The Makers Donkey.

Dunbar Jones didn’t go to university. He didn’t have a laptop and actually couldn’t type or even hold a pen due to his large hooves.

He waited in the crowded outer office of a tall glass skyscraper.

He stood as there were no chairs suitable for Donkeys. It would have been somewhat inappropriate to rest his rear on a chair, especially as Dunbar Jones hadn’t found any business suits in Donkey dimensions in New York and so he was not wearing pants.

Looking around the other applicants were mostly young smartly dressed accountants, mostly female, and mostly very intelligent. Several clutched framed Harvard Business School degrees and no doubt reams of recommendations and glowing references bundled up in neat piles ready to present.

Dunbar Jones didn’t go to university. He didn’t have a laptop and actually couldn’t hold a pen or type due to his large hooves.

The large Mahogany door at the end of the crowded hall opened. Out came a young lady, looking much less hopeful than those waiting their turn.

“Dunbar Jones?” Clipped a secretary with a tight grey bun from her desk at the door.

“Dunbar Jones you may go in now.”

He trotted down the soft carpeted corridor and nudged the door wider with his large muzzle. Inside the office was an enormous cavern of luxurious interior design. Expensive couches with equally expensive cushions precluded an even more impressive games area. Several famous works of art and fancy lighting fixtures adorned the walls.

“Aha, Dunbar Jones, mind if I call you DJ?” A plump middle aged man with pale wobbly jowls and decidedly ostentatious eyebrows greeted him from behind the vast desk.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come through. Been dealing with all the riffraff. Now you know a Harvard Degree is so blaise these days, and Oxford? Cambridge? Even had a young lady with one from each! Pfaff, you can get all that online. No, you are the type of man that has REAL talent. You have LIVED, you ARE TMI Investment Banking! Welcome DJ, welcome I say!”

Dunbar felt quite welcome. In fact he felt so welcome he placed his ample rear end on one of the desk facing purple velvet chairs.

“Whiskey?, No?” BJ Whyte licked his thick lips and poured one for himself, it was now 9:15am.

“So, I believe in action DJ. Thats why your application impressed me. No paperwork, no fancy recommendations, NOTHING! That told me you are a man of ACTION rather than words. WE don’t need words. You can’t imagine how many words all these applicants come out with. Not one of them showed me what I needed to see, a man with a mission, a man with GRIT. That’s what it takes in finance.”

Dunbar Jones blinked.

“Got a wife? Kids? Where are you holed up? I’ll get Peggy to send the Missus some flowers and toys for the kids. They won’t see too much of you once you start tomorrow! Take her out tonight, buy her a nice dinner. Peggy will book you in at Remys’ tonight at 8.”

Dunbar Jones realised it was now time to leave. He stood up and made his way out of the office. BJ was now shouting into the intercom for Peggy to cancel all the interviews as he had found his man.


The wife returned from the supermarket for the two hundred and fifty thousand and thirty third time. It was 11am. She made the same journey each week, if not several times. Empty large hessian bags returned full and heavy. She had thick strong legs. Her back was broad and her thick fingers able to pull the relentless weeds from the dry front garden out side.

She carried the house key on a string around her neck, so as not to lose it. That had happened once and it was 10 hours before her husband came home from his office job to let her in. She had become cold in the night air and had munched on the bag of carrots from the supermarket.

The family home was comfortable. The wife was a good cleaner, her hands just small enough to scrub between the tiles on the bathroom and reach into the crannies beside the old oven to pull out spilt food.

Her children were at school all day. That gave her just enough time to clean up their breakfasting, do two loads of laundry, vacuum the house, clean the bedrooms , pay the bills, and walk the dog. After a small lunch of salad (she was told she needed to lose weight), she would then move onto preparing the children afternoon tea, wrapping the presents she bought for the upcoming children’s Laser tag party and writing out 150 Christmas cards.

At 2pm the phone rang. It was her husband. She was in the middle of removing the stains from the hall way carpet.

“Hello? Is that you Dunbar?”

She knew it was from the clunking of the receiver, Dunbar would have to lay the phone down as he had no hands.

“Are you coming home late again? Thats ok, I will leave your dinner in the oven all you have to do is wake me and I’ll come warm it up.”

She was told it was rewarding to look after her husband, that it is well documented that thinking of others inherently made oneself happy.

Finishing the carpet, she left the house in the car and drove to the school to collect the children.


DJ had found some pants. It seemed that more and more Donkeys were now working in Wall Street. Industrious tailors taking the opportunity to broaden their market. The range was limited, but better than nothing. Dunbar had been told he needed to start wearing clothes to work. He had chosen a nice pair of grey flannel pants, a crisp white shirt and a yellow cable knit jersey. He also now owned a suit for meetings.

Today the offices were all abuzz. There had been apparently some problems with a big investment deal. Foreign clients had decided to pull out at the last minute and its was looking like the firm was to lose at least two billion.

Apparently the deal had gone south over cocktails at Winstons, over on 54th st. BJ Wyte had unfortunately had way too many and proceeded to butt heads with the client.

The client happened to be an Ox with a very strong cranium and a very short temper.

