BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

I cleaned my car not long ago. To some of you, this will bring to mind images of a lintless rag swept lovingly across a gleaming fender. To others, pictures of the ghostly shells of Starbucks half-caff, low fat, triple venti white chocolate mochas being  pulled from the floor into a waiting sack, or perhaps, if your taste runs more towards the proletarian, Micky Ds and Burger King sacks and cups and ketchup packets scooped up and discarded. If you are the owner of a pet or child, you may even imagine that there will be some vacuuming to be done. This, however, is Bent Barrow Farm, which means that when it comes to the messes made by pets and children we probably have you beat.  On this day it was not takeout containers or coffee cups that worried me, but rather, in reverse order from the top, the two old tarps, one muddy horse blanket, five flakes of straw, half-flake of Eastern Washington orchard grass hay, and several dozen or so partially composted leavings of our recently ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3Qb0KTEmD4&feature=related There is no muleness whatsoever in this strange singer's demeanor, and yet somehow I am pulled in by his mysterious wiles. I am deeply unsettled, but irrestably drawn in. The music isn't half bad, actually, but there is something nightmarish about that vacant, lip-syncing smile. I am perplexed. Wish me sweet dreams, dear readers. May they not be visited by the Trololo man. Fenway Bartholomule

This was going to be a story about a place. It was going to be about one small, green acre, but also about the world around Bent Barrow Farm: the halfway logged hills and the noisy wetlands, the slow moving trains and the scenic vista from which my mule, Fenway, once surprised me with three counties sprawled out under a most amazing sky. (I had never before realized what power lay in giving him his head!) And then this looked in danger of becoming a story about Fenway, but also about how I am now that I know him, and who I am now that I live here. So maybe, after all, it is going to be a story about happiness.

 . . . . out of respect for the one third of early respondents who have advised me to ditch the fish, I have moved my scaly little friends to the bottom of the page. For those of you who enjoy their antics and their appetites, scroll down. For the rest of you, enjoy the newfound serenity of life sans poissons .

As you know, FarmWife and I go together like peas and carrots, and there is never a moment spent together that we don't mostly enjoy. (I will give exception to the annual freshening up of my nether-regions, which takes place in summer when the flies are about and which is quite the affront to my dignity.) I love most of the activities for which FarmWife requests my company: pasture jogging, during which we cavort merrily together until her knee starts throbbing; trail riding, during which we surmount objects, explore ridges, locate scenic vistas, and skirt Satan's chickens ; grooming, during which I ask FarmWife to pay particular attention to my ears and withers; road riding, during which we stick to the quiet byways and work on friendly, non-concussive things—things like lateral movements at the walk, stride adjustability at the walk, and improving our vocal range and intonation . . . . at the walk. These are great activities, and they satisfy me to the fullest. FarmWife...

Ligers are bigger than lions or tigers, and mules carry more than their fathers or mothers. It is a fact that the world is just full of examples of how all these new hybrids rule.  OK, enough with the loose rhymes. My point is this: there are a million wonderful things you can do with hybridization. You humans have tapped into something huge here, and it doesn't end with my mulishly tremendous stamina, the Prius's better fuel efficiency, or the long term storage potential of Elepano rice.  Think of the potential! Scientists have recently discovered the existance of the wild squirrelocerous, which is easily domesticated and better than a locksmith for battering its way into small spaces. Lock your keys in the car? No problem! Let this little fella loose on your ride and he will pry his way in and scurry them right back to you in no time!  For you apartment dwellers, there's now a way to bring the Savannah home to your living room. Always admired...

The objective: Answer the interview questions with song titles, by one artist.  Pick Your Artist: Queen Are you male or female: Soul Brother Describe yourself: The Hero How do you feel about yourself: Good Company Describe where you currently live: Made in Heaven If you could go anywhere, where would you go: Arboria (Planet of the Tree Men) Your favorite form of transportation: Ride the Wild Wind Your best friend is: Sweet Lady Yur favorite color is: My Melancholy Blues What's the weather like: It's a Beautiful Day Favorite time of day: Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon If your life was a TV show, what would it be called: These are the Days of our Lives (Erm . . . make that Brays of our Lives) What is life to you: A Kind of Magic What is the best advice you have to give: Let Me Entertain You If you could change your name, what would it be: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy Your favorite food is: Lily of the Valley Thought for the Day: Friends Will Be Friends How I would like to die:...

