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eighteen acres of land that came with the house was more than we could have hoped for. It became our sanctuary in the midst of our tightrope walk of financial insecurity. We had no money, but the view was priceless.
    With his calm presence gracing the property, Flash seemed to complete our new lifestyle. It just felt right to have hay bales on hand for our “livestock,” to check fences for needed repairs, and to pet an eager nose over the gate. Even Beau seemed to resign himself to sharing our affection with another animal, although he made a point to bark at Flash whenever he could.

    We had only had Flash for a couple of months when our landlords stopped by to visit. They’d just moved into an old cottage that was on the same property we rented from them, which now made us neighbors. A Louisiana–born-and-bred blonde belle, Bridgette made a striking contrast to her husband, Steve, a tall, bearded Midwesterner. Where Bridgette was vivacious and talkative, Steve was reserved and quiet. While Steve favored flannel shirts and jeans, Bridgette always looked as if she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine, her athletic figure accentuated by slim skirts and fitted blouses. Bridgette had pioneered a prestigious architectural design firm in Dallas and represented everything I was not: beautiful, educated, confident, successful, worldly, fit, stylish, professional. I avoided her as often as possible. Which was not easy, since they now neighbored us.
    Bridgette and Steve had recently married and shed their fabulous careers and chic downtown Dallas loft to strike out on their own as entrepreneurs. Everything about them was cool   —even the fact they had downsized to the small house on the property. They designed corporate spaces from their front porch by day and worked in their organic garden in the evenings. I’m quite sure they loved hummus and knew all about fine wines.
    Beneath the shade of the cedar trees that lined the pasture, we chitchatted about the weather and caught up on the neighborhood news. Just then, Flash meandered up to the gate, looking for an ear scratch.
    â€œHave you met our new donkey?” I asked, turning to see if they were impressed.
    â€œOh, we’ve already made friends with this guy,” Bridgette drawled as she reached forward, her expensive bracelets clanking. “Idn’t he jus’ a dor able! We jus’ love him.”
    We smiled like proud new parents, pleased with their progeny. Yes, Flash was a real member of the family. A keeper. We started to gush about his emerging qualities, but what we heard next silenced the words on our lips.
    â€œAnd guess what!” Bridgette continued, enthusiasm spilling. “We’ve given him the perfect name!”
    Our smiles froze in place. Wait. You’ve done what?
    She paused dramatically as we stared, wide-eyed in disbelief. With a flourish, she went for the Big Reveal. “His name is . . . Hay -soos! You know, it’s a Spaynish name!” She clapped her hands together in delight. “Idn’t that per fect?”
    Perfect? No, not in the least. Jesús , while a common name in Spanish, would never be used for my donkey, who already had a name: Flash .
    â€œWell, hi , Hay -soos! How ya doin’?” she greeted Flash as he nosed in for more affection. She pronounced “hi” like “hah,” and it suddenly grated on my nerves. Flash clearly did not share my misgivings about this name because he homed right in on the attention.
    So pleased with their excellent naming of our animal, these well-meaning neighbors seemed oblivious to our awkward protest that he’d already been named Flash. By us. His owners. The people he belongs to. The ones who own him. Yeah. Nope, they just kept talking.
    â€œ Hay -soos is so entertaining! We just love giving him carrots over the fence and tickling those big ol’ lips of his!” They laughed, throwing their heads back