Kerttuli

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"ADOPT A DONKEY!" That's what a huge banner on their website says. "ONLY 100€‡!" WillaHilla, located to the east of Oulu and to the south of Kiiminki, used to be a regular boarding kennel specializing in dog care. The few wooden outbuildings and a small courtyard on the property, connected to civilization by the narrow Mehiäissuontie, offered shelter for the dogs when the owners had no one to leave them with. For a low fee, the canines would be looked after and benefit from the fresh forest air away from the cities, and the staff was experienced enough to handle even larger animals, like sheep or horses. And to make additional profit, they've set up a petting zoo, although it worked out only when there were interesting breeds staying. This all changed during the coronavirus outbreak, not so much because of the relatively mild government restrictions and quarantine, but due to the citizens being sensible enough to remain at home and to limit social interactions. WillaHilla almost went bankrupt, the boss had to announce massive layoffs, but for the handful of remaining employees, the luck has turned: somehow somewhere they procured a dozen miniature donkeys. Now the downsized business is thriving again despite the COVID consequences. They still take in an occasional dog or two, but most of their revenue comes from "adoption."The company's social media account is filled with photos of the adorable docile herd together and every animal individually, each barely 30 inches tall and oh so fluffy. There are only two minuscule hiccups in its operational strategy, preventing me from showering WillaHilla with praise. First, nobody has ever seen these miniature donkeys in the flesh. The clients coming to leave or pick up their dogs are greeted with more pictures pinned to the bulletin board and stapled to the walls, but never the actual animals. The personnel understand perfectly well how suspicious this is, but they dismiss any inquiries, claiming the cold climate makes them stay inside the barn, and unfortunately, it always coincides with any outsider arriving. Any petting activities are cancelled as well, of course, explained by the sanitary concerns remaining after the pandemic, and it's strictly forbidden for the clients to go beyond the lobby. Second, they don't actually give out any donkeys. On the website, there are profiles with names and personality descriptions for each of the dozen, but "adoption" only means getting a bunch of keepsake printouts and a personalized newsletter. The monthly dues supposedly go towards food and medicines, but the adopters still don't get the right to at least visit their pets in person. The indication of recurring payments instead of a single one is tucked away at the bottom of the page, and the fact that ownership isn't transferred to the client isn't mentioned at all, as if it's supposed to be obvious. Naturally, everyone at WillaHilla knows that this is confusing and could be considered an intentionally misleading misrepresentation. But it's not like anyone would seriously believe that such a cute miniature pet could be purchased or rather "adopted" for the mere 100€, right? ‡a month

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var donkey =

Ddd...

D-don...

DONKEY!

Kerttu Kuusniemi, or Kerttuli for short, is a 22-year-old woman from Vaasa. She dwells alone in a small single-family home inherited from her late parents and works as a clerk in the local office of the Hertz car rental agency. Her appearance is plain, her dress code is casual, and she's even more lonely than most Finns because she's an aspie. Her meticulous attention to detail makes her job as a paper pusher easy, and her modest earnings still allow Kerttuli to live like she wants because she wants so little. Most of the surfaces in her house are covered with a thick layer of dust because the whole routine she has is to move between the fridge, the bathroom, and the bedroom. She has no relatives, no friends, no lover, no exes, only a couple of acquaintances—colleagues, actually—with whom she doesn't connect. With nobody close to guide her through life, she's free to spend all her free time alone in her room, obsessing over

Ddd...

D-don...

DONKEYS!

. Oh yeah, you guessed it. She's so fixated on the

Ddd...

D-don...

DONKEYS!

, she can't even say the word properly; it always comes out loud and with a stutter. This mania started in her early teens, and thanks to it, she was diagnosed, because otherwise Kerttuli was like any other Nord: unemotional, reserved, self-sufficient, and socially awkward. But when it comes to

Ddd...

D-don...

DONKEYS!

, her Asperger's syndrome gets fired up up to eleven. She knows everything about these animals and can lecture on the subject for hours without any care for the unwilling listener. Of course, being on the very high-functioning end of the spectrum, she's fully aware of how this ruins the facade of her otherwise normal behavior. But when she starts talking about

Ddd...

D-don...

DONKEYS!

, she can't physically stop, and yes, she did try to literally hold her mouth shut with her hands. This isn't a source of major distress for her, however, because how often does anybody give anyone a reason to even begin discussing them? Kerttuli has tons of random memorabilia, books, and toys in her room and terabytes of photos and videos on her PC, but her dream is to own an actual living

Ddd...

D-don...

DONKEY!

. The backyard of her residence is tiny, but she believes she could make it just as cozy and comfortable as required. And naturally, she knows miniature breeds exist, which would fit into her life just perfectly.

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