BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Please welcome guest blogger Jasper Jules Jackson Jones,  who presents the following work of fiction for your enjoyment: Trip Trap Tap text by Jasper Jules puppets by Theatre of Widdershins We're billy goats, yes, but we're not so gruff. My brothers and I have had enough of these trollish tales of hoof and horn! It's time you learn what did go on. There was a bridge, I'll admit that, And yes it's true we tripped and trapped. You see, my baby brother Joe Had someplace that he had to go. Joe loves to dance – he trips and traps! He boogies, woogies, tips and taps. His hooves go slippity, fast slap, slow and that is what you need to know. Now Johnny, he's the middle one, and I, we thought it might be fun to learn those moves and dance along with little Joe's tip-tapping song. One day there was a casting call A talent show – “come one, come all!” We knew we had the moves, you see...

I, Fenway Bartholomule, know of a little hybrid in need of a home. No, he is no mule: Easy is a Gremlin/dog hybrid. At 10 pounds, he is just a little bit of a thing, and his foster mother reports that he has endured a difficult start in life and emerged unscathed as nothing short of a great little guy.  Blogger is giving me some picture-posting trouble today, but you can see pictures of Easy on my facebook fan page! Now, if I, Fenway, had a dog named Easy, I would change it to Easyboot. That would be good, because then I could call him by a variety of surnames according to the circumstances. Just finish a rigorous hike? Easyboot Epic. Take him swimming? EasySoaker. Remove his collar? Easyboot Bare. Dangle him from the end of a chewtoy? Easyboot Grip. Note that he's stickin' right by my side? Easyboot Glue-on.  Now, Easy is a little bit cute and a little bit wonderful, but I wanted to talk about another sort of bit: bits like my pelham, my dogbone snaffle, and my ru...

While Mat and I practiced the arts of cohabitation, cooperation, and pesticide-free cockroach control, another love was blossoming. Paisley, my gawky adolescent Australian Shepherd, was falling fast and hard for his new master. Paisley had joined my little family a year earlier as a congenitally deaf, unwanted seven week-old puppy. His breeder saw occasional deaf puppies as a natural byproduct of otherwise profitable merle-to-merle breedings, and took her chances with every litter. Biting back my criticism of her breeding program, I asked for and was granted custody of her latest cull, adding an unneeded puppy to an already busy family life. Finding myself the proud owner of a young Garth (his earliest given name), son of the bitch Tanya Tucker and the dog Travis Tritt, nephew of the bitch Shania Twain, I strove to free him from the oppression of the country music theme. Granting him the name Paisley, I felt at ease. It was several weeks before someone broke the bad news—Brad Paisley, ...

FarmWife has taken to trail riding with me in a mechanical hackamore, which has its pros and cons. On the plus side, it's more comfortable for a long ride than my rubber snaffle, and allows for the dispensation of cookies from the saddle for a job well done. Additionally, it's wrapped in comfy green polar fleece, and coordinates nicely with my new blingy browband. The downside is that it really does afford FW more leverage than she needs; except when I am in competition with eager company, I can be ridden without a touch on the reins. FarmWife recognizes this, and uses my mechanical hack with delicate tenderness. The other downside is that, as a reformed Elk Huntin' Mule, I am working hard to cultivate an image of English Gentility. This mechanical hackamore lacks the sophistication of the pelham, and the aesthetic appeal of the baucher snaffle. Now, I used to be a Huntin' Mule in the "shall we pack this forequarter out on Bullet, or on Jeb?" sense. So...

FarmWife left my pasture gate partially closed yesterday, or perhaps the goats moved it while I was not looking. Whatever the explanation, the results were the same: A Narrowed Passageway. This is a big no-no, mulekeeping 101. My delicate hips, my tender shoulders! To think of all the accidents that could have befallen me! (They didn't, by the way, and they wouldn't have, really, because I am Sensible.) "FarmWife," I called, "You'll want to prop that all the way open before you leave!" She ignored me. "FarmWife," I called, "You'll regret that later!" She acted as though she didn't hear. "FarmWife," I told her, "I am going to come running to you later today, and I will bray with such compelling cuteness that you will be provoked to take a video recording of the event. You will want things Just So for my movie. Open that gate all the way!" She walked away. Now, of course, we have a lovely vide...

It wasn't long before Mat and I were committed to making a life together, and so by the end of our first summer we were apartment shopping in and around Boston. In what may have been the first financially independent move of my adult life, I cosigned on a two bedroom apartment with my new boyfriend, leaving behind the sheltered luxury of the upperclass suburb where I'd lived while finishing my bachelor's degree. Having been given a more than generous leg up by two sets of aunts and uncles, I had been able to parent my toddler and graduate from college from the comfort of a very nice apartment on a shaded street of stately historic homes. It was with only a hint of trepidation that I packed up for the real world of Roxbury, Massachusetts, famous for it's diversity, it's MBTA Orange Line, and it's prominent role in the crack cocaine epidemic of the 1980s. Our move to the ghetto does sound like the stage for hilarious tribulations and heartbreaking trials, but, all...

