A Burro's Progress: My BLM Burro Arrives

Meet Olivia.

One of the infinite joys of the equine world is even after a half-century of working with them, there's always a new experience, a new pleasure, a new goal to be achieved. Since reading Marguerite Henry's "Brighty of the Grand Canyon," as a child, I've wanted a burro - but not just any burro, I wanted to adopt a BLM burro that once roamed my home state here in Arizona. The timing hasn't been right, before now; sometimes life is a series of speed bumps and cul-de-sacs. Yesterday, the forces of nature aligned and, thanks to the help of my forever friend Cindy Mathers and a talented young horsewoman named Christen Milhon, I brought home Olivia.

Until just a few weeks ago, Olivia ran feral in the Cibola region of Arizona, when she was rounded up. Olivia was put up for adoption three times, without success, at which point she was available for direct sale to the public. Christen Milhon steps in on as many of these situations as she can and rescues burros and mustangs before they end up in the kill pen. Olivia (whom she had called "June") was a recent rescue.

I dubbed the lovely three-year old burro "Olivia" in honor of Olive Oatman, the famous pioneer Arizona woman who'd been kidnapped by natives, her face tattooed, before eventually being rescued. Olive's family gave its name to the small town of Oatman, famous for the burros that roam the streets and sidewalks and beg treats from tourists.

Olivia had the advantage of a short time with Christen, but is neither tame nor halter broke. She's cagy and apprehensive, but neither aggressive nor ill-tempered. She has a sweet eye and responds sensibly. She watches everything - I like that trait in an animal (as well as in people) - and I know she'll learn a lot simply by watching everything I do in the barn area, and that will inform my work with her.

Because Olivia is an observant beast, I waited to feed her until last today. I wanted her to focus on watching my every move. Although burros are notorious for aggression towards canines and wildcats, I let the large dogs out this morning so she could begin to familiarize herself with them - and they with her. Ethan, the rambunctious McNab pup, is a vocal dog and initially barked at Olivia, recognizing her as a new sort of creature unlike the horses, goat, or cattle. As soon as Olivia gave him a side-eye and shifted her ears in his direction, he'd quickly dodge out of the pen.

Once I'd cleaned the barn and fed everyone else, I brought a mounting block as a seat, a cup of coffee, a flake of timothy, and a bucket of bermuda pellets for my first session with Olivia.

I plopped the bucket down just in front of my foot, sipped my coffee, and waited. Within a few minutes Olivia ventured forth and checked out the bucket.

After a few minutes, a tentative Olivia was eating happily, but alertly, while I sat. I tried to make some non-threatening noise and, I admit, I sang Hank Williams songs to her. If you had ever heard me sing, you'd consider that threatening, or torturous, but Olivia seemed calmed by it.

I avoided reaching out to her in any way. Prey animals instinctively view those extended arms as outstretched claws until they have learned to trust you. I'm in no rush, and I let Olivia just munch her food.

After a few more minutes, I moved the bucket of pellets between my feet. Olivia wasn't pleased, and wandered off to the other side of the stall for a bit, acting uninterested in the food. Of course, she soon came back.

Olivia, fairly confident now, was unconcerned as she munched her breakfast. Every few minutes, Ethan would approach; Olivia was more trustful, now, and merely watched him. Every so often, Ethan being Ethan, he'd bark.  I'd also let Lily, the goat, out during morning chores. Lily came by regularly, her goat-bell clanging, and Olivia gave her a curious, almost welcoming look.

Finally, I reached down slowly and rested my hand on the bucket. A few minutes later, Olivia returned and ate from the bucket, her nose just inches from my hand. Again, I never tried to pet her; I just was.

That was it for my first session with Olivia: just letting her decide it was safe to approach and be near me. A few times during the session, of her own volition she reached out and touched my hair and face with her muzzle, smelling me. I took advantage of these moments to deeply exhale, communicating to her my sense of peace and calmness. Eventually, she'll learn, as the horses do, to draw confidence from those moments: if the herd boss (me) isn't alarmed, neither will she be. 

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