Henry’s Hungry Hay-Day! A Donkey’s Delightful Breakfast
If mornings on the farm had a soundtrack, Henry the donkey would be the lead singer, belting his brays like an alarm clock with a personal vendetta. And on this particular morning, his performance was fueled by one thing: breakfast.
Henry is not subtle about his priorities. Forget roosters—this donkey is the true herald of dawn. The moment the first streak of sunlight peeked over the trees, Henry launched into his morning symphony, echoing across the fields like an opera singer demanding curtain call. Translation: “Where’s my hay, human?”
By the time I trudged out with coffee in hand, Henry was already pacing the fence line, ears twitching, eyes laser-focused on the hay shed. It was less “pasture pet” and more “hungry general commanding his troops.” The goats were his sidekicks, bleating encouragement like backup singers in a barnyard boy band.
I opened the gate, and Henry shot forward like a kid running toward an ice cream truck. He barreled straight past me, straight past the goats, and made a beeline for the hay pile. If there had been slow-motion music, it would’ve been the epic kind they play when heroes finally reach their destiny.
And oh, what a performance it was. He shoved his entire face into the hay, snorting happily as bits flew in every direction. I’m convinced more ended up on his back and in his ears than in his mouth. But Henry didn’t care—this was his moment, his hay-day.
Of course, the goats weren’t about to let him hog the spotlight. One tried climbing onto the hay bale for a better bite, slipping and tumbling into Henry’s side. He didn’t flinch—just kept chomping, hay dangling from his lips like a mustache. Another goat attempted the sneak-attack approach, nibbling from behind, which only earned her a swift swish of Henry’s tail to the face.
Meanwhile, the chickens gathered around the scene like gossiping neighbors, pecking at stray bits and clucking their commentary. The dog sat off to the side, tail wagging, probably wondering why none of us appreciated kibble with the same level of passion.
At one point, Henry lifted his head, strands of hay sticking out in every direction, and looked straight at me with the most content expression I’ve ever seen on a donkey. It was as if he was saying, “This. This is the reason I exist.” He gave a triumphant bray, startling the ducks into flight, and then promptly went back to stuffing his face.
By the time he finally slowed down, the hay pile looked like it had survived a hurricane, and I looked like I’d survived a comedy skit. My boots were buried in scattered straw, my coffee was cold, and I had hay stuck in my hair. But Henry? He stood there smug and satisfied, belly full, eyes drooping, ready for his well-earned post-breakfast nap.
So yes, mornings on the farm are chaotic, messy, and sometimes exhausting. But watching Henry’s pure, unfiltered joy over a pile of hay reminds me why I love it so much. After all, if a donkey can greet breakfast with that much delight, maybe the rest of us can too.
