The Travelling Vet

11

DONKEY

‘I hope you heard that? She called me a noble steed. She thinks I’m a steed.’

Donkey in Shrek

‘It’s John from the donkey sanctuary here,’ came the familiar Wiltshire accent over the phone.

‘Hi, John, how are you?’

‘Oh, very well, sir, very well, thank you – and you?’ came the usual reply. Born of a lost generation where manners were everything, it was always so humbling when an older gentleman to whom I felt a natural deference, addressed me with such regard. In John’s eyes, though, as a veterinary surgeon I deserved respect. In turn I admired and respected John immensely for his lifetime of unassuming, selfless dedication to the care of neglected animals, and in particular, donkeys. It was this mutual respect that was central to our working relationship and served to benefit the goats, pigs, sheep, dogs, cats and 120 donkeys at the sanctuary John had established over thirty years before.

‘I’m well, thanks. The usual problem of not having enough hours in the day!’

‘Indeed, Jon, indeed, always too much to do when it comes to caring for animals.’

‘How can I help?’

‘Jon, it’s Pollyanne. She’s gone lame again on both front feet. It’s a worry with Carmen coming up in a couple of months, she needs to be sound and ready for that. It’s the last run and they’ll be devastated if she can’t be on stage.’

Pollyanne was, without question, the star and public face of the donkey sanctuary. John had rescued her from Salisbury Livestock Market in 1997, where he had found her distressed, severely neglected and destined for imminent slaughter. Appalled by her condition, he had immediately offered to buy her there and then, and taken her home. It had taken a huge amount of work to gain her trust, and a long programme of farriery to rectify the years of neglect to her feet, but after many months’ care she had come round, and she and John had formed an inseparable bond. Thriving on attention, she soon became the natural choice for Nativity plays, Palm Sunday services and any other event where a donkey was required. From the sanctuary’s perspective too, she exemplified everything it stood for and was striving to achieve: providing a home for neglected donkeys where they were cared for, nurtured, and encouraged to trust humanity again.

Pollyanne turned out to be such a natural performer, in fact, that after being talent-spotted at an event, she was signed by a specialist agency providing animals for TV, film and theatre. Her first professional role was at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, starring alongside Plácido Domingo in I Pagliacci. On one notorious occasion she even upstaged him from the wings by braying noisily as he was singing one of his arias leading him to call her ‘a great scene-stealer’. Nevertheless, Pollyanne went down a storm, and so when a donkey was sought for Francesca Zambello’s 2006 production of Carmen to mark the sixtieth anniversary of the founding of the Royal Opera, Pollyanne was a natural choice.

Fast-forward nine years, and Pollyanne had appeared every year in the celebrated production of Bizet’s Spanish masterpiece, but 2015 was set to be its last run. Pollyanne had been so popular, among the cast and audience alike, that for her not to be able to perform in Carmen was unthinkable.

‘I think it’s her laminitis flaring up again, but it seems worse than normal,’ continued John. ‘I’ve tried to bring her into her stable from the paddock, but she’s so sore she doesn’t want to move.’

‘Poor Pollyanne! I’ve got a few things on this morning, but I could come out this afternoon about three o’clock. How would that suit?’

‘That would do nicely, thank you, sir.’

‘Great. Meawhile, give her half a sachet of painkiller and see if that makes her comfortable enough to bring her into her stable in an hour or so.’

As a result of her years of neglect, Pollyanne had periodically suffered from bouts of laminitis, a painful inflammatory condition of the tissues that bond the hoof wall to its pedal bone. Over the years John had learnt how to manage these flare-ups in her condition through a combination of painkillers, diet and a bed of deep shavings for a couple of weeks until things settled. However, they had occasionally been so bad that she required more intensive treatment, and it would take much longer for her lameness to fully resolve. If that was the case this time, there really was a genuine question as to whether Pollyanne would be healthy enough to make the two-hour lorry journey to the Royal Opera House in a couple of months’ time, so I fully understood John’s concern and prayed it wouldn’t be that serious.

