Farewell Little Black Donkey

As mum writes this for me, you are on your way to your death. Mum has cried for you - no one saved you, and you are on the lorry, trundling down through France to Italy where you will die.

You were only worth Euros 300, not a lot for a little life. You didn't have a name, you didn't even merit having your photograph taken, just an anonymous little black donkey, 10 years old, who no one loved. What happened in all those ten years for you to end up like this?

Are you cold just now? Hungry? Thirsty? You must be frightened. Have you been trampled by the bigger horses on the lorry with you, as you struggle to keep your balance, as the miles go by. Are you cold and tired. You can't lie down, there's no room. Did they stop as they are supposed to and give you a rest? Who knows. Did any of the people you passed on the way give you a thought, shed a tear or just shrug and not care?

When you get there, what happens? Will anyone give you a last drink of water, or a little bit of hay before they kill you?

Or have they been celebrating Christmas early? Have they had a glass of wine at lunchtime, gettng ready for the weekend. Will they laugh at you and your friends as you go to die? Taunt you, beat you. Use the electric prod on you.

I hope they stun you correctly. That is the one thing I really pray for. That you don't know what happens next. Or do you feel the cut of the sharp knife as they cut your throat? Or feel the pain of being shackled and hauled into the air to bleed to death? Do they jeer as your blood gushes and drips as you struggle in your pain?

I wish you could have had a name, a life, a future. I wish someone could have comforted you at the end. I wish the others who will follow you next week could be spared.

But this is the real world. They will follow you. And more and more. Until maybe some day someone says enough.