The laughter bubbles out of you like water from a spring. You are, after all, a keeper and companion of cats; you are well acquainted with hungry and insistent animals climbing into your lap. At least donkeys don't have claws!

"Stop that," you say, grinning, lifting the donkey's head so that he doesn't eat your dress. But that keeps him away from his beloved carrot, and so he shoves his head further and further forward, complaining that you are heartless, that you are starving him, that you are wasting him away to skin and bones and that he will drop dead this very moment if he is not given his rightful carrot.

"Robena," you say, still laughing, "come and feed this poor dear his carrot before he eats me all up, too?"