How to Get A Mule Like Me

link to pictured mule

Dear Readers,

There are more nice mules on www.dreamhorse.com than ever before, and I know that this is because the universe is conspiring to get YOU a mule of your own. With exception to Katie Scarlett, Surprise, and Maisy, I am not sure that there are enough mules in my audience to satisfy all of my readers' longear needs.

Shopping on Dreamhorse is all well and good, but even with the plentitude of mules listed, I don't know if there are enough great ones for ALL of my 129 fans, so I have thought of another way.

First, check Dreamhorse. You might find a nice mule like this one, who would be prettier in brown, or this one, who deserves a rider who knows that one does not place 85% of the foot in the stirrup under normal circumstances. If you live in Washington, you should go get both of them today!

Second, broaden your search to include quality horse mares. You might end up choosing someone like this, who's got looks and mad skilz. Then, you search the world over for a donkey jack who deserves her. You will probably spend less on the stud fee than on the mare, especially if you buy thi$ mare that I already recommended.

Breed the two, wait 11 and a half months (yes, mules take longer than horses to cook because they are harder and more important to make), and Voila! A baby.

YOU ARE NOT DONE!

If you truly want a mule like me, you must then assess the baby. Does it display perfect symmetry, with possible exception to it's nostrils? (I have one horse nostril and one donkey nostril, which tends more towards the endearing than the grotesque.) Does it combine strength and grace in every feature? Does it exude class from every pore, and demonstrate elegance in every motion? Does it understand the importance of frequent meals and energy conservation? Does it grok the true meaning of Rest and Relaxation?

Once you are sure you have a very likely candidate, you must raise it right. This means exposing it to all sorts of challenges . . . slopes to summit, rivers to ford, threats to bypass, and snacks to root out and devour. Do not expose it to the Evil Lines on the road, unless you want your very good mule baby swallowed into hellfire before you even get to ride it.

If you successfully raise a beautiful, athletic, intelligent, level-headed mule to adulthood you may ride it without any further fuss. Do not worry about sophisticated, advanced training; if your mule is just like me, he will do just fine without any careful attention to the establishment of communicative aids. He will read your mind, though he might not always read your direct rein.

I hope you enjoy the new mule that you will have if you follow my instructions. You're welcome!

Love, Fenway

P.S. Once you have your mule, you must give the relationship tender loving care by following these guidelines: Always meet him with a snack; never force him to work beyond his fitness level; never force him to work within two hours of a meal; never forget his daily ear rub; use a rubber bit or hackamore unless you want to spend half the day warming cold steel before a winter ride; never underestimate his intelligence, emotional sophistication, or appetite; and don't let your mule establish a website of his own unless he promises not to steal my customers.

Comments

Here are the Cloud Dog's X-Rays

Here, for your edification, are the X-rays of dear Paisley's leg. There is, apparently, no new break (since his Monday siezure) but there is, of course, a great deal of abnormality caused by years of living with a shortened ulna. His pronounced lameness, the vet says, may temporarily improve. Unlike me, Fenway Bartholomule, poor cloud dog can't expect much in the way of a full recovery. Not having the $$$$ for surgery to fuse the joint, we are working on making some sort of rigid splint to support the limb and prevent further degeneration. That is, the humans (with their space-age material inventions and their opposable thumbs) are working on making a splint; I am working on giving cloud dog brayful looks of support and encouragement every time he totters into the yard to relieve himself. As always, he fears me (me?!) and keeps his distance. Ears to you, Fenway

Continued . . .

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Continued . . .

Catastrophy

This is the emergency broadcast system. This is not a test. I was going to entertain you with more haiku today, but something terrible has happened. I need your support. Today was supposed to be a regular spa day—a nice little hoofie trim, a fresh mane roach, an ear massage, and a handful of sunflower seeds (for shine). Instead of merely taking care of my beauty routine, however, FarmWife spent a full hour in contemplation of and attention to my overall physique. The upshot? A revision of my condition from Plump to Obese. (Her actual words, upon removing my blanket for the first time in a few days, were "Oh my God! You've ballooned!") She has decided that my fatness has become a health risk, and has resolved to exercise me as often as possible. It gets dark at 4:30. Her husband gets home at 5:30. She has small children and no sitter. This, my friends, means that I will end up being longed. Longed at the end of a stupid, smelly old rope. Forced to walk and trot...

Continued . . .

Mowers and raccoons and steers, oh my!

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 ...

Continued . . .

BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

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