When I was about nine or ten years old without consulting me, my Dad bought a donkey in order to pack in the tent and the camp stove on our famous elk hunting trips. I came around the corral in front of our barn one day, and to my surprise there was donkey standing there. Naturally, I went up and tried to pet it. The donkey was as tame as he could be, kind of like a big dog. So I thought that dam I have to ride this thing.
I went and got a lead rope and a halter, and lead him out of the corral to in front of the bunk house. Again the donkey was super tame, so I saddled him up. When I got on the donkey, and he just stood there. I decided to give him a slight kick in the ribs to get him going. The next thing I knew I was laying on the ground.
At that very same time my big brother came around the front of the bunkhouse, and asked me if I knew what my problem was. I said no, but I am sure that you are going to tell me. He said “your problem is that you don’t know how to ride”, and then promptly climbed onto the donkey, and then promptly got bucked off the donkey. My cousin not to be outdone tried to ride him too, which ended in the same result. Both my cousin and I had enough, but my big brother in a struggle to prove his manhood climbed back on again. Then got bucked off once again.
My big brother was now quit upset with the poor donkey, and was attempting to ride him again when my Grampa (a tough old cowboy born on the Montana high prairie in 1911) came out of his house laughing. He then informed us, that there is a big difference a donkey that was broken to pack, and a donkey that was broken to ride.
Good Luck and Good Hunting!