It was a little before 3 p.m. when I drove down Old Didcot Road and turned into the donkey sanctuary. John was waiting as I pulled up at the gate into the yard, and he came striding over to open it. Then in his mid-seventies, he was still incredibly fit, but that was hardly surprising: he was a true worker, so passionate about his donkeys and other animals that to him his job was as pleasurable as a hobby. I was sure that in the thirty-two years since he had set up the sanctuary, he could count the number of days’ holiday he had taken on two hands.

As I got out of the car, he greeted me with his usual broad grin and firm handshake. Dressed in his customary heavy-duty black ankle boots, brown corduroy trousers, checked shirt, grey knitted V-neck sleeveless jumper and his faithful flat cap, he was ever the country gentleman, although his clothes, like his hands, told the same story of years of toil and hardship.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Thank you very much for coming.’

‘It’s a pleasure, John. Now, how is she?’

‘Oh, not very good … not very good at all.’

‘Did you get the painkiller into her, and did you manage to get her in from the paddock?’

‘I did, yes, she’s had half a sachet of Bute, and Linda and I managed to walk her in an hour ago, but she’s still incredibly sore.’

‘Let’s have a look at her then.’

We strolled over to the old ramshackle wooden barn next to the staff room, which was used as the infirmary. Full of cobwebs, with a pen for a sheep and goat, chickens nesting among four square straw bales, the odd farm cat peering out from behind a bag of corn, and a pile of baler twine and empty feed bags in the corner, it was an image of a forgotten time. For that very reason, it was my favourite place at the sanctuary and, of course, where I ended up spending the majority of my time.

Pollyanne was in the first of the two stalls. Despite the painkillers, and the deep straw bedding to cushion her feet, she was in obvious pain. Standing with her forelegs straight in front of her, resting her weight on her heels, she had the classic laminitic stance. There was none of the friendly, inquisitive nuzzling with which she usually greeted strangers as I stepped over the three-foot stainless-steel sheep fencing into her pen. Instead, her ears were down, and her eyes bulging, emphasizing the discomfort she felt.

‘I see what you mean, John. She really is struggling, isn’t she?’

‘It’s the worst I’ve seen her in eighteen years.’

Never one to exaggerate, John didn’t say that lightly. I bent down and felt for her digital pulses. They were pounding, and there was also noticeable heat in her hooves. I was keen to lift up her feet to have a look at her soles, but transferring further weight onto an already painful foot was something she firmly resisted and thus didn’t warrant the further distress it would have caused.

‘Yeah, it’s laminitis all right, and given how painful she is, I think we should X-ray her feet and make sure nothing catastrophic is going on in that hoof.’

‘Whatever you suggest,’ John replied.

‘I could borrow our practice’s machine, but I won’t be able to get back out with it again until Thursday at the earliest, so I think it’s best if I refer her so we can get the ball rolling as soon as possible.’

If her pedal bone was rotating and slipping through the hoof, then Pollyanne’s condition was extremely serious and would need intensive remedial work by a farrier to address the problem. The only way of accurately assessing whether there was any rotation, and if so how much, was by X-raying the feet. It was a simple job, but because she was in so much pain, she was unfit to travel and so the X-raying would need to be done at the sanctuary, and this required a portable machine. There was a very good equine specialist hospital not far away and they had a very experienced farrier who would be able to manage her feet and give her the best chance of a speedy recovery.

‘I’ll give them a call now,’ I explained to John, ‘and see if someone can come out to X-ray her feet this afternoon. Then we can take it from there. In the meantime I’ll give her a sedation and some more pain relief and put some temporary cushioning pads on the bottom of her feet. Hopefully that’ll help her a little.’

Returning to my car, I made the call, grabbed some bandage material and soft supportive pads, and drew up a couple of injections, which I then administered. After a few minutes Pollyanne was sleepy enough for us to lift each front foot in turn so I could bandage the cushioning in place. Ten minutes later the job was done.

