Let me introduce you to BK—a shaggy redheaded mini donkey with oversized ears and a face like he just got caught chewing on something he shouldn’t. You might assume his name stands for something like “Barnyard King” or “Big Kicker.” But no—his full name is Barack Kirby, and yes, there’s a story behind it. Because of course there is.
Jim, in one of his finer moments of comedy, suggested we name our new miniature donkey Barack. As in “Yes-we-can” Barack. I suggested we not insult the donkey like that. The poor thing already had to share a pen with three baby goats, and if you’ve ever had baby goats, you know that’s a sentence in itself. My daughter, granddaughter, and I preferred Kirby—charming, harmless, emotionally stable. So we did what all mature families do: ignored Jim and called it a compromise. His official name? Barack Kirby. But around here, we just say BK, because frankly, I have standards.
BK is five months old, which puts him squarely in the “awkward middle school boy” phase of donkey life—all legs, zero grace, full of opinions. He’s small, stubborn, and currently convinced that electric fencing is just licorice with a kick.
The grand plan (oh, how we love our grand plans) was for BK to be a pasture companion for our horse, Talon. We imagined them galloping through dewy meadows like a Hallmark movie come to life. But as usual, the farm laughed in our faces and rewrote the script.
The goats took one look at BK and immediately decided he was their personal savior. Their messiah. Their four-legged prophet of hay and hope. Wherever he went, they followed. If he sniffed a fence post, they’d form a worship circle. If he lay down for a nap, they’d flop around him like loyal cultists attending a barnyard meditation retreat. “We’re doing downward goat now. Breathe in the hay. Exhale the bleats.”
He became their Donkey Deity—the Goat God. I was no longer their trusted chaperone. BK was. They went where he went. Ate what he ate. Tried to scale what he scaled. (Which, for the record, now includes a hay bale, a chicken roost, and my wheelbarrow.)
Naturally, Talon, my Gypsy Cob, wanted nothing to do with any of it. Anytime a goat tiptoed into his pasture, he’d go full grumpy-old-man mode and chase them back to the barn like they were trying to sell him extended warranty coverage. My hopes for a cross-species bromance were fading fast.
But then fate stepped in. We went away overnight—just one night—and came back to find Talon not where we left him. He was in the goat pasture. Grazing. Hanging out. No trampling. No screaming. No ritualistic donkey worship. Just quiet harmony, like they’d all gathered for brunch and decided to stay.
The gate was latched. The fence was fine. Unless Talon grew thumbs and figured out how to unlatch gates—or tunneled in like an equine version of Andy Dufresne—we may never know how he got there. But there he was, standing peacefully among his former enemies like they were discussing stock tips and debating whether alfalfa or orchard grass makes a better brunch.
So maybe I should’ve just trusted the process. Maybe goats and horses can get along. Maybe BK really is the bridge between species. Or maybe—and this feels more accurate—I should stop trying to micromanage barnyard politics and just let the animals do what animals do.
Because here’s what I’ve learned: On a farm, plans are fragile. Fences are suggestions. And sometimes peace looks like a horse, a donkey, and three baby goats standing together in the grass, proving once again that I am not in charge around here.
Also, you can never trust a redhead with hooves. Especially one named BK.
