Mum says that these poor little fellows are being loaded onto the bad lorries, the ones that take them to either Italy (for the salami trade) or to a local killing place.
I wish I could be there to warn them, don't go in, jump the fence, run like stink. But I'm not, so they don't. If only I was Vodka Superdonkey I would swoop down there with my cloak flapping and scoop them all up and keep them safe. But I am only a very young but large brown French donkey who, while clever and smart, can't solve all the bad things that happen in the world. I am leaving that to Mr Obama - maybe he could do a flying visit to the butchers fairs and declare them unconstitutional or something. Equines don't like this idea of special rendition, we would prefer to stay at home please.
As an innocent young donkey, if I'd been there, would I have known that jumping ship now was a very good idea. Tunnel while you can, become a puissance donkey capable of jumping any fence and literally running for my life. Thankfully, though this was my destiny, I dodged it.
If fate hadn't intervened and given me that huge lucky break, what would I have done, gone on the lorry or had a tantrum. I suspect, that given how cowed, submissive and frightened I was, I would have gone one. I guess the brave Cazaux, my erstwhile companion, might have put up a bit of a fight, but being a gentleman, if I'd gone in I'm sure he would have too, just to look after me. I wouldn't have known any better. And anyway I wouldn't have been given much choice, as if you don't go, they beat you. So eventually you follow the others. And that's it, trapped.
This is the last time you will see the sky, taste grass, have a drink of water, enjoy a stretch, have a snooze. However long your journey, you probably won't be fed, or given any rest or water, you will just trundle on all through France, heading south to the barbaric country that is Italy.
Mum says it's a shame that such a cultured nation can have such peculiar habits, which extend to killing foals, killing pregnant mares. At least the French draw the line at that, you have to have the baby before they kill you.
The last thing you see at the market is sticks waving, folks shouting, and that's pretty much what you are going to see at the end of your final journey.
Bon voyage.
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