"She called the donkeys her children. Her uncle owned them but they were hers in spirit since she fed them and rode them and gave them their names. I never knew which was which or whether they were brother and sister, a Jenny or a Jack, but for sixty-seven days she called me her donkeys’ daddy and said things like 'Why don’t you go give daddy a kiss?' or 'You love your daddy, don’t you?' or 'That mean old donkey daddy doesn’t love us anymore,' while holding their heads in her hands and looking into their tar-drop eyes ringed with white. When they bit at each other, flung their heads back or spun to get at flies, it thrilled me. Sometimes, in the midst of a heat-struck nap we shared after digging for arrowheads or Indian bones or the bones of an ancient wooly mammoth at the mineral spring construction site, one of them would wake us up with a snort or a hee-haw or a gentle head-butt and I would call her donkeys mine."
-from Sesquicentennial, a novel