BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Friends, donkeys, and countrypeople,  Putting aside the state of the world (egads!) and the nation (ugh!), 2025 was downright charmed. Here at the Cosmic Ranch, 2025 brought us Moon the laborador in May, Melvin the miniature donkey in June, and Poppy the miniature horse in August. Puck, our visiting Connemara, went back to his family and, although he was a champ and we loved him, we can't say we're sad. You see, the thing about me—Songbird Sparrowgrass—is that I am more of a follower than a leader. I am also, sadly, gullible. I generally believe what I'm told.  Bird and Puck Puck, who in the past had to live with people who were less kind than his current people, told me this: "Bird," he said, "they can't be trusted. You must remain vigilent." I, who also in the past had to live with people who were less kind than my current people, believed him. Together, we were vigilant. It was exhausting.  Melvin, who in the past lived with people who did nothing...

Happy news, friends—the humans thought I had an abscess, then spent oodles of time and money on x-rays and vet visits trying to be sure that it was nothing worse than an abscess, then after two such months (read more about the Festival of the Vet Bills on Facebook) I presented with . . . wait for it . . . a burst abscess! Woohoo! I'm fully restored to health now, except for having been diagnosed with Cushing's on top of my chronic laminitis. It's the low sugar life for me, plus pergolide pills to help my pituitary gland chill out. So far, I'm adapting well to the regimen with no signs of trouble.  When Farmwife was talking to the vet about testing my hormone levels, she let slip that not only was I notably NOT shiny this summer, but I have begun to look like an old cart horse! She tried to backtrack with compliments on my 2023 summer coat. "He was SO shiny last year," she said, "and he used to be so athletic and well-muscled." I have resolved to take...

  First, the good news — I was sound for two full years, and in July I was pronounced sound enough for work! This after five years of medical retirement on account of laminitis and sundry. Farmwife, you may recall, bought me as a riding mule only to find that I was already woefully chronically lame. Sound enough, the vet and trimmer agreed, to be restarted under saddle and in harness. Happy day! Farmwife obtained for me a Wintec saddle, an assortment of bridles, a comfy fit harness, and a wooden road cart.  Then the bad news—Farmwife tried to lunge me and learned that I do not understand lunging. She tried to ground drive me and learned that I remember little, or that she is a bad ground driver, or both. It was sketchy. We desisted. Having no ring and no trails, we decided I should go to sleepaway camp for a while. She found two trainers, one to take me for a couple of months to gently rebuild my fitness and another skilled driver to help restart me in harness. You may remembe...

As you may recall, I am the proud resident of a very charming little barn—some might call it a shed—which shelters me in the winter from rain, and in the summer from sun. This spring Farmwife and Farmhusband decided it should be painted. Green, suggested Farmwife. Red, suggested Farmhusband.  Teal, suggested Farmwife.  Yellow, suggested Farmhusband.  Stripey, suggested Farmwife? She was thinking of a retro Chevy squarebody (a quick Google search will show you what I mean), but didn't quite know how to make that practical on boards and battons.  Farmhusband, who is a wizard, not only figured how how the stripes ought to go, but also arranged for the painting to be done. What I ended up with, almost in the blink of an eye, is the brightest, most cheerful, stripeavaganza of a barn. Even the neighbors are fond of it! In front of the barn is a vast expanse of grass which I am not allowed to sample on account of my laminitis. Not only is Farmwife opposed to letting me eat...

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...