BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

(Introducing a new feature, in which we bring you a quote on non-blogging days.) " The time to be happy is now. The place to be happy is here. The way to be happy is to make others so." Robert G. Ingersoll

I, Fenway Bartholomule, have three priorities when selecting a vacation destination. In no particular order, they are: 1. Wallowing texture, 2., Wallowing resilience, and 3., Wallowing accessibility. There is no more compelling reason to leave home than the burning desire for a nice roll in the sand. Someday, FarmWife will build a nice sand arena. She can use it to jog about in imitation of a dressage mount whilst I use it for rolling. Perfect. In the meantime, here are a few destinations that have met with my consideration: 1. Iceland. On the one hoof, as an island nation it is sure to have beaches. On the other, it also has wretched dining opportunities and tremendously dangerous volcanos. My impression about the diminuitive Icelandic Horse is that he would look less like a pony if it were not for his ancestral diet of dried herring and seaweed. 2. Australia. Firstly, it is a nation of dingos and convicts. That said, I am generally good at getting along with people from all walks ...

Preface: Daughter three, little R, is the nicest, warmest, most optimistic ray of sun in human form that I have ever had the pleasure to meet. She is a blessing, a gift, and a fantastic addition to the Bent Barrow family. She gives the best hugs in the world and may well be the finest thing to come along since sliced bread. I wouldn't trade her for a million riding lessons. That said, I must be honest: the news of my third pregnancy was not met with joyful welcome. It came at a time when we were feeling cash-strapped, hemmed in, and harried, and came despite our several reliable forms of birth control. (A too-familiar feeling—this was accident number three for little miss Fertile Vessel and I was sick of the surprises! IUDs, the pill, barriers, blah blah blah—I've tried them all and I report zero success.) We were restless. Our apartment was shrinking in around us, and I was psychologically trapped in a pattern of self-doubt. I'd given up a free ride to a good law school fo...

These are FarmWife's vacation stories: Three summers ago, she had no mule. She didn't dare to dream of a time when she might have a mule, and she didn't take any fun trips so far as I have been informed. Poor FarmWife. Two summers ago, FarmWife went camping with her extended family in the lovely Payette National Forest of Idaho. She saw shepherds with their mules and flocks, she saw meandering trails stretching up and away across the landscape and to the highest reaches of the peaks, and she said, "this would be a good place to bring my neighbor's mule." She was already daydreaming, two summers ago, of life with me, Fenway Bartholomule, né Buck. Last summer, FarmWife went camping with her extended family in the lovely Deschutes National Forest of Oregon. She and her kin were bitten many times and muchly by a million fat mosquitos, leading her to say, "it is good that my mule was spared." They say that it was wonderful fun, but I can't tel...

Last night, dear readers, I tried something new. You see, FarmWife, exhibiting some sixth-sensitive premonition, has gotten the hankering to teach me to drive. I have not told her that I am saving up to buy her a harness in 2011, 2012, 2013 or 2014 so I can only guess that she retains more of my dictation than I had previously realized. I guess her transcription work is not as passive as I had assumed.  Given my foggy memory of early events and FarmWife's total lack of knowledge about my first 13 years of life, we had no way of knowing whether driving was one of skills I'd picked up in Ohio. Now, we do: we have learned, by my obvious lack of familiarity with the concept, that being ground-driven was very new to me.  During my brief initial ground-driving lesson, conducted in my surcingle and snaffle bridle with long-reins, I conducted a Rearrangement of Hoofies. This caused no danger to FarmWife or myself, because of the mulish composure with which I managed the R...

Contributions for the gift of the decade are being accepted via Paypal, with utmost thanks from the bottom of my capacious and noble heart.   Strike that—our fundraising goal was met this Tuesday the 29th of June. You guys are AMAZING!  I do not say "the gift of the decade" because it will be the most special, friends (although it may), but because I am estimating ten years' time to save the necessary cash. I will be 25 in ten years; FarmWife will be nearly 41. That's a fine time to learn to drive. You see, dear readers, it's like this: FarmWife has a birthday coming up. Since she is my very best friend, I want to make it special. I want to give her more than my affectionate feelings, my hearty greetings, my shed fur and my nuzzles. I want to get her a nice harness from Chimacum tack, along with the promise of my attention and labor during driving lessons. It will be all sorts of fun. The harness that I want to surprise her with will run me 675...

You may recall that my best argument for buying Tanner (sight unseen) via paypal from 2000 miles away was his advertised suitability as a potential husband horse. For the uninitiated, this is a term indicating that a horse is strong enough to carry a man and mannerly enough to be ridden by a beginner. It is not the sort of determination that one can make via email, however, and I was wrong to believe it.  Tanner and Mat were wrong for each other: Tanner because he was headshy, fearful, reactive and desperately in need of restarting, from scratch, in his under-saddle training; Mat because he didn't want, need, or enjoy a horse and because he had no interest one way or the other in my inconvenient new pet. It worked out: I really wanted a horse for me, and a horse for me is what I ended up with. A big, shivering wreck of a horse.  Being pregnant, I found that the summer of 2004 was the perfect time for Tanner's ground work. We worked on leading, loading, tying, and trusting, and...