‘I’m much obliged to you,’ said John, handing me a coffee. ‘You know what Pollyanne means to me. They’re all special, of course, but I’ve never had a donkey like her … She really is a special one, all right.’

‘Someone will be out between about five and five thirty this afternoon,’ I reported, taking a sip.

‘Very good, very good. Thank you.’

‘They’ll let me know what they find, and then we’ll take it from there. I can come back out in due course to check on her, but they’ll probably manage her from here on.’

‘Right you are, Jon.’

So after my coffee and my usual enjoyable chat with John, I bid him farewell and headed off in my car.

That evening I got a phone call from the vet with the results of Pollyanne’s X-ray. There was a small amount of pedal bone rotation in both feet, he told me, but fortunately she wasn’t in imminent danger of her bone slipping through her sole. She would need some remedial care to correct and settle things, which would take time to resolve, but he was optimistic that she would be sound in plenty of time for the opera. It was encouraging news and, although he’d already told a very relieved John, I rang him to check in.

‘Hi, John, I’ve just spoken with the vet. It sounds like it’s really the best possible news.’

‘So it is, Jon, I’m mighty relieved and very grateful to you for your help. If all goes to plan, there’ll be no holding her back in six weeks.’ The anxiety I had heard in his voice that morning had gone. ‘And Jon? As this is the last year she’s performing, you’d be more than welcome to come up with us to one of her performances and be with us backstage.’

‘I would love that, thank you!’

‘That’s settled then. It’s the least I can do. I’ll get Wendy to send you a list of possible dates and then you can let me know which one suits you.’

‘Perfect, I’ll really look forward to that.’

‘Good. It’s quite an experience – and you’ll have to excuse my outfit.’ He laughed. ‘I look quite the character when I’m all made up.’

‘I’ll wait to hear from Wendy. Thank you, John. And let me know if I can help any further with Pollyanne, but it sounds like she’s in good hands.’

After a couple of weeks’ slow progress, Pollyanne suddenly turned a corner, and a month later she was back to trotting around the field as though nothing had happened and, much to everyone’s delight, the opera was back on. Wendy sent me a list of dates when Pollyanne would be performing, and I was pleased to see that I’d be in London for one of them, which sounded like a fun way to finish a day of meetings.

And so on a cold, crisp Tuesday evening in November I found myself turning off Bow Street into a virtually deserted Floral Street. Parked up next to the tall black double doors of the backstage entrance, John’s elderly maroon converted Ford Transit horsebox looked entirely out of place. The stage doors were so tall you could walk a giraffe in through them with ease. A security guard stood on patrol, eyeing me suspiciously as I headed over towards the trailer, but before he could engage me, John appeared out of a nearby door, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

‘Perfect timing, Jon,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘I’ve just had a lovely dinner courtesy of the Opera House in their restaurant. Have you eaten? They’ll feed you if not? You have? Oh, very well, very well.’ He turned to the trailer. ‘And what about you, Pollyanne, is it time for your pre-performance snacks?’ The trailer shook as she stomped inside, responding to the familiar voice. ‘You’ve been a very patient girl, as always.’ He started unbolting the backdoor to the trailer.

‘Are you ready to take her in, John?’ the security guard suddenly piped up.

‘Yes please, Keith,’ John shouted back.

‘Right you are.’ He spoke into a receiver on the wall. ‘Lift for John and Pollyanne coming onto stage.’

John had meanwhile lowered the ramp and was climbing onto the trailer. ‘Jon, would you mind taking some of the chickens over to the lift?’ he said, handing me a crate containing two live chickens.

Somewhat baffled, I did as I was told. Returning to the trailer, I could see that Pollyanne was getting impatient now, stomping and braying.

‘All right girl, I’m just coming,’ John assured her, handing over a second crate of chickens. ‘Jon, can you close up the trailer behind me?’

He handed me the keys before climbing back onto the trailer, untying and leading Pollyanne down the ramp. It was such an incongruous sight that my brain could scarcely process the image I was seeing: a donkey trotting the streets of London. I lifted up the ramp to close and lock up the trailer and joined John in the elevator. This was already becoming an evening of firsts; I was now in a lift in the Royal Opera House, with four chickens and a donkey … It felt like the start of a joke. Keith shut the doors behind us and with the press of a button sent us on our way, up to the stage floor.

The stage manager, dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, complete with clipboard, a radio and earpiece, greeted Pollyanne warmly.

‘Here she is!’ she said, ignoring John and myself as she opened the elevator door. ‘I’ve missed you, Pollyanne.’ There was obvious affection in her voice as she rubbed Pollyanne’s mane. Pollyanne responded, with equal affection, nodding her head and nuzzling into the stage manager’s arm, but then she started sniffing her pockets for a treat. They clearly had an established routine. ‘OK, OK, here it is,’ she said, pulling out a carrot, which she grabbed before it was offered. ‘You only love me for my treats, don’t you, Pollyanne?’ she said with an air of pretend resentment. Greetings done, she turned her attention to us. ‘Evening, John. You’re in the same place as usual, let me know if there’s anything you need.’

‘Thank you, Emily. On top of things as ever, I see! Can I introduce you to Jon? He’s Pollyanne’s vet. He couldn’t miss her last season performing.’

‘Welcome, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure John will show you the ropes, but if there’s anything you need just let me know. Feel free to watch the performance from the wings. You’ll see some tape on the floor. Anyone past that line can be seen by the audience, so can I just ask you not to go beyond it at any time.’

John stepped off the elevator platform leading Pollyanne, and I followed with one of the crates. As we came out from behind a black screen, a hive of activity greeted us and I realized we were actually already back stage. To the right of me was the stage itself, but the large forty-foot-high set panels blocked my view of it. The high ceiling was full of scaffolding on which the lighting rigs could be hung and moved. Cables ran along the floor in all directions, taped down at regular points to prevent people tripping on them. Messages, instructions or directions were chalked on the floor at various points. A lady attended to a rack of costumes and table of props. A multitude of people dressed in black like Emily were all busy at work on their various jobs. On this side, the back stage area was probably 15 feet wide. Halfway along it, a 6-foot by 6-foot pen had been erected, complete with straw bedding and a bucket of water. Next to it hung a rack with John’s costume. He opened the pen and Pollyanne sauntered in with an eager familiarity. The lady on the props table walked over to join us.

‘Evening, John. Your costume is all here, do you want assistance dressing this evening?’

‘Thank you, Mary, I’ll be fine.’

‘No problem,’ she said, disappearing back to her table.

‘When I first started doing this, I used to be dressed every night like some earl,’ he whispered to me. ‘It was all very odd, but now I know how to put it all on, I prefer to do it myself.’ He busied himself getting Pollyanne settled with her hay net and unpacking her bag of brushes. Meanwhile I returned to the elevator to grab the other crate of chickens. ‘There’s a little drinker and a bottle of water you can fill up for each of the chicken crates,’ John instructed me.

As we settled our charges into their temporary accommodation, the stage workforce were increasingly distracted by our arrival, coming over to greet Pollyanne enthusiastically. It was evident that she was a very popular addition to the performance. One old chap suddenly appeared with two carrier bags, full to bursting, one with sweets and the second with apples, carrots and other such donkey delights. ‘Here you go, John, your evening supplies.’

‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ John responded as he took them, then turned to me and whispered, ‘That’s Richard, he’s the same every time. Brings all these sweets for us. I can never eat them, but he insists we take them home for all the volunteers at the sanctuary, and of course Pollyanne gets her own bag.’ Then in a slightly serious tone, he added, ‘As you can see, everyone is so eager to spoil her, I actually have to monitor what she gets, to make sure she doesn’t get overfed.’

Among the small crowd of well-wishers, a lady now appeared who, from her appearance, did not seem to be part of the stage crew.

‘Evening, John, all OK?’ she said, before turning to greet Pollyanne.

John looked up and, as he recognized her, a warm smile spread across his face. ‘Hi, Kay, I’m fine, just fine, let me introduce you to Jon, he’s our vet at the sanctuary, I thought I’d bring him to show him our star at work!’ He turned to me. ‘Kay is Pollyanne’s agent, the one that got us into all this nearly twenty years ago, can you believe it?’

‘Pleasure to meet you,’ I said, shaking her hand.

‘How lovely you could come this evening. You must go and meet Louis, the gentle giant, he’s the other star of the show.’

‘Yes, Louis is beautiful,’ John agreed. ‘In fact, Kay, would you mind staying with Pollyanne for a minute so I can show Jon around?’

‘Of course, no problem,’ Kay said, and immediately turned her attention to fussing over Pollyanne who was now more interested in her hay net.

‘Come on, Jon, it’s only six thirty, so there’s plenty of time to show you around before I need to get ready.’

First he led me towards the front of the immaculately prepared stage, where a small team of stagehands were attending to last-minute jobs. The vast crimson red stage curtain was down and there was as yet little noise coming from the other side of it. Any punters who had already arrived were clearly occupying the bars and restaurants rather than their seats. I noticed the yellow tape on the floor that Emily had mentioned. Despite it being set about a metre back from the stage entrance, the vantage point still afforded a view of over half of the stage. Six chairs were lined up in two rows of three, in the corner, behind the line.

‘You’re more than welcome to watch the performance from here,’ John told me. ‘These are for special guests of the performers.’

Then he led me back past Pollyanne’s pen to the back right of the stage, which opened out into a much larger area. A large, majestic, jet-black shire stallion stood in the middle of his roped-off area as his owner brushed and groomed him.

‘Good evening, Samantha, are you well?’ John said, greeting her and introducing us.

‘This is Pollyanne’s mate, Louis,’ she told me. ‘The two of them have been in every performance of Carmen since it started, haven’t they, John?’

‘Indeed, they both love it.’

‘What a beautiful animal,’ I said, stroking him.

‘Thank you, he’s such a star, even if I do say so. Never put a foot wrong in nine years.’

‘Louis plays a horse belonging to Carmen’s lover, the bull-fighter Escamillo,’ John explained. ‘He has to carry Escamillo around the stage while he sings “Toreador”. It’s pretty impressive to watch.’

I wondered how many opera singers imagine their career will involve performing on horseback. We left Louis, and John led me further back. It was only now that I began to fully appreciate just how large the stage was, but just when I thought we had reached the back of it, we came to a huge doorway. Walking through it, I realized we were on another enormous stage, and beyond that a third stage piled high with an array of sets: a throne room, a balcony, vast paintings, spectacular painted vistas.

‘It’s incredible, John,’ I said in disbelief. ‘I would have never known the back stage area was so vast.’

‘Yes, this area is even bigger than the front of stage, apparently, and these stages are on a huge turntable system so parts of the floor or whole stages can be interchanged between scenes or performances. They can store multiple different sets at the same time, which means they can have several different performances running together. It had a huge overhaul in the late nineties, and that’s when they added a lot of this. Well, I guess I’d best be getting ready, and Pollyanne will be eager for a brush,’ he added, bringing me back to the whole purpose of why we were there. We retraced our steps, and found Kay sitting on a chair outside the pen, busy on her phone, while Pollyanne was still happily tucking into her hay.

‘Thanks, Kay,’ John said, gathering together his outfit from the rail. ‘I’d better go and get changed now.’

‘Do you want me to give Pollyanne a brush while you’re getting changed?’ I enquired.

‘If you want to, that would be a great help, thanks.’ He disappeared off to find a changing room among the rabbit warren of corridors, rooms and offices underneath the stage.

I climbed into Pollyanne’s pen and took to brushing her. She responded immediately, leaving her hay net and turning to face the stage, ears pricked.

Kay laughed, ‘She knows exactly what’s going on, don’t you think?’

‘She certainly does – quite the performer, isn’t she?’ I replied.

