I wait; knowing the donkey is still drinking. My donkey and I, we travel great distances. I knew this donkey could do such things when I met it; it is simply that kind of donkey.
"Son," my father had asked, "Do you like this donkey?" I showed apathy. I had yet to so much as look at it. "This donkey, over here, come and have a look at it. It's name is 'Norbert'! Remember old Norbert? He used to give us sweets at Christmas, before they were outlawed."
I glanced at the donkey, and in that one moment it communicated with me on a psychic level the entire history of donkeys; which mainly consisted of eating hay. There was Donkey Jones, who ate five million bales in his entire lifetime. That Donkey Jones. He was a true hero of hay eating. I fought the urge to eat copious amounts of hay. I would have screamed at the top of my voice, "OH YES, I MUST HAVE THIS DONKEY. DAD, BUY IT NOW SO THAT WE CAN BE TOGETHER FEREVVUR.", if several of my friends had not been there. Instead, I said "yeah, sure, it's a nice donkey. Can we buy it?"
"Sure we can." said Dad. "Anything you like."
Since that day, the donkey and I had been inseperable, even when seperated. Seriously. That damn donkey didn't know how to break his psychic brain link, and so for the first week, I heard nothing but the donkey's inner thoughts. It soon managed to control it, though, and eventually I heard nothing but the donkey's occasional requests for hay and bulgarian pop music, which is absolutely loves for some reason I have yet to fathom.
The donkey returns from it's rest for drink, and we continue on. A nearby signpost indicates the nearest city to be two miles away. It has been a day since I have had anything to eat, so this is welcome news. We should get there by sundown.