Before FarmWife found me, Fenway Bartholomule, she was a horsewoman. Not just a horsewoman, but a sporthorse fancier. She liked her horses athletic, fancy, and tall. She once told a friend, in fact, that with her height she would look ridiculous on anything under 16.2.
FarmWife's favorite mare, a thoroughbred, stood a robust 17.1. Her favorite gelding, though less substantial, still measured a decent 16.3. If she had made a shopping list before buying me, her list would have said "one sane, sound gelding, 16.3 or taller." As a tall young woman, she once suffered from the delusion that she would be best suited by a mount of about 17 and a half hands.
Now, I like big mules as well as the next guy. There is nothing so spectacular as a rippling mountain of equine magnificence, and nothing so good at getting a heavy job done as a great big pair of draft animals. I, however, am not ashamed by more modest stature. At nearly 14.1 hands, I am strong enough to carry an adult and handy enough to navigate tight spaces. I fit in normal trailers. I duck under logs.
The funny thing is that FarmWife might have been embarrassed to ride me if she had measured me first. She didn't measure me until well into our first year together, though, and by the time she learned the astonishing truth about my height it was too late. We were in love.
I can carry her, and carry her well. I can even carry her husband, who stands a good four inches taller. I am mighty.
I am Fenway Bartholomule, and there's more than enough of me for this job.
Ears to you,