Your donkey body seemed stuck on one speed... slow.
The driver honked his horn. You didn't think he needed to go to the extra effort, but he rolled down the driver's side window and leaned out. "Out of the road, you damn jackass," the man shouted angrily as you trotted toward the side of the road. You tried to get yourself out of the driver's way, clumsily getting your hooves to comply.
The driver, with one final disparagement of you and your donkey kin, spun his tires and sent gravel flying as he drove past, probably still muttering to himself about the damn donkey blocking the road.
You exhale a breath of air as night insects begin their nocturnal chorus from the nearby treetops. The driver, his anger issues aside, brought home how people are going to see you now. As a mere donkey. Easily dismissed and discounted. A four-legged beast of burden covered by a thick and hide and a tangled coat of gray and white fur. It would be bleak, day in and day out, to remain an involuntary occupant of this dismal form.
But you're determined that will not be the case. You eventually leave the gravel road for the paved highway. In 10 miles, more or less, is your former home. It stands in a tidy, decorous community among many other homes of similar scale and appearance. The entire neighborhood is one of manicured lawns and controlled landscapes. A wandering jackass will be very out of place in such a neighborhood, so perhaps it will be best after all that you arrive under cover of darkness.
You're thankful that a strong breeze has scattered the incessant swarm of insects attracted by the stench of your unwashed fur. Their ability to get beneath your guard and bite in some tender and unexpected places had been almost maddening, often causing you to bray out from sheer irritation. After one such outburst, you inhale and immediately wish you hadn't. The rank odor of your donkey body has been impossible to ignore and you've been even more disheartened to accept the awful scent as your own. You stink! The sweat of hard labor drenched into your thick fur, and neither of the worthless farmhands apparently think it worth their time to pick up a hose and wash you off from time to time.
You refuse to think of your condition as anything but temporary. It's not just optimism without any basis in reality. It really isn't. You've always been a man who rises to challenges. You refuse to let some cosmic mischance beat you.
As your hooves make a clop, clop sound on the paved road's shoulder, you plan your approach. You will simply have to appeal to the donkey's sense of fairness. Surely it will see how wrong it is for you to be forced into living its former life. It was born an animal, you were not. You're uncertain how far you have walked, but a sign offers encouragement. You see 8 miles listed below the name of your community. You're making progress.