The donkey on the deck is off-limits to everyone.  If you must ride the donkey you have to have a good reason,  such as you are late for the movie about how to cheat at poker and leave with money in your pocket.   Or if there is gold in them there hills.  The donkey asked a genealogical question.  How is she related to the mules owned by Mrs. Festus and how come they get to eat popcorn balls for dessert?  So another rule:  No questions allowed and sticky popcorn for all the guests.  Everything I do is based on what that damn donkey wants.   It makes me tired, so I will nap now in the clover.  You do understand that I am not afraid of the bees.   They have been bringing me pollen granules and strong mead for years.  And rubbing bastard honey on the tick stuck to the donkey’s ear.  I melt the comb wax and shine it on her dainty hooves.  Another rule:  When it rains the donkey gets the bathtub. I know it’s obvious, but, again, it makes me tired,  so I will nap in the sourwood grove.  The blossoms will fall on my face and I will sleep a thousand years.   Meanwhile, listen to what the rain is tattooing on the hollow log drum.  If you break the rules there will be some consequences.   Hard to know yet what they will be.