Henry’s Hilarious Breakfast Routine
If mornings are supposed to be calm and quiet, someone forgot to tell Henry Boggs. My donkey has single-handedly turned “breakfast time” into a full-blown comedy show, complete with sound effects, dramatic performances, and enough attitude to rival a teenager who just discovered coffee.
The routine starts before dawn, when most decent creatures are still asleep. Henry, however, has other plans. He begins his campaign for breakfast by pacing the fence like a nightclub bouncer on duty. Each lap is punctuated by a bray so loud it could double as a foghorn. Roosters might crow, but around here, Henry’s braying is the soundtrack of sunrise. Forget alarm clocks—Henry wakes the entire zip code.
By the time I stumble outside, bleary-eyed and clutching my coffee, Henry is already in full performance mode. His ears snap upright, his tail swishes like he’s conducting an orchestra, and he lets out a bray that could easily translate to, “Finally! Took you long enough!” He doesn’t just greet me; he scolds me for not teleporting out of bed with a feed bucket.
Approaching Henry with breakfast is like approaching royalty with a banquet tray. He huffs, he stomps, he does this little sideways shimmy that looks suspiciously like a victory dance. If I happen to rattle the grain bucket, he throws in a dramatic head toss for good measure—his version of applause.
Now, Henry may love hay, but he knows the grain bucket is where the real action is. The second I set it down, he dives in like a kid into a swimming pool. There’s no nibbling, no savoring, just full-throttle munching accompanied by an impressive percussion section of snorts and grunts. He scatters oats everywhere—on the ground, in his mane, occasionally onto me. Watching Henry eat is like watching someone try to inhale a plate of spaghetti without utensils: messy, chaotic, but undeniably entertaining.
And of course, there’s the carrot trick. If I slip a carrot slice into the mix, Henry somehow finds it instantly. It’s as though he’s got a built-in vegetable radar. He’ll pause mid-bite, sniff dramatically, and fish it out like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Then he crunches it loudly, side-eyeing me the entire time, as if to say, “See? This is the quality content I expect from you.”
But perhaps the funniest part of Henry’s breakfast routine is his obsession with having an audience. If I dare turn back toward the house, Henry halts mid-chew, lifts his head, and unleashes the kind of bray that says, “Don’t you even think about leaving, human! This show isn’t over.” Apparently, eating is a social event, and I am required to sit in the front row.
Eventually, with his belly full and his demands for attention satisfied, Henry saunters off toward the pasture like a satisfied king. He’s fueled up, recharged, and already plotting his next round of chaos—whether that’s chasing chickens, teasing the goats, or rolling dramatically in the dust.
Around here, breakfast isn’t just the most important meal of the day—it’s the funniest. Thanks to Henry Boggs, mornings on the farm are never boring. Who needs stand-up comedy when you’ve got a donkey who turns oats and carrots into the highlight of the day?
