The farm.

A few weeks ago I experienced one of my most embarrassing and humiliating moments, and I will begin by setting the scene. It is a Tuesday in mid-May. It is noon. It is an unusually warm and sunny day, and I am alone at the donkey sanctuary where I volunteer. 

I started my routine the same way I always do. I changed into my work clothes, greeted all the animals with a stroke or a scratch and a cheery ‘hello’ (not a requirement but something I think is polite) and then went into the tack room to look at the list of jobs. It’s pretty much the same every time; check all the animals have plenty of food and water, give the scruffiest donkeys a brush, wash any dirty tails, put fresh straw in the stables, and clean up their poo with a glorified pooper-scooper. Currently the farm has 16 donkeys, 2 horses, 3 ponies, 5 Shetlands, 3 goats, 2 sheep, 2 lambs, 6 rabbits, and 5 guinea pigs, so the variety of excreta range from small hard bunny balls to grape-sized goat globes to plum-sized donkey droppings to soft mounds of horse manure, but it’s hard to resent cleaning up after them when they are all such incredibly affectionate, gentle, docile creatures who want nothing more than to be made a fuss of and follow you around like well-trained pets. Ironically, the only exception to this is the owner’s actual pet, Fifi the labrador, who is fiercely independent and couldn’t give a damn about anyone.

On this particular Tuesday, I noticed two extra jobs on the list. The first was to move the goats from the stable back to the field and the second was to take Daisy the pony for a walk up the lane (she is the newest addition, a little shy and skittish, so they’re trying to socialise her and get her used to outside distractions). I decided to take Daisy first and luckily the walk was uneventful. She was relaxed, well behaved, and happy to return to the yard after half an hour. I tied her up outside the stable and went to get the goats. I put the 3 goats on leads and was about to take them to the field when I thought it might be quite fun to take them to the hay barn with me instead. They could eat and climb on the haystacks while I was filling all the haybags. Great idea, right? No, not really. The hay bales are the size of small cars, weigh a ton, and have to be heaved off the top of the stack and onto the barn floor before being pulled apart. It is hard work and I soon discovered that having 3 goats underfoot, wanting attention, was not ideal, so I loosely tied their leads to what looked like a very solid, heavy, red trunk, and carried on filling the bags. It was all fine until I heard a loud rustling behind me, realised it was a rat, squealed, jumped off the hay bale, tripped over and fell flat on my face. The goats then jumped in reaction to me and the not so heavy trunk they were tethered to lurched towards them. Thinking they were about to be attacked by this large red beast, they made a run for it, and of course, the devilish trunk followed. The last thing I saw were the terrified goats heading around the corner towards the stables, the trunk still in pursuit. Then everything went quiet. 

I ran out of the barn (or rather limped quickly), reached the stables and found the goats headbutting each other, then the trunk, and then me as punishment when I finally managed to calm them down and untie them. And that’s when Daisy decided to rear up on her hind legs, whinny with disapproval at the commotion, and pull free of her rope. The goats loudly bleated in reply and all four animals scattered in different directions. I let out a long agonised moan, threw my hands in the air, and screamed, ‘Fuck!’ at the top of my lungs. I was also sweating profusely and was covered in hay, so I swore again, stripped off my outer layer of clothing and stuck my head under the hosepipe. I knew the animals would be ok after a few minutes so I took a second to compose myself, got out my phone, and reluctantly texted the owner. I had to tell her what had happened, without going into too many details or admitting my stupidity, just in case one of the animals acted strangely or was still spooked when she came back. I took a deep breath, sent the message, and got an immediate reply. A laughing face emoji followed by, ‘Don’t worry Jules. I’m sure they’ll be fine but I WILL be watching the CCTV later. X.’ 

My mouth fell open in horror. Then it opened even wider as I looked down and saw what I was wearing; just a bra and a pair of threadbare leggings. Oh my God. I quickly placed a hand over my boobs (inadequate) and frantically searched for the cameras. And there they were. Four cameras, capturing every angle. I texted the owner again as I blushed crimson, telling her that I was really sorry but it was highly likely she’d also see me in a state of undress if she watched the footage. She texted back, ‘Even better. I’ll open a bottle of wine and ask my husband to join me. It’ll make his day.’