HHooooSSSSSEEEEEeHHAAHhhooooSSSSEEEEeaaahhahhhEEEEKEEEKEEKKEEEKHuhhuhSSSSAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I'm hungry. WhuuhWhuuhWhuuhWhuuh I love you. QueEEEEEeggggrrrr Out, damned chicken! WwheeheheeehHAAHHsssssEEE! I see you, other Equine! Do you see me? Ppppppppphhhhthtttthhh I can't believe you just offered me jelly beans. Really, what WERE you thinking? -or- DAMN, that's a dusty dandy brush! (depending on context) HHooooSSSSSEEEEEeHHAAHhhooooSSSSEEEEeaaahhahhhEEEEKEEEKEEKKEEEKHuhhuhSSSSAAAAAAHHHSSSHhhoooEEEE HHooooSSSSSEEEEEeHHAhhooooSSSSEEEEeaaahhahhhEEEEKEEEKEEKKEEEKHuhhuhSSSSAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I'm still hungry.

There is something very special about a nice spring downpour. It is not so cold as to endanger one's health, and, if you time it right, not so longlasting as to make tacking up difficult (we, lacking a snug little barn, tack up in the open). It is not so oppressively humid as a New England summer storm, and not so sloppy as a January snowmelt. It carries the smell of warm humus and blooming vegetation, and dampens the creeping sounds of Satans Chickens and Other Underbrushdwellers. The combination of a nice spring downpour and a nice clay switchback is a rather messy thing, and not really special at all if we are assuming positive connotations with the word. The only very good things about a slick clay switchback are that I, being a mule and very sensible, have the presence of mind to place each foot carefully, and that FarmWife, having been raised up right, puts my safety above all else and picks her trails according to their navigability. FarmWife and I spent yesterafternoo...

Tanner, imagined wonderbeast that he was, was still 3000 miles (and a great deal of packing) away. We were to have a reprieve of several weeks' preparations and travel before we were to meet him, and all of his disappointments, in the flesh. Mat and I had been married just months earlier, on the first anniversary of our having been introduced. I vividly recall the night we met, and the amazement with which I admired his 1) eyes, 2) intellect, and 3) sexy arms (not necessarily in that order). I had never before fallen for eyes on the first date, but his are really something. Our middle daughter has inherited them, and they will take her far. I liked Mat from the moment we met, but practical concerns precluded a romantic interest. I was heading west for a free ride at an Oregon law school, and he was heading north for a Maine-based internship building wooden boats. Still, we had enough in common that our first meeting was followed shortly by another, and another. By our third outing ...

Well, depending on your feelings about ponies and bling, I have bad news and good news. Or good news, and bad news. Or bad and bad, or good and good. You decide. First, the bling . . . my mother made me this beaded browband. It's not 100% finished, but good enough for my photo shoot! The best thing about it is that I, Fenway Bartholomule, love the color green. Green is grass and orchard grass hay, green is a meadow on a sunny day . . . green like clover, green like leaves, green is the color that looks best on me. FarmWife knows this about me, and that's why I know she loves me. If she didn't love me as much, she would have made this beaded browband in HER favorite color, which is blue and which is also very nice.  Second, my height. Here goes folks—I'm puttin' it out there. I, Fenway Bartholomule, measure 14.075 hands. No, that's not FourteenPointSevenFive, which would be 14.3, of course. That is FourteenHandsAndAlmostAnInch. The tough thing about th...

Our blue Volvo, which performs the weekly magic trick of disgorging several delicious 90 pound bales of orchard grass hay from it's hatch in back, is going to have a birthday this weekend. Volvos, like mules, live a little longer than most people expect them to. This particular station wagon was assembled on March 21st, in a year long since obscured in the mists of forgotten history. I am not sure that the Volvo would want its age broadcast too loudly on this terribly public world wide web, but I will say that it was assembled before FarmWife entered kindergarten and also around the time of the first untethered human space walk, the introduction of crack cocaine to America, the debut of the Apple Macintosh, and the birth of transformers (More Than Meets The Eye!). Let's just say . . . no spring chicken. This blue Volvo has recently suffered the extinction of the fuse that powered the instrument panel, as well as a bulb in the near fore turn signal. Otherwise, FarmWife repor...

Tanner was the first horse to set hoof on Bent Barrow Farm, to my knowledge, and it was with Tanner in mind that I gleefully leapt into home ownership. With a million acres of timber land and mountain ranges at my doorstep, and with a little pasture behind the garden, bringing him home from the boarding barn seemed the thing to do. The thing about Tanner was that he was not at all the sort of horse that one rides boldly into the timber land. He was, in fact, not at all the sort of horse that an out of-shape, postpartum housewife rides anywhere at all, except perhaps within the confines of a small arena under the guidance of a skilled trainer. Tanner was a bit beyond my skill set, to tell you the truth, and after three years and two babies I had made rather less progress with him than I liked to admit. I had gone in 50/50 on Tanner with my mother (and favorite enabler) by way of Paypal three years earlier, never anticipating the years of mental rehabilitation (his) and equestrian growin...

