When I was a kid, we lived on the edge of a small town on the Western Slope of Colorado known as Grand Junction.

The town won its name because town fathers wisely situated it at the conjunction of two great rivers, the Colorado and the Gunnison, near the Colorado border with Utah.

Pioneers dug a great, long ditch called the Grand Canal during the 1880s that brought water from the Colorado River to the desert for farmers and ranchers to use.

The miracle of irrigation turned the desert into a land of milk and honey that flourished for 100 years before so-called progress and tourism pretty much overwhelmed it.

They still farm and ranch around Grand Junction, but not like they used to.

When I was very young, orchards stretched out in every direction so that a feast of fruit in season was always just a short walk away.

My boyhood friends, Mark and Kris, and I often scavenged the area in summertime, eating cherries, peaches, plums and apricots off the trees until we were stuffed full — or until somebody hollered and chased us off the property.

Once we lived a few doors down from an old lady named Granny Patton who could spit nails and cuss up a storm, especially at her old donkey, Tom.

Granny Patton would load that donkey up with tools and such in the morning, beat Tom with a broomstick out to her little orchard, make him work in the hot sun all morning, then load him up with baskets of cherries and beat him back home again.

I could never prove it, but the way she cussed, I figured she was a descendant of the great World War II hero, Gen. George S. Patton, famous for rescuing the 101st Airborne Division at Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge and infamous for ruthlessly slapping a shell-shocked soldier.

It was quite a coincidence, but Granny Patton looked a lot like the actor George C. Scott and sounded just like him, too, only with a deeper growl on account of the filterless Pall Malls she smoked all the time.

Anyway, I used to believe I could communicate with Granny Patton’s donkey, and would sometimes sneak over to his corral and pat him on the nose and feed him sugar cubes.

“Tom,” I’d ask, “why do you put up with that old lady beating you with a stick all the time?”

Let me tell you, that proud, braying jackass would get so worked up at the question, he’d hee-haw and kick at the fence until Granny Patton took notice and pounded down the back porch steps, cussing and waving a broom to beat hell.

Granny Patton had profited from old Tom’s labor for many years by the time I showed up, so it came to pass that after I fed him enough sugar cubes and whispered enough kind words to him, I was finally able to convince him to make an escape.

My plan was to cover him in a furry, old wool sweater Mom kept stored in the garage and walk him out of the coral like he was my pet dog and we were out for an evening stroll.

My hope was that in the twilight, Granny Patton wouldn’t be able to recognize her own donkey.

The evening of the escape finally arrived and I sneaked over to the corral, threw Mom’s ratty sweater onto Tom’s back, hitched a collar to his neck and started walking him out of the corral, whistling like the happiest kid in the world who was happy because he owned the greatest dog in the world.

Just as we cleared the gate and started around the far side of Granny Patton’s house, the old lady came out on her back porch and spied us.

“What the [expletive deleted] do you think you’re doing with that dog,” she asked, taking a long, deep drag on her Pall Mall.

“Just taking Maxy for a little walk, Granny Patton,” I said, pulling harder on the leash.

After eyeing us for a lingering moment, the general of the cherry orchard returned to her living room, slamming the rickety screen door behind her.

Well, I was in quite a hurry to get out of there by that time, but the harder I pulled on Tom’s leash, the slower he would go, until we finally stopped on the road that passed right in front of Granny Patton’s house and he refused to budge.

I pulled and pulled, but Tom wouldn’t move.

“Why don’t you get a move on, you dumb jackass? Can’t you see I’m trying to lead you to a life free of that old woman and her broomstick?” I whispered in his ear.

With that, Tom’s back stiffened and he started braying and kicking so that Granny Patton heard him, and in no time she was down the front porch steps waving her broom to beat hell.

I let go the leash and jumped clear, but just as Granny Patton swung her broom at Tom’s head, her foot was somehow caught in the harness. Tom spooked at the broom and took off, bucking and braying and dragging the old woman off by the ankle.

In all the commotion, the wool sweater got thrown up over Tom’s head so he couldn’t see where he was going and right quick, the braying, cussing pair tumbled into the Grand Canal and were swept away.

I learned that day no matter how much truth you tell, you can’t save a blinded, stubborn jackass from drowning.

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