FarmWife and I had a lovely ride yesterday, despite her having squandered the first hour of our free time with a radical currying attempt. The interesting thing about the seasonal change in equines is this: In the winter, you can whip off our blankets, mop off our legs and necks, give us a five-minute touchup and head for the trail. In the summer, you can give us a quick once-over and, in five minutes, hit the trail on a mount that looks like a million bucks. In the autumn, you can curry and brush us once over quickly with great results. In the spring, two hours of arm-wrenching effort will not be enough to transform the furry behemoth before you into a respectable-looking equine citizen. I will say this for our fan Ann, though . . . that lady has very clever taste in t-shirts! FarmWife's "Go ride a mule" shirt is exactly and precisely the same beautiful shade of brown as me, Fenway Bartholomule, in my shedding-ist winter colors. By the time I was ready to go, FarmWif...

Dear Readers,  It's a sunny Sunday in Wickersham and we've a trail ride to enjoy, but I wanted to take a quick moment to answer this pressing question: have I, Fenway Bartholomule, ever appeared with my mane intact? Karen W. writes, " Great pictures! Looks like a fun outting too. I'm curious Fenway, does Farmwife roach your mane? I just realized I've never seen a mule wearing a long mane, are they always shaved, or do you not grow mane?" Karen, most mules have a sparse mane. This means, for most of us, that a roach is the way to go. The exception to this rule would be the case of the ewe-necked mule, or the mule whose topline is so unFenwayish as to require a little bit of illusory additional width.  Here is a photo of me, Fenway, when I still belonged to the neighbors and had my mane and tail intact. You'll note that I had a nice, fluffy little mane, and a long, beautiful tail, but that the big picture is a bit more casual than my current clas...

I, Fenway Bartholomule, was invited to go on an Earth Day picnic yesterday with FarmWife and her littlest humans. It is nice that Worrydog is gone—with no dog to walk, FarmWife often ends up walking me. (Paisley, the Clouddog, has a limb deformity that precludes excessive exercise.) This is a win-win situation: I get a little exercise, a chance to visit the neighbors, and a few bites of tender and delicious grasses, and FarmWife gets the company of a pet that is unlikely to bite anyone and unlikely to require a pooper scooper. (I only poop on the home pile). Whenever we tour the neighborhood, we get reviews on my stupendous bray. My sound has led to many comparisons: I have been likened to a monster, a dinosaur, a demon from hell, a murder victim, a dog being horribly damaged, the sound of joy itself, a fire alarm, someone suffering, and a giant peacock. I rather liked Bob's interpretation (the sound of joy) best. When I go picnicking, I have three priorities— First, I prov...

Lost as I have been in joyful appreciation of the Here and Now, I seem to have jumped ahead. Spring will bring you to the present like nothing else, I suppose, with all its exultant aliveness. Before I jump back, however, to 2004, Whidbey Island, and the Husband-Horse-Who-Wasn't, let me say this: this husband of mine can ride. Mat's premarital experience with horses was limited to one brief and unhappy trail string experience as a sullen teen. The rented horses failed to spark an interest in him, and he never went back. I finally put Mat on a borrowed Paint retiree last summer, more for my pleasure than his own. He submitted to my eager invitation, donning a helmet and mounting in an appropriately manly Western saddle that I'd scrounged up for the occasion. I turned my husband and his steed, the subdued Polychrome, loose in a roundpen, expecting a hurky-jerky walk around the perimeter and some occasion to call, "heels down, dear! Don't hang on the reins!" If I...

. . . if you give her loving care." (title taken from "Garden Song" by David Mallett) Happy Earth day, everyone! This month has been action packed . . . FarmWife and FarmHusband celebrated their sixth anniversary of marriage this month (without me, I might add), Little Larval Human turned three years old (which means that she should soon be ready to start doing heavy labor such as pulling and carrying), tax day came and went (but the refund's long since spent), Minimule Harriet turned one year old (stuck though she is at a fetal stage of development), and International Grass Day hit us like a delicious flavor explosion. Today, April 22nd, we celebrate the Mother that we all share. Not horse mother, not donkey mother, not Mother Goose or Mother Hubbard . . . I mean Earth, in whose loving arms we all reside. Humans, here this: my overgrazed pasture ain't nothin' compared to the abuse you've committed towards our dear Mother. I won't go into deta...

Just in case you were wondering what it is like to be FarmWife, we thought we'd share with you this little photographic demonstration of the splendors of riding me, Fenway Bartholