02/08/2026
She’s home. And I’m still trying to breathe through the emotions.
My sweet donkey girl, Daisy, made it through surgery this morning—and seeing her like this hurts in a way words barely touch.
The shaved patch along her sturdy side.
The careful line of stitches.
The faint bruising beneath her coarse coat.
Every mark tells a story I wish she never had to live.
But she’s here.
She’s breathing.
She’s enduring.
When we came home, she didn’t bray.
She didn’t panic.
She walked slowly to her familiar spot, lowered herself with care, and stood quietly the way she always does.
Her body was exhausted, her eyes heavy with that deep post-surgery tiredness—but when I stood beside her, she leaned her strong head gently against my shoulder.
Solid.
Steady.
Trusting.
As if to say,
I’m okay now. I’m home.
Donkeys don’t understand surgery.
They don’t understand why their body hurts, why strange hands touched them, why everything suddenly feels different.
But they understand safety.
They understand presence.
They understand calm.
They understand when we stay close and speak softly,
You’re safe now. I’ve got you.
Tonight, Daisy is resting—wrapped in warmth, settled where she feels secure, surrounded by people who would do absolutely anything for her.
Healing won’t be fast.
It won’t be easy.
There will be slow steps, careful days, and patient nights.
But she’ll get there.
Because the heart of a donkey is something remarkable—gentle, resilient, and quietly brave.
She didn’t choose this battle, but she’s meeting it the only way she knows how:
with patience,
with trust,
with a strength that never rushes.
And I’ll be right here with her.
Every check.
Every quiet moment.
Every small sign of healing.
If you have a moment, send her some love.
She’s been through so much—
and she deserves every good thought,
every prayer,
and every bit of healing energy you can spare. 🤍🫏