‘I have to say I deal with all sorts of animals in my line of work and Pollyanne is one of my favourites, she’s such a character. I’m sure John told you about the night when Radio Three were here recording Pagliacci with Plácido Domingo, and Pollyanne let out an almighty bray during a duet. John was mortified, but everyone else thought it was hilarious.’

‘He did tell me, but I didn’t realize it was when the BBC were recording the performance.’

‘Oh yeah. After that people started queuing up outside the stage doors to get hoof prints of Pollyanne in their programmes, it was unbelievable. John took it all in his stride, as you’d expect.’

‘How funny,’ I mused. ‘Quite the celebrity.’

‘Who is?’ John said, suddenly reappearing, now dressed as a simple Spanish peasant farmer in old boots, chaps, flannel trousers, white shirt and grey jacket.

‘Pollyanne,’ Kay responded. ‘I was just telling Jon about how people used to queue up for her autograph.’

‘Oh yes,’ John chortled. ‘Took me quite by surprise the first time, but we soon got pretty good at it. Her hoof oil worked brilliantly as ink.’

‘You couldn’t make it up,’ I chuckled.

‘Well, what do you think?’ John asked. ‘Do I pass as a Spanish peasant?’

‘You certainly look quite the part. So, what is your role?’ I said, realizing for the first time that I didn’t actually know the story.

‘Well in Act One it’s a street scene and we appear on stage, with Pollyanne wearing a pair of pannier baskets filled with old-fashioned wine flagons, and I saunter around the stage offering them to villagers. Then in Act Three we walk onto the remnant of a battlefield. This time the pannier baskets are full of ammunition, and I sell them, along with Pollyanne, to some gypsies who walk off with her.’

‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I said.

‘Come on then, Pollyanne, time to put your outfit on.’

The wings were all starting to fill with the performers, many of whom were keen to greet Pollyanne, while the bustle of the audience taking their seats was now clearly audible on the other side of the curtain. The stage caller wandered around, announcing, ‘Ten minutes.’

I felt an eager anticipation, but the routine of just another day in the office was evident among the cast, who were nonchalantly playing on their phones or chatting away. Pollyanne was now wearing her panniers over a very cleverly designed harness that had a subtle sack at the back to catch any droppings, should an accident happen on stage – although in nine years it never had. John donned his simple wide-brimmed hat and put his pipe in his mouth.

‘Five minutes to curtain up, take your positions and all quiet back stage, thank you.’

Quietly and efficiently, phones were put away and various cast members took to the stage while others got into position in the wings ready for their cue, as relaxed as ever. I marvelled at how slick and professional it was, but then this was the Royal Opera House, so I guess it had to be.

The orchestra started, the curtain went up and as the opera began I snuck forward to watch from the wings at the front of the stage. The auditorium was packed, with every single one of the 2,256 seats taken. I felt nervous just standing there watching the performance, and I wasn’t even on stage. I was just feet away from the limelight, it would be so easy to just walk out onto the stage, wave or take a bow. It was the same dizzy sort of feeling you get when you’re standing at the top of a tall building and imagine jumping off. After a few minutes I started getting used to my hidden vantage point, enjoying the unique privilege of the opportunity. Before long Pollyanne and John came on for Act One and then in no time they were back off stage, having delivered, as far as I could tell, another faultless performance. I wandered back over to join them. John took no time in removing Pollyanne’s costume to give her a brief rest, as they wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the first half. Pollyanne, so familiar with the routine, settled back into her hay net.

At the end of Act Two the screen came down to signal the interval. The hive of activity from the audience drowned out any noise that we made and so we were able to start talking normally again.

‘Time for a coffee, I reckon. Would you like one?’ John asked. ‘If you stay with Pollyanne, I’ll pop and get one.’

‘Sure, thanks.’

John disappeared with most of the cast as they headed to the dressing rooms. A few people stayed to engage with Pollyanne, who turned to greet her admirers. She never seemed to tire of the attention. The stagehands busied themselves on stage and in the wings as they altered the set for the second half.

