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rescue of one in distress. We chuckled at the thought of our new donkey in a mask emblazoned with lightning bolts, stopping to take a nap en route to thwarting a crisis. Yes, it was perfect. The kids approved.
    As soon as Flash was named, we knew without saying that his probation had ended and he could now be considered a bona fide member of the family. We walked right into it, eyes wide open.
    Here’s a piece of advice that comes free with this book: Rescuer, beware. As soon as you name a stray animal, it’s yours . For better or for worse. Yours, baby. You need to think about that the next time you pick up a stray kitty and start calling her “Pookie” while you’re trying to find a home for her. Face it   —Pookie is yours, and she became yours the minute you pronounced those two syllables.
    Flash was ours for keeps, and we fell in love with him. Heshed his shaggy winter hair, revealing a smooth, gray-brown coat that made him look positively sleek. Even his ears lost most of their wool and became silky soft, especially at their base near the knob on the top of his head. He loved having the insides of these long, tubular appendages rubbed and looked forward to any attention that came his way.
    Being groomed became his favorite pastime, and I used it as a bonding opportunity, talking to him as I worked the brush over his body. He seemed interested in my chatter, so I filled him in on our projects, kept him abreast of our family activities, and told him whatever came to my mind. His ears followed my voice, turning this way and that, and he’d nod every now and then, suggesting his response: “Go on, tell me more.” I quickly realized he was the perfect listener, the kind who makes you feel he has all the time in the world for your story. Whenever the currycomb came out, he relaxed into a puddle of equine bliss. You could almost see him smile. Flash’s shyness slowly melted away, and we began to see glimpses of an outgoing personality.
    Flash made himself at home at our place. Our yellow, 1970s barn-shaped house, properly deemed “gambrel style,” sat next to his new pasture and gave us a prime view of his activities. He had it made: an abundance of wide-open space to aimlessly wander under a big sky, a barn for shelter, and two acres of shady woods to explore.
    Four years earlier, when we had found the property through an ad in the paper, we had no use for most of it, except to store supplies in the empty barn. We gladly abandoned our suburban life and set about making the rented fixer-upper our home   —on a dime, of course. Though just twenty miles outside of the Dallas metroplex, it felt like a world away from the city.
    The quarter-mile driveway wound atop a dam, past a pond, and through some woods before coming around to the house in a clearing. The “charming farmhouse” (as described in the paper) contained some strange features, such as a toilet crammed so close to the wall that it required sidesaddle positioning and a sense of humor to make it work. But once we replaced the carpet and painted the antiseptic, white semigloss walls and ceilings with pleasant new colors, it felt like a real home.
    The kids’ bedrooms were nestled under the sloping eaves of the barnlike roof and had dormer window seats   —perfect spots for daydreaming, which we encouraged. Though tiny, the kitchen had plenty of faux wood countertops and enough cabinet space for all our cookware. As I washed dishes, I could look out the window to an ever-changing view of grasses and wildflowers in a field that sloped down to a wooded creek bed.
    Mighty bur oaks, red oaks, and cedars filled the woods and transformed with the seasons, providing an endless array of beauty. We’ve been starved for this. We soaked it in. Granted, the septic system backed up regularly, and almost every fixture needed replacing. But those were small hindrances. Our family could breathe here, and the