FarmWife and I just wrapped up a lovely little impromptu ride after Mr. J came home unexpectedly early. It was absolutely perfect. In the interest of saving time, we dispensed with my breeching, breastplate, boots, and bridle, going out instead in just a halter and saddle. Bareback riding is all well and good, but FarmWife wanted this opportunity to perfect my understanding (and her use) of of the seat aids, as they would function in full regalia. We went down yonder road and back, working all the while on our walk/halt/walk transitions and our port and starboard navigational systems. FarmWife dropped the reins, such as they were, and she practiced communicating with her butt. This, for the uninitiated, is a more graceful equestrian pursuit than it sounds. We were only out for thirty minutes, but we saw our friend Bald Eagle standing sentry over the Samish headwaters, and watched the brisk, tumultuous rallying of tonight's rain clouds. We heard, over FarmWife's unquenchable...

There has been some dispute as to whether this giant caterpillar, as posted on facebook last week, is actually a llama/caterpillar hybrid (scientific name llamapillarama glamaarctiidae) . In researching the veracity of this claim, I observed photographic evidence of the wooly bear caterpillar/llama resemblance. I was unable to determine the true nature of the pictured specimen, but I did come to one rock-solid conclusion: llamas are silly, silly things. Llamas combine the duel wizardry of fabulous ear length and blazing hot fashion sense. Not only are they good at choosing stylish accessories for every season, but they can be used to MAKE stylish accessories for winter and fall. My grasp of textile production is weak, but my understanding is that they produce threads instead of fur. Llamas, like mules and caterpillars, eat vegetative matter. For this purpose, they have developed strong, masticating molars as well as strangely proturbant incisors. I think this may be a ...

Sometimes FarmWife misunderstands me in the morning. Here's a sample conversation from breakfast today: FarmWife: Good morning, my hungry hungry hippo! Fenway: FarmWife!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm starving!!!!!! FarmWife: Hello, my handsome lad. I love you too. Fenway: I have bed head and my butt itches. FarmWife: Did you know that you're the best in the world? Fenway: Please scratch my butt. FarmWife: Oh, your tail is tangly! We'd better comb that, hadn't we? Fenway: My butt. FarmWife: It's a beautiful day. What do you say we get your blankie off? Fenway: Actually, prior to the removal of my turnout rug I would prefer that you check on the status of that monogrammed dress sheet that I had requested.  FarmWife: There you go, Fenny. You'll be much more comfy naked. Fenway: My dress sheet, please. FarmWife: Aren't you handsome under there! Fenway: Now I'm cold. Can I have a double tall half-caf  soy hazelnut latte, please?  FarmWife: Let me top u...

Art: Party Animal by Robert Burridge One of the larval humans celebrated a birthday in the garden today, and as a result there were teeming throngs of snack-laden humans clustering alongside the fence. (I was quite the attraction, if I do say so, and more than one guest would have gladly taken me home as a party favor had I been on offer.) One of the party activities was the establishment of a strawberry bed near my paddock, promising as a source of future mule snacks. The downside: FarmWife has been too busy to write with me today. The upside: I got a piece of birthday cake. No frosting, hold the ice cream. Party On, FenBar

Art by G. de Voss Poem by Ralph Witherspoon "My home is a haven for one who enjoys  The clamour of children and ear-splitting noise  Froma number of dogs who are always about, And who want to come in and, once in, to go out. Whenever I settle to read by the fire,  Some dog will develop an urge to retire,  And I'm constantly opening and shutting the door  For a dog to depart or as mentioned before,  For a dog to arrive, who, politely admitted,  Will make a bee-line for the chair I've just quitted.  Our friends may be dumb, but my house is a riot,  Where I can sit still and can never be quiet."

FarmWife adores me. She really does, and there is never a moment that passes when I doubt the sincerity of that love. If she had one complaint with me, though . . . and it is not that she does have a complaint with me, because she doesn't . . . it would be that I am not quite so, how shall we say, forward as the invigorated sporthorses of her youth. Now, I am not a kick-along sloth. I walk, trot, and canter without too much cajoling, and can even muster a hand-gallop for up to ten strides at a time when asked nicely. I have a reputation, in fact, for my lovely swinging walk, which is the envy of many a quarter horse rider on yonder trails. It is only when compared to the remembered mounts of yore that I tend to be judged too sedate. I will freely admit that I cannot finish a cross country course ahead of Dor, the "you should go clean if you don't both die" appaloosa, and I do not take the bit in my teeth with the surging strength of Panda, the "perhaps we...