John soon returned with coffees.

‘Enjoying it so far?’ he asked as he handed me one.

‘The whole experience is amazing. I still can’t quite believe I’m backstage at the Royal Opera House,’ I confessed. ‘It’s all a bit surreal.’

‘You have to go on stage after the performance, when everyone has gone. It’s incredible to look out at all the seats. It’s only then that you realize quite how special this place is.’

‘I’ll be sure to do that.’

Coffees finished, John set about getting Pollyanne ready again, and the cast started filtering back, several in new costumes.

‘Five minutes to curtain up for the second half, positions please.’

Once again the cast swiftly took their places and minutes later the orchestra erupted in its full glory. Up went the curtain, and the second half was under way.

Again I watched parts of it from the wings, although I found myself tiring of the limited view. If there were any tickets left for any of the performances, I vowed to come back and see it properly. As the opera reached it climax, I wandered down the wing to the back of the stage where Samantha was holding Louis with Gábor Bretz, who played Escamillo, already mounted up to ride on stage for the grand finale.

As the final notes died away, the audience erupted in delight at the evening’s entertainment. The cast took their repeated bows and then the curtain descended and all was over. Immediately a fever of activity broke out behind the curtain as the stagehands started striking the set. Carmen was not on again till Saturday, and in the meantime The Royal Ballet would be performing Romeo and Juliet, so things had to be dismantled for the stages to be switched around. I watched in amazement at the efficiency of the operation. After about twenty minutes of organized chaos the stage was completely empty, revealing quite how vast the space actually was. The curtain then rose to reveal the now empty auditorium, I tentatively left my seat by Pollyanne’s pen and headed to the front of the stage, looking out across the stalls, the grand tier, balcony and amphitheatre. John was right: it truly was breathtaking. I thought of the catalogue of world-famous ballerinas and opera singers who had performed on this very stage. And then I wondered how many vets had stood where I was standing.

Donkeys: fast facts

Equus africanus asinus: The donkey

Distribution: There are 185 different breeds of donkey across the world, but the greatest populations are found in Africa, Asia and Latin America. They all originate from the now endangered African wild ass, which is found in Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia and Somalia.

Names: An adult male is called a ‘jack’, a female a ‘jenny’, and the young a ‘foal’. A male donkey can be crossed with a female horse to produce a mule, and a male horse can be crossed with a female donkey to produce a hinny. A group of donkeys is called a ‘drove’.

Life span: About 30–50 years.

Habitat: Their natural aptitude is for arid or semi-arid climates, but their resilience and usefulness as a working animal means they have adapted to survive in most environments.

Diet: They are grazers, naturally feeding on grass and scrub and although, like the horse their food is broken down by microbial action in the hind gut, their digestive system is more efficient, allowing them to survive on a much poorer-quality diet.

Gestation: 11–14 months.

Weight: Foals weigh 8–16 kg, growing to 80–480 kg as adults, depending on the breed.

Growth: Although a jenny can come into heat as soon as 9 days after a foal is born, she won’t naturally mate until the foal is weaned at about 6 months. Jacks reach puberty at about 10 months, and jennys at about 2 years, but neither are fully grown until about 3 years.

Body temperature: 36.2–37.8 °C.

Interesting fact: The donkey has been used as a working animal for over 5,000 years and, after human labour, they are the cheapest form of agricultural power.

Conservation: There are an estimated 40 million donkeys worldwide, about 96 per cent of them in undeveloped countries. In 2006, 27 per cent of the global population of donkeys lived in China but this has now reduced to 7.5 per cent, following growing demand for donkey meat and donkey-hide gelatin, ‘ejiao’, which can sell for about £300 per kg. This has led to donkeys being traded from Africa where they are often kept in appalling conditions. Brooke is an incredible equine charity that seeks to relieve the suffering of donkeys and mules all across the third world: www.thebrooke.org. The Island Farm Donkey Sanctuary also does a wonderful job in caring for neglected donkeys within the UK: www.donkeyrescue.co.uk.