Henry Boggs Funny Farm’s Hilarious Dinner Time Donkey!
If you’ve never witnessed dinner time at Boggs Funny Farm, you might imagine a peaceful country scene: the sun setting over the pasture, animals gathering politely for their evening feed, and me calmly doling out hay like some sort of barnyard maestro. Well, let me shatter that picture right now—because dinner time here is less “peaceful harmony” and more “barnyard stampede meets comedy show.” And the ringleader of this circus? None other than Henry the donkey.
Henry has a sixth sense when it comes to food. Long before I ever reach for the grain bucket or open a hay bale, Henry knows. Maybe it’s the subtle sound of me lacing up my boots, maybe it’s just donkey intuition, but like clockwork, he starts up with his pre-dinner bray. Loud, dramatic, and completely impossible to ignore, it echoes through the hills like a foghorn announcing the buffet.
The second I step outside with the feed, Henry shifts into full performance mode. He trots circles around the gate, ears flopping, tail swishing, as if he’s rehearsed choreography all day. If I don’t move fast enough, he lets out another operatic hee-haw that sends the goats into a frenzy and makes the pigs squeal like backup singers.
Now, feeding time is supposed to follow a routine—pigs first, goats next, chickens last, and Henry patiently waiting his turn. But patience is not a word in Henry’s vocabulary. The moment he sees me carry the bucket toward anyone else, he stages a protest. He’ll stomp his hooves, paw at the dirt, and bray loud enough to drown out the rooster. And if I really test his patience? That’s when the donkey dramatics come out. He flops his head over the gate, lips wiggling, eyes big and pitiful like a toddler denied dessert.
One evening, I thought I’d be clever. I tried to sneak the pigs their dinner first. Big mistake. Henry spotted me and launched a full-on dinner-time revolt. He brayed, spun in a circle, and then—because he’s part comedian, part escape artist—managed to unlatch the gate with his nose. Next thing I knew, Henry was in the middle of the pig pen, stealing their corn and looking entirely pleased with himself. The pigs squealed, I yelled, the goats climbed the fence for a better view, and the chickens squawked like a peanut gallery. Total chaos.
Of course, Henry thrives on chaos. Every night, he finds a new way to make dinner an event. Sometimes he grabs the feed scoop in his teeth and runs off like a thief. Other times, he positions himself squarely in the middle of the path so no one can get food until he does. And on more than one occasion, he’s brayed so dramatically that visiting friends thought someone was in danger—only to discover Henry demanding hay like a spoiled celebrity.
By the time dinner is officially served, the entire farm is buzzing like it just hosted a comedy show. The pigs grumble, the goats glare, the chickens gossip, and Henry? He munches contentedly, looking smug and entirely satisfied with his performance.
Because at Boggs Funny Farm, dinner time isn’t just about feeding animals—it’s a nightly episode of Henry’s one-donkey comedy act. And honestly? We wouldn’t dare cancel the show.
