Mr. Dougharty

I don’t own a donkey; I have a business partner. Her name is Sally.

Respect. Sure, we haul gear in and out of the canyon. This is what we get paid for. But this wouldn’t happen without a relationship, and our relationship is based on respect.

We’re on a narrow trail. It’s a thousand feet down to where you would die if you lost your balance, and Sally just stops. Why? It doesn’t matter. She knows what she knows and you can’t second-guess her. Respect means that I have to trust her. So I just tell the others, “We pause here to catch our breath.”

You can’t see into another creature’s brain. You don’t really know what she’s thinking, why she stops, or why she moves. Maybe she sees something you don’t. Maybe she loves you. Maybe she respects you because she appreciates that you take care of things for her and you don’t force her to work like a slave. Nor do you treat her like a child. Maybe she sees a snake, or knows that a gust of wind is building up and will blow across our trail just ahead.

I try to act like a mature person. You think at my age it wouldn’t be an act. Sally helps. She gives me little things to hold on to—a snort, a blink, a shake of her head. I know she has it together, so I take a deep breath.