27
life, and the other people you’re talking to and
dealing with,” says McDougall.
When our run continued down a road, a driver
pulled up to ask McDougall, who was holding
Sherman with his rope, for directions to a local
welder. He then tried to hand McDougall a reli-
gious pamphlet. McDougall told him to bug off,
taking none too kindly to the proselytizing. “I
think Sherman would look at me,” he says, “and
say, ‘We’ve got some work to do.’ ”
now it was My turn to try my hand running
with the book’s protagonist. (Matilda, one of
Sherman’s pals, was the donkey kicking me.)
McDougall told me to stay behind Sherman and
lightly tap his gray fur with my rope, while sort of
growling a command—“Grrrreup!”—to get him
moving. “Grrrreup!” I yelled, with little conviction.
“Grrrreup.” My barks seemed inadequate, but
McDougall told me I had a “refined growl.” He may
have just been buttering up a visiting writer, but
“refined donkey growl” is a compliment I never
expected, and will gladly take.
Despite my growling expertise, Sherman still
wasn’t moving. It takes a while to earn his trust.
But once he saw Matilda and his other donkey run-
ning partners ahead of him picking up the pace,
Sherman’s ears perked up; he finally started mov-
ing. I clutched my rope before sprinting alongside
the donkey, thinking Sherman and I were in lock-
step. But the donkey stopped cold: I had forgot-
ten McDougall’s directive to stay behind the burro.
Just because Sherman would run with me didn’t
mean he wanted to see me.
Sherman turned his head and stared, as if to say,
“What the hell is wrong with you?” It’s a look Mc-
Dougall knows all too well. Sherman’s message is
as clear as the Pennsylvania sky. “I’m the donkey,
goddammit,” says McDougall. “And now I have to
teach you what to do?” □
‘I think
Sherman
would
look at me
and say,
“We’ve
got some
work
to do.” ’
CHRISTOPHER
MCDOUGALL,
psychoanalyzing
his donkey
BRIAN FINKE FOR TIME
