BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

In my informal Facebook survey I learned that the majority of Friends of the Muleness want more stories—All the Stories!—and that the story they want most of all is the story of the raccoon.  Farmwife says it's hardly a story at all, and that it would be something to talk about had the raccoon been in my barn, or touching my body, or gesticulating at me with it's bizarrely human little fingers to indicate that it would like a little snack or help with its homework. Alas, this is not that kind of story.  Before I tell you about the raccoon I have to go backwards and tell you that I am feeling very good in my body these days. My track through the forest has been expanded, my laminitis is at bay, and my health has been very largely excellent since I came here to the Atomic Ranch in December. I am feeling so good, in fact, that I have been cleared for long walks around the neighborhood! Puck, Farmwife, and I sometimes make the long loop up Saratoga and back around Fox Spit, which ...

Farmwife is in Maryland, where the people live by the motto, "fatti maschii parole femine". I believe this translates roughly to, "strong deeds, gentle brays".  I am a mule of strong deeds where hay is concerned--I can eat the heck out of those flakes, no questions asked, no hesitation. My hoof- and body-soreness make it hard for Farmwife to assess the strength of my deeds outside the paddock, since most of my surmounting of obstacles, towing of vehicles, fording of waterways, and toting of riders was done before we were acquainted, but I can tell you that Puck's deeds are stronger than mine in the paddock only where food is NOT involved. When he says scurry, I scurry. When he says move away from the fence, I move away from the fence. When he says get away from the hay, I say, "ears to you, buddy" and keep right on eating.  Farmwife departed WA under the impression that she might see steeplechasers, eventers, or jumpers in MD. The news is even better—s...

A red stag photographed by Farmwife in Scotland, from whence the family descends and to where they voyaged in September 2024.  Dear Mules and Countrywomen,  It is my pleasure to report to you today, from my forested vantage point, that the Farmlet is well.  It has been eight years since my family had a Farmlet to report upon, and this one is among the best. It is 25 minutes south of Casa de Bartholomule-Teaspoon, where you may remember the family lived for a time, and situated on the same verdant island. It is 120 minutes south of Bent Barrow Farm, where the ancient rhododendron still blooms and where FenBar's old barn of many colors still stands and shelters farm machinery. This place has rhododendrons, too, encircling a lawn which slopes down to my barn and paddock. We call the barn Hoofhouse, and it is going to be painted black in the spring to match the house and my companion, Puck.  My paddock, by design, does not overlap the lawn but instead winds through a mix...

  This sign, which used to be in TL's arcade, now sits in our yard and tells me to Be Amazing. I find this rather redundant since being amazing is as natural to me as eating or breathing. All that aside, I do find the sign striking with its twinkling lights and vibrant colors.  TL, who made the sign, tells us it might look nice mounted to the roof of my little barn. What do you think? 

  After some negotiation and exchange of words like "motheaten" and "raggedy", Farmwife talked me into enduring the roaching of my mane, which I had rubbed on the fence while reaching for delectable edibles at my previous home. We both agreed on four things: 1)  it was essential to retain my forelock, which is a thing of splendor that adds greatly to my dashing good looks. I'll get a picture for you tomorrow. 2) once the cut has grown out a bit, she will give me those fancy castle turrets that she used to style for Fenway.  3) we owe our dear readers a better photo, when I have not just rolled in the mud.  4) there is no hairstyle capable of making me look anything but marvelous. 

I never got to meet Uncle Fenny but I hear a lot about him and sometimes I think I feel his presence. He would have wanted me to give you an update, as there are some very exciting things happening in our family now—things he would have very much wanted for us.  Fenway Bartholomule died, as you may well remember, on the eve of Farmwife's 39th birthday. He went suddenly and peacefully and we still don't know why. He was 22. He was living at our good friend's place, since the family home had been sold in a divorce. Those were strange years. Farmwife sometimes thinks he stayed just long enough to help her find herself, and left when he knew she'd be ok. I joined the family in 2021, and I've passed this time living at a family member's house among myriad horses, ponies, rabbits, dogs, and chickens. I was happy enough there, but Farmwife and I never got to know one another as closely as we both would have liked. Most days, I didn't see her. Farmwife was living i...