Henry the donkey had a problem. Not a small one. Not a “he’s sleeping in weird positions” kind of problem. No, Henry had a full-blown, unapologetic, carrot-consuming obsession. On the Boggs Funny Farm, everyone knew Henry loved his vegetables, but the sheer determination he displayed for his favorite orange treats was something that could rival a seasoned thief eyeing a diamond.
It all started one sunny morning. I was carrying a bag of fresh carrots from the garden, minding my own business, when Henry appeared out of nowhere. His ears twitched, his eyes locked onto the bag, and suddenly I was no longer in control of my own morning. “Henry, wait!” I shouted, but he was already advancing like a four-legged missile.
I tried to distract him with hay. He sniffed it, nibbled once, then turned back to the carrots with a look that could only be described as murderous glee. I ran across the yard, bag in hand, but Henry was faster. He cornered me by the chicken coop, brayed triumphantly, and practically demanded I surrender the goods. I had no choice. I gave him a carrot. He took it delicately, like a connoisseur savoring fine wine… and then proceeded to stare at me like, is that all?
Feeding Henry became a full-time comedic exercise. Every time I tried to ration the carrots, he found new ways to circumvent my plans. One day, he figured out how to nudge the treat basket off the counter with his nose. Another time, he learned to follow me into the house and patiently stand by the fridge until I gave in. Henry wasn’t just persistent—he was strategic.
The other animals were amused—or in some cases, slightly horrified—by his carrot obsession. The chickens clucked in envy whenever he scored a treat. The goats tried to join in but lacked Henry’s finesse. And the pigs? They simply stared, knowing their chances of winning a carrot against Henry were slim to none.
But it wasn’t all chaos. Henry’s carrot cravings brought out some of the funniest moments on the farm. There was the time he stole an entire bag of carrots from the porch and somehow managed to parade them like a victory flag through the yard. Or the morning he used his head to open a gate, leading a small parade of ducks to his carrot stash before I even realized what was happening.
Despite all the shenanigans, Henry’s carrot adventures had a way of making everyone smile. Watching him carefully select each carrot, crunching with exaggerated satisfaction, reminded me why life on the Boggs Funny Farm was never boring. Between the mud, the chickens, and the occasional runaway goat, Henry’s antics were the highlight of every day.
By evening, after a long day of stealing, bribing, and savoring carrots, Henry would flop down in the sun, belly full, ears twitching in contentment. And me? I’d sit back, shaking my head, laughing, and reaching for another bag of carrots—because no matter how clever or mischievous he was, that donkey had me completely under his spell.
Henry wasn’t just a donkey with a carrot obsession. He was a comedian, a master strategist, and the undeniable star of the farm. And on the Boggs Funny Farm, his carrot cravings guaranteed that every day ended in laughter.