BJ called DJ into his office for a crisis meeting. Dunbar Jones had a vague thought he should change into his suit, but without fingers it was pretty impossible.

With his pale flabby face now an florid crimson and his forehead sporting a very large bruised egg, BJ erupted into an expletive riddled rant.

“That bloody OX is going to cost me a fortune!” The crimson patches had now combined to create one completely scarlett mask of fury.

“YOU! You’re the man to fix this. YOU FIX IT! I don’t want to lose any money you hear! NONE!”

Dunbar Jones blinked. He wasn’t sure whether to sit down.

“All I did was call him a girl because he wouldn’t get up and do Karaoke. I’d just sung “Don’t you want me” you know by Human League for gods sake. Now he’s pulling out all his investment in the Chicks ’N Chicken chain. We have already built 5000 outlets across America, and broken ground in France. Thats not cheap!”

Dunbar Jones decided to sit down after all. He was also wearing a new pair of Dinky Donk Shoes. The shoes looked good but really pinched if he stood for prolonged amounts of time.

“Here’s what we are going to do. YOU are going to go MEET with Brian. YOU are going take him out for lunch, take him to that new swanky joint on 23rd St. Then take him to a boxing match, or baseball or some kind of sporting thing that Russian Oxen like. Give him as much beer as he can take and buddy up. I’d suggest a fishing trip but we don’t have time. We have to close this deal tonight. Make him your best mate, spark a bromance. GO to Brotown. Do some Brogramming if that’s his thing. Go Manspread yourselves allover the NYC subway system. WHATEVER IT TAKES GET HIM BACK ON OUR SIDE!”

By now BJ had worked himself up into such a lather that the heat generated was beginning to fog up the large glass panoramic windows.

Dunbar Jones stopped by Peggys desk on his way out and collected the black company credit card. He had to carry it in his teeth as he had no hands.


Rimsky’s was the new joint on 23rd Street. It was popular, what with being new and also because the beer was Belgian. Peggy had booked the round table in the centre of the restaurant, and managed to reserve the only two quadrupedal stools they had.

DJ arrived at 8pm. Brian the Russian Ox at 8:05pm.

The beer was good, the dinner excellent and the conversation was as minimal as it could possibly be without being described as silence.

Neither DJ or Brian were known for much more than a few grunts, but they were able to discern a few things. DJ worked out Brians eye motions weren’t a tic but a polite request for the salt and Brian helpfully nudged the plate of carrots closer to DJ after deciphering nose flaring.

It could be said the high profile top financial executive working dinner went well.

Walking the New York streets afterwards, the two executives also realised they had allot in common. They had a similar gait, seemed to both want to go the same way and even stoped to sniff the same hedge outside the Shaving Soap Store on Fifth Ave.

Dunbar Jones still wasn’t too sure what BJ had been telling him back at the crisis meeting, but it seemed he was very upset. Perhaps he had lost something or had stood on a thumbtack. Either way, the two animals had enjoyed the night out.


It was the end of the financial year. A time when the offices of all the big banks and investment firms seemed to emit radiant tones of gold and green. Profits were good. The executives were happy. Boozing went long into the night with only the most junior or least male of the species vacating early due to embarrassment. Entertainments were booked that weren’t to everyones taste.

The donkeys stayed. They were amongst the most highly paid these days in the city. A meritocracy of high achievement and

rich rewards resulted in an ever expanding Donkey percentage. The Donkeys seemed happy, the tailors and various Donkey spin off businesses such as Jonny Maas Equine Fake Fingers, Dinky Donk Shoes and Marchellos Hoof Gloss were over the moon.

Dunbar Jones sat at his desk. The office was empty as most important workers had headed down to the basement bar tonight was the Bro Glow Happy Hour.

There were no papers, no computer and still not even a pen on DJs desktop. He hadn’t managed to workout the Fake Fingers most Donkeys sported these days.

“DJ, My MAN!!” In came BJ, clutching a very large bottle of Scotch and puffing on a cigar.

Dunbar Jones blinked.

“We did it! YOU did it Bro!” The middle aged bloated business man was sweating. Perhaps from excitement or just fatigue from walking down the adjoining corridor.

“YOU got the raging Russian Bull to sign! They tried to get out of it, said it wasn’t legal but Chicks ’N Chicken is up and running. Already 450 stores have opened their greasy big doors and the green is flowing our way!”

After the night out with Brian, the Russian Ox, DJ had visited his boss and entered his office just as he was biting into a rather over sauced hotdog supper. The tomato sauce had blurted out and down his chin.

“Give your napkin!” He had yelled. Meaning the napkin from Rimsky’s which somehow had become lodged on DJs Donkey suit lapel.


The napkin in question had a hoof print on it. This was Brians. Brian had stepped on it as he walked out of the restaurant, a gust of wind had then blown it up and it was caught up in Dunbars suit.

Apparently this was now legally Brians signature.

The rest was history.The firm made allot of money that year. Allot of city firms made allot of money on other deals that year. The city was humming with the self congratulatory parties late into the night.

All over New York Donkeys saw the morning in, surrounded by very grateful bosses. Most of them sat down, most of them wore pants and one of them was even called Dunbar Jones.