It took many months before Maggie allowed herself to enjoy her new life. She eventually came to have her favorite spot under the apple tree， her own corner of the pasture where the new grass grew tallest， and her own place in the warm， hay-scented shelter of the barn. Maggie learned to be loved to lift her head for a special scratch under her pendulous lower lip， to lean gently against my side so that I could slip an arm around her neck， and to nuzzle in my coat pocket for the special treat she knew I always carried.
She looked up at the sound of my voice， and in her own cumbersome way， galloped down the side of the hill to meet me. She joyfully brayed a welcome through the barn when I appeared in the morning， and snuffled a wet goodnight into my ear as I closed the door at night.
Maggie knew she was loved—not for how she looked or for what she could do， but just for being Maggie. She died in the spring six years after she came with us. She died in her comer of the pasture， with a wisp of new green grass in her mouth. She died quietly， without fuss， as she had lived her life. But in a departure from how she had lived most of her life， Maggie died loved. For the old， the unloved， and even the unlovable， Maggie is my reminder that love is a one-way flow until the heart learns to trust.
我从来都不知道玛吉的年龄和我见到它之前它的生活状况。但在它身上有长期被虐待的痕迹，而且每当有人突然惊动它，它都会很害怕。我本没有要让玛吉和我们一起生活的想法，我带着孩子们去瓦林农场只是看看驴，而没想买它。但是我突然看到一道目光，这改变了我的想法，我想买一头驴。
我选择了一头生龙活虎的小驴，它柔软的嘴伸进我的口袋里想找吃的。它个头小，但是身材还不错，它叫莱克西，差不多有我肩膀那么高。“它将来得有个伴，”驴贩子瓦尔说道，“驴讨厌独处。”当时我脸上的表情肯定很沮丧。我买一头驴都有经济压力，又怎么能买得起两头呢？“我买不起两头驴，”我有点儿哽咽地说。默默地在心里和莱克西说再见。