hand it over, human. Now.”
I tried to distract him with hay. No luck. I offered him carrots. He sniffed them, then looked back at the donut box like I’d just insulted his intelligence. Clearly, he knew donuts were on the line, and he wasn’t settling for farm-approved snacks.
That’s when the real comedy began. Henry started his full performance routine: dramatic head tosses, exaggerated brays, even nudging me in the back with his nose as if trying to push me toward the box. The goats watched from the sidelines, clearly entertained, while a few chickens strutted closer, hoping they’d get lucky too. It felt less like feeding time and more like a Saturday morning circus—with Henry as the ringleader.
Finally, I caved. I didn’t give him an actual donut, of course (donkey stomachs and glazed pastries are not exactly a healthy combo), but I tore off a tiny, plain piece of dough and handed it over. Henry accepted it with the gravitas of a food critic, chewed thoughtfully, and then brayed again—this time softer, almost like he was saying, “Not bad, but I’ll need the whole dozen to really decide.”
By the time I finished my coffee and snuck in a donut of my own, Henry had settled down, smug as ever, content to chew his hay while keeping one eye on the box. Because that’s Henry in a nutshell: equal parts diva, comedian, and foodie.
Saturday might mean donuts for me, but around here, it also means one thing is certain: if Henry’s around, no treat stays secret for long.
