Henry the Donkey’s Carrot Craze: A Boggs Funny Farm Adventure
If there’s one thing Henry the donkey loves more than long naps in the sunshine or braying at the mailman, it’s carrots. Crunchy, bright orange, sweet-as-candy carrots. Around Boggs Funny Farm, Henry’s carrot craze is legendary, and if you’ve ever made the mistake of holding a snack near his pen, you know just how persuasive a determined donkey can be.
It all started one Saturday morning when I came outside with a basket of fresh garden vegetables. The chickens were clucking, the goats were climbing on everything they shouldn’t, and the pigs were squealing for their breakfast. But before I could even set the basket down, Henry locked eyes on one very plump carrot peeking out from the top. He let out a bray so loud it startled the rooster off the fence.
Now, Henry doesn’t do anything halfway. When he wants something, he plots. While I turned my back to shoo the goats out of the feed shed, Henry stretched his neck over the gate, lips reaching, tongue curling like some kind of carrot-seeking grappling hook. By the time I turned back, the carrot was gone—and Henry was chewing with the smug satisfaction of a king who’d just conquered his kingdom.
That was the beginning of his obsession. From then on, carrots became his sole mission in life. He learned the sound of the fridge door opening. He recognized the crinkle of a produce bag. He even figured out how to follow me around the farm just close enough to guilt-trip me into slipping him a crunchy orange bribe.
One afternoon, I thought I’d outsmart him. I tucked the carrots into my jacket pocket, planning to deliver them to the chickens as a treat. But Henry spotted the telltale bulge in my coat like a detective solving a crime. He trotted after me, ears pinned forward, eyes locked. Every step I took, he took. Every turn I made, he matched. By the time I reached the chicken coop, he’d blocked the door with his body, refusing to move until I paid the toll in carrots.
Word of Henry’s antics spread quickly. Visitors started showing up to the farm with grocery bags full of carrots just to watch him perform his “carrot dance”—a routine that involved braying, pawing the ground, and shaking his shaggy head until someone caved in and handed him a snack. Henry, of course, acted like he was doing them the favor.
But his greatest carrot caper happened on a warm summer day when we left the garden gate unlatched. The next thing we knew, Henry had marched right in and was having an all-you-can-eat buffet. By the time we found him, half the carrot patch was gone, and he was lying on his side, belly round, looking like he’d just attended Thanksgiving dinner. He let out one soft, satisfied “hee-haw” before drifting into the deepest nap of his life.
These days, we’ve learned to ration Henry’s carrot intake. Too many and he gets a little too smug, not to mention round in the middle. But no matter how carefully we guard them, Henry always manages to sniff out his favorite treat. And honestly? We wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, what’s Boggs Funny Farm without Henry the Donkey and his unstoppable carrot craze?