There once was a mule from the county Whose folks travelled downtown without he.     They attended parades,     Saw hooves dipped in limeade, While their mule sat alone, sad and pouty. That poor, jealous fellow, meanwhile,  Could be seen turning green for a mile.     His complexion did change     That particular day To the color of yon' Emerald Isle.  Had it been a Thursday or Sat'day, No one might have cared This way or That way,     But it was midweek      And believers did seek proof of the magic of Pat's Day. Saint Patrick himself did descend With a leprechaun perched on his head.    With a rainbow about,    To the mule he did shout, "You're the greenest and greatest, my friend!" The neighbors in Acme did cheer When they saw that Saint Patrick was near,     To the mule they did cry,    ...

It has been brought to my attention that some poor, donkey-loving child out there in the big bad world of recreational horse showing is in danger of being turned away because her equine is, technically, not a horse. Horse shows are for horses, argue the opponents. Not, they say, for donkeys. Very well, then. I say that as long as the terminology is going to determine the ruling, we shall have a horses-only rule. Sorry, human competitors! No people allowed. While we're at it, let's make sure there's nothing to spook the horses. You see, donkeys can be terribly frightening to some horses. Soda cans terrify my Arabian friend-of-a-friend, Donny, so let's ban them, too. Me? I'm afraid of lines. I, Fenway Bartholomule, hereby forbid the assembly of equine competitors at any facility on which there are roads painted with, decorated with, or otherwise exhibiting the presence of yellow, white, orange or other lines, whether they be continuous, dotted, dashed, inter...

Spring is a Donkey. Spring is made of All New Materials: polyester fiber stuffing, acrylic and polyester shell. She is about knee-high to a giraffe and is able to comfortably carry up to 200 pounds, which is about what I am able to comfortably carry, too, as it happens. Spring joined our family via Dear Aunt Alice, known internationally for her reputation as the World's Best Gift Giver, and caused quite a sensation at Christmas time. Spring belongs to FarmWife's middle daughter. FarmWife's oldest daughter, far from being too mature for a ride-on donkey of her own, was thrown into such paroxysms of longing by the arrival of Spring that she invented her own imaginary toy donkey, Autumn. Autumn became her constant, invisible companion on or around December 26th, and arrived in the flesh for her Feb. birthday via Dear Granny Joan, known for her reputation as the Grandmother Who Supplies Ponies. Autumn is made of All New Materials, and is not invisible. She is a pleasingl...

"Sancho ran to his Dapple, and, embracing him, said: 'How hast thou done, my dearest Dapple, delight of my eyes, my sweet companion!' Then he kissed and caressed him as if he had been a human creature. The ass held his peace and suffered himself to be thus kissed and caressed by Sancho, without answering him one word." I, Fenway Bartholomule, understand, Dapple. Sometimes you just have to stand and take your kisses. text by Miguel de Cervantes art by Honore Daumier

Soft white Mini Mule No tail, no hooves. Poor wee thing! Ears and heart, though: large. White as driven snow Soft, sweet. I'd sniff you, but you're terrified of me Little striped man, tame tiny house tigerlet, What? The dog likes YOU? In your belly, Miss, There are eight legs, and two heads. Outside, four and one. You dress like a mule. Poor dog, you are not a mule. You have no courage. Steely lizard gaze Feathered friend, your stare gives me  the heebie-jeebies. Luxuriating Like inside's better. As if  the house is special.

Mat and I bought this house on Meredith Lane at the beginning of a very wet winter, and in doing so we spent every penny of ours and a few of our relatives'. So it was that we found ourselves economizing when it came to the accessories of farming, and so it was justified that we bought a bargain basement, low end wheelbarrow. Feeling like Frugal Fanny at her finest, I brought the plastic barrow home just days before my horses arrived; at the time, I had a draft X gelding and a borrowed mare, and there was nothing I had looked forward to as much as bringing the pair of them home from the boarding stable.  Any horse person worth her salt will tell you that two horses on one acre of Whatcom County lowland in the month of October is a recipe for disaster, barring the importation of dozens of tons of gravel. It came to pass that by early spring, Mat and I were stretching our budget a bit, putting 12 tons of this and 13 tons of that, plus 11 tons of the other, on one of several credit ca...

OK, guys, help me out here. I have been feeling a little insecure lately. For one thing, it's raining, which means that my FarmWife time is limited to my receipt of three meals per day and a brief trough check. I miss the leisurely sunny afternoons of mingling with her and her larvae, and without a snug little barn there's no likelihood of a dry hangout for the four of us anytime soon. My shed simply isn't big enough for that kind of social get-together, and a quick ear scratch from a dripping wet FarmWife can't substitute for a nice long visit in the sunshine. The bigger problem, though, is this: FarmWife, until this week, had always called me priceless. She had said, out loud to her friends and out loud to me, that I was the sort of mule that no money could buy, that she would give her right arm before selling me, and that there could never be a dollar amount on my head. Then, just Wednesday, I heard her tell someone that I was worth my weight in gold. At the curren...