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Beast of Burden Written by Amethyst Mare / Arian Mabe

They do not quite know how to take care of us, these ones. He does not know how to pick a stone from a quiet burro's hoof. He does not know the best time to feed or when we need a shady spot to rest. This man is quick to hide in our shadow and wet his lips with moisture while we dry bray, hoarse and threadbare. Why does he not share with us? We do most of the work. It is after this season of labour that I came to the conclusion that humans are too eager to whip, raising welts on my scrawny hide, and slow to offer a kind word. If he whips me again, I shall kick him in the head.

In the dawn glow, I take in small stable, no more than a lean-to propped against a crumbling stone wall crawling with insects. They must have thought it good enough for us four-leggers. I am sure they would not rest in such conditions, our owners. I miss my old stable with cool water and a warm pat on the neck at the end of a working day. That life ended so suddenly, like a downpour when one is not expecting it. All I knew was that one day I was beast of burden to a kind hand with two other donkeys and the next a rope was around my neck in lieu of a halter. I was passed to a narrow eyed little man who pulled too hard and left a sore around my neck where the rope burned. Brown-ears was gone, leaving me with one friend, Grey-hide. We never saw Brown-ears again.

I nose half-heartedly at a wisp of dry grass, testing the strength of my tether by straining the binding until my neck grated a protest, breath unwilling. It was no use: we will not escape our lives today. My friend - we do not have names here, though I will always know him as Grey-hide - turns his solemn head, long ears drooping. He licks his rubbery lips and scrapes a cracked hoof through the yellow dust, stirring up a cloud that makes us cough, wheezing out a donkey's bray. The air is dry and stale. When did we last have water? There is only my friend and I under the careless care of these humans. Animals, as they say, know how to herd together for support, but all I hear of the human family is endless screaming and hollering, grunts and whistles to my ears. Once, I had learned commands in that language - when to go, when to stop, when to pull, when to turn - but these humans incite no such desire in my bones. I suppose my bones will soon whiten the dust.

Groaning, my friend folds his forelegs, his rear suspended comically in the air for a brief moment before his own weight proves his downfall and he collapses with a pained grunt. I worry for him. He has not been himself since regular feeds disappeared behind the cart, out of sight. Up at the little shack of a home, a door slams and I jerk my head up, flaring my nostrils wearily. He is coming. He always slams the door like it would not close if he did not throw his strength into the motion. Our jailor appears in the entrance of the lean-to, a grubby hand scratching the rough fur around his chin. I am not a judge of human appearance, though he is horrid on tired eyes.

He mumbles something incomprehensible, something hoarse and dry and begging for a drink; it is not interesting, so why should I pay attention? Muttering further, the man stumbles like a fool to my friend's side, despite him laying stretched out, limbs splayed in a most undignified fashion. He cannot stay in this position for long, lest he crush his organs under the weight of his own body. What weight he has left, that is. Are we to be fed?

He does not like this, this man. Reeling, he lands a solid kick to Grey-hide's flank, crusted with dirt and sweat. My friend closes his eyes in a weak attempt to block out pained reality. What more can he do to us? The man leaps like a colt and hauls on the rope, only aggravating the exhausted burro's sores. The too-tight cord was frayed and rubbed back and forth, back and forth with a relentlessness as merciless as this man's hand. Unsteadily, my friend scrambles to his hooves, grunting as breath rasps in his throat. He is not well, I knew he was not well. Nobody cares.

More light is in the sky now and those with frail sight can discern the majority of their surroundings, or so I assume. The man finds his way around the lean-to and slaps a harness on my back, yanking the straps inconsiderately tight. I know better than to complain. It seems that he is choosing the 'stronger' beast to take the cart behind him today. I do not know if I am stronger, but pulling the cart is never an easy task. My friend is loaded up with brown sacks, slung across his back and strapped down as if Grey-hide is can bear any weight. He groans ill-naturedly and lifts a hind hoof, thinking better of it at the last moment. It's just as well for him to not be beaten so early, which he surely would be if he had kicked out. I glance around and even press my nose into the man's passing hand in hope of a morsel, but my aching stomach already understands that it will not be sated this morning.

Grabbing our worn ropes with both hands, the man rattles off a string of words and drags us bodily out into the dawn, ignoring the tossing of my head. He may be accustomed to our disapproval. My unwelcome companion is drawn forward, the cart, and positioned behind me. For all his failings, this human knows how to attach my harness to the creaking contraption with all haste. If only he was as skilled at remembering to remove my harness or relieve my friend of his back-breaking burden. My friend. Already his legs shake with the strain upon his back and his head is lowered almost so that his nose brushes the dirt. Sighing, I take heed of his earlier example and close my eyes.

I remember a better time, a better place. Somewhere with fields of luscious, green grass in the rainy season, somewhere where we were not passed from hand to hand like goods for purchase. There are good lives for donkeys if one does but look. Humans do not have good lives all the time either, that much I have borne witness to. They squabble and they fight and they rise and they fall. Sometimes there are many sacks of this strange, changing substance to load our carts and backs with. Sometimes there is only one. I like the times that there are more sacks. That means we will be fed. More sacks on my friends back might mean that he will be allowed to rest for a day. This human is becoming prosperous. May we rest today?

It is not to be. The flat-nosed man takes my friends rope in hand and climbs up into the cart, which has also been loaded with greying sacks during the course of my reverie. Here, the mind is my only escape. Flicking one ear, I take note of the long, whippy stick in his hand, cut from a spindly tree. The thin whips always hurt the most. I steady myself as he cries out a command and slashes the stick across my hindquarters, breaking open an old scab. It's always the same.

Wheezing, I throw my weight into the harness and pull.