I spend a good deal of my days in the company of animals. Goats, donkeys, rabbits, chickens, and a few other personalities who have found their way into my life. They are an opinionated bunch, each with their own peculiar habits and ideas about how things ought to be done. And while I wouldn't suggest they're wiser than humans in every respect—I've watched a goat spend an unreasonable amount of time trying to get through a fence it could simply walk around—I do think they understand a few things we've managed to forget.
Take the art of doing absolutely nothing. My donkeys are exceptionally good at this. On any given afternoon, I might find them enjoying the shade, occasionally swishing a tail or repositioning an ear. They aren't waiting for something interesting to happen. They don't appear to be contemplating their next accomplishment. They're simply having an afternoon. A perfectly satisfactory afternoon, as far as they're concerned. Meanwhile, I can barely sit down with a cup of coffee without mentally compiling a list of everything I should be doing instead.
Somewhere along the way maybe we began confusing being busy with being worthwhile. We fill our calendars, measure our accomplishments, and feel vaguely guilty when we aren't moving something forward. Even our leisure has become something to optimize. We can't simply take a walk; we need to count the steps. We can't enjoy a hobby without wondering whether we might turn it into a business. The donkeys would find this exhausting. And I suspect they'd be right.
Of course, animals experience fear, discomfort, loneliness, and grief. Their lives aren't entirely carefree. But they don't seem particularly interested in making life more complicated than it already is. A goat doesn't spend the afternoon wondering whether the other goats think she's successful. A rabbit doesn't appear troubled by her lack of accomplishments. And my chickens certainly don't question whether their personalities might be a little too much for polite society. They are exactly who they are. Some are affectionate. Some are cautious. Some are spectacularly stubborn. A few seem convinced the entire world exists for their personal convenience. They don't apologize for any of it. I find that rather refreshing.
Humans, meanwhile, spend an astonishing amount of time trying to become more acceptable versions of ourselves. We worry about being too quiet, too outspoken, too sensitive, too old, too ordinary. Imagine a donkey worrying that he ought to be more like a horse. The very idea is ridiculous and yet we do some version of this nearly every day.
Another thing I've come to appreciate is the way animals understand companionship. Sometimes I sit with the donkeys and absolutely nothing happens. No meaningful exchange. No particular purpose to our being together. One might wander over and stand beside me, apparently satisfied that we're all where we belong. And that's it. There's something deeply comforting about company that requires so little. No need to be entertaining. No obligation to make conversation. Just the quiet pleasure of being near someone familiar. I think we underestimate how much we need that.
Animals also have a lovely appreciation for small pleasures. Fresh bedding. A favorite treat. The first warm sunshine after several days of rain. My goats can turn an ordinary branch into an event of considerable excitement. The chickens investigate a newly disturbed patch of earth as though they've discovered buried treasure. And the donkeys seem convinced that a particularly good roll in the dirt is one of life's finer experiences.
They may have a point. I sometimes wonder when a pleasant day stopped being enough. We're forever looking forward to vacations, celebrations, milestones, and whatever might be waiting around the next corner. Meanwhile, it's remarkably easy to overlook the perfectly lovely Sunday happening right in front of us. A cup of coffee that tastes especially good. A breeze through an open window. The smell of rain. A moment when, for no particular reason, everything feels quite all right. These aren't consolation prizes while we wait for the bigger things…they are the bigger things, scattered quietly throughout an ordinary life.
Spending time with senior animals has taught me something else about slowing down. Their routines become gentler, their needs sometimes greater, but I don't look at an aging animal and see a life that has become less valuable because it can no longer do what it once did. I see a life with history. A life deserving of patience, comfort, and affection. I wish we were as generous with ourselves.
I don't want to romanticize the animal world. Anyone who has cleaned a pen knee deep in mud or dealt with a sick goat in the cold of night knows there's plenty of frustration mixed in with the magic. But after decades of sharing my days with animals, I've begun to suspect that happiness is far less complicated than we've made it. There will always be work to do, problems to solve, and responsibilities demanding our attention. But not every moment needs to be useful. Not every day needs to be remarkable.
Sometimes it's enough to have lived the day, noticed a few beautiful things, and been kind to the creatures who shared it with us. Perhaps the animals don't know some great secret that we don't. Perhaps they simply haven't forgotten the value of a warm afternoon, a familiar friend, a comfortable place to rest, and the occasional unexpected delight. And perhaps that's something worth remembering. Especially on an ordinary Sunday.
