Henry the Donkey’s Hilarious Sunday Surprise!
Sundays on the farm are supposed to be peaceful. A day for slow coffee, quiet chores, and maybe even a nap if the animals behave. But Henry the donkey—our four-legged comedian—had a very different plan. His “Sunday surprise” was less about peace and more about pandemonium, and he executed it with the enthusiasm of a prankster who knew exactly what he was doing.
It started when I went out to the pasture to deliver breakfast. The air was crisp, the sun just peeking over the trees, and I was feeling almost smug about how calm the morning was. Henry met me at the gate, ears perked, eyes wide, braying loudly enough to rattle the windows. Nothing unusual there—Henry always thinks he’s starving, even if he just finished a hay bale the size of a small car.
But as soon as I opened the gate, I knew something was up. Henry didn’t go for the hay. Instead, he trotted past me with laser focus, straight toward the chicken coop. My heart sank. Nothing good ever comes from a donkey marching with purpose.
By the time I caught up, Henry had nosed the coop door open and was standing proudly in the middle of the hens’ breakfast buffet. He looked like a king at a feast, gobbling their grain while the chickens squawked indignantly around him. I tried shooing him out, but he brayed in protest, spraying half-chewed oats everywhere, as if to say, “Back off, this is my Sunday treat!”
The real surprise, however, came when he turned to leave. Somehow, in his enthusiasm, Henry managed to get the feeder bucket looped over his head. He strutted out of the coop like it was a fashion statement, clanging and rattling with each step. The chickens followed, flapping and squawking like a feathery parade behind him.
At this point, I was laughing so hard I could barely chase him. Henry, of course, thought it was a game. He trotted around the yard, bucket still dangling from his face, braying with delight. The goats joined in, bouncing and butting, while the dog barked wildly, trying to herd the entire circus.
It took me a solid fifteen minutes of chaos to corner Henry. Just when I finally reached for the bucket, he shook his head dramatically, sending it flying into the air and landing—of all places—right on top of my head. The farm erupted in laughter, or at least it felt that way. The chickens clucked like hecklers, the goats bleated in chorus, and Henry stood there smug and satisfied, as if to say, “Surprise! Happy Sunday!”
By the time the ordeal ended, my hair was full of hay, the chickens were missing half their breakfast, and Henry was back at the hay bale, chewing like nothing had ever happened. Peaceful Sunday? Not exactly. But hilarious? Absolutely.
That’s Henry’s gift: turning an ordinary morning into a comedy show, starring himself as the lovable rascal. Around here, Sundays aren’t defined by rest—they’re defined by whatever surprise Henry the Donkey has in store. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