On this lovely day after Valentine's day, I would like to nominate for honorary muleness this dear friend-of-a-friend, Attila the tortoise. The accompanying photo shows Attila in his role as ring bearer at the wedding of his human guardians, demonstrating that slow and steady brings the bling, charms the guests,  and wins the race. Tilly's got a problem, folks, and his problem is that his adoring and conscientious humans are planning a move abroad. Unfortunately, 80 pound tortoises can't fly coach. This decision, which was not made lightly, means that Attila is being offered for long term placement in only the most wonderful of homes. He needs hay, safe turnout, daily checks, clean water, and . . . well, basically all the things that any other mule needs, except on a smaller scale. Oh, and a heat lamp, because unlike a Clydesdale, he is truly cold-blooded. In exchange, he offers an abundance of reptilian intelligence, discerning character, slow-mo antics, and a radical ...

(Brayed to the tune of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody . ) Dedicated to my darling Valentine. With love, From Fenway Sweet Katie Scarlett, My darling Valentine,  Each Facebook wall post  goes straight from your heart to mine. Open my eyes, look up to the skies and bray . . . .  I'm just a lone mule, two goats for company, my fame is easy come, easy go, with these hooves, typing's slow, Look at how the wind blows, carrying my kisses to thee, Katie.  Katie—you lovely mule— Oh I know we met online, but my darling, you're so fine. Katie, now that you're my girl, there is no name in the world I'd rather bray.  Katie . . . . Scarlett . . . I'm not gonna lie,  I sometimes wish we lived a little closer,  in a barn, side by side,  'cause our love really matters . . .  Good hay, my lunch has come,  I'd share a flake sometime if our stalls were side by side, My love, Katie Scarlett, you ought ...

Mules vs. goats vs. chickens— A mule will open a gate if he wants to go through. A goat will knock you down at the gate if he wants to go through. A chicken will stare at the gate for four hours trying to figure out how to go through . . . even though it's open.  Dogs vs. cats vs. mules— Dogs roll in their poop. Cats bury their poop. Mules carefully classify their poop according to nitrogen, potassium, and phosphorous content in order to facilitate composting expediency.  Show people vs. trail people vs. mule people— Show people carefully coordinate the hunter trim on their trunk with the hunter trim on the bag in which they store their Vespucci bridle. Trail people carefully calculate the total weight, the washability, and the anti-chafe qualities of their brown leather breeching, their orange nylon breastplate, their black synthetic saddle, and their blue beta reins. Mule people just stand back and say, "damn, them's some fine ears." 

Well, folks—it's official. The tax return is filed, and FarmWife and Mr. J are getting a chunk of change back this year! Silly humans. They've already scrooged away every budgeted penny for bills and necessaries, but just in case Uncle Sam spontaneously kicks back a little extra cash for one of my dear readers, I thought I would present for your shopping pleasure the following Tax Time Lovelies from the giant sale barn that is the World Wide Web. http://www.dreamhorse.com/show_horse.php?form_horse_id=1509010&share_this=Y This Victor fellow might have long pasterns, methinks, but he looks like a jolly chap who just needs a lift out of snowy Ohio. http://www.dreamhorse.com/show_horse.php?form_horse_id=1489546&share_this=Y I think I showed you guys this one already. Can you tell I WUV him? I think he would make a very nice best (guy) friend, never of course usurping Katie's role as the other other BEST mule in the world, besides me and John Henry. http://w...

Welcome Flowers! FarmWife got her first round of seeds out in the garden yesterday, the greenhouse is prepped and ready for this week's transplants, and the mule hairs are flying. The crocuses are feeling this global warming thing—they are pony-crushingly big this year. This bay gelding at left is about 12 hh, if you were wondering. I'm all for showy blooms, but this is getting ridiculous! Speaking of pony crushing, the FarmWife was a bit taken aback when she saw how petite I looked in a recent photo. For comparison, how do you think she fares against these honest-to-goodness pony-crushers? In my opinion, FarmWife is well within the Appropriate Cargo Guidelines for a mule of my robust vigor. Luckily for FarmWife, it is my opinion which matters the most. It is I, after all, who has to carry her. I think she can also take comfort in the fact that her screamingly yellow safety jacket has optically-distorting qualities, while I tend to recede in the subtle quiet of serene b...

Dear Readers, The National Security Act of 1947 ushered in a new world of data gathering, secret operations, and clandestine research in the United States, not the least of which projects was the MKULTRA program undertaken by the CIA in order to study and master mind control. I, Fenway Bartholomule, have discovered that this program is not dead. It did not get put to sleep with the end of the cold war; did not crash down with the Berlin Wall; and certainly did not end with the drying up of brain electrode research in the second half of the 20th century. No, my friends: Government-run Mind Control research is at work even now, and my own dear FarmWife is the unwitting subject. Some of you may be familiar with the term "Bejeweled Blitz," describing a cutesy facebook application with glittering gems and exciting little explosions. You may not realize that this very program, in all of its confidentiality, was found on prematurely discarded CIA laptops at a Petaluma garage...