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Tigie’s sunglasses were outdone only by her socks and hats, which she collected extensively. Here she’s
with Bottom, her donkey who spent his final days campaigning for Obama, while visiting with two of
her horses, Abner and Daisy Mae.
from the pasture for meals was often the slowest
barnyard chore. “Now for the poetry!” Tigie
sometimes said, as we followed them to the barn.
The donkey’s procession was poetic – their placid,
metered pace, their thoughtful steps taken in tan-
dem, their progress punctuated by pauses to pon-
der things.
One evening, as storm clouds billowed against
the sunset, the donkeys stopped to ponder a herd
of pronghorn, who began chasing each other in
sweeping curlicues around the pasture. The don-
keys were moved and joined the ballet, and soon
the horses bolted out to dance as well. I will always
treasure that night: watching dozens of four-foot-
ed creatures, swirling like leaves around the tawny
pasture, the air sweet with creosote and rain, my
dear friend and her dog beside me.
That wasn’t the last performance though.
Shortly before Tigie died, my mother and I
picked her up for a trip to the library. As we got
into the car, a storm graced the desert with rain
for the first time in more than a year. Applejack
and Blackjack suddenly darted across the pasture
and began pirouetting and racing around in the
rain. “Stop! Stop! STOP!” Tigie bellowed in her
hoarse voice from the backseat. “You can’t drive
away during a donkey ballet!” And so we paused
to ponder the show.
On April 7, after dying in her sleep at 78 years
old, Tigie was buried in that pasture, along with a
beloved dog’s ashes. There I’d like to think my
friend will forever savor sunset-painted grasslands,
mauve mountain views, donkey poetry and the
hoof beats of ballets.
Taylor... waiting
Cenizo
Third Quarter 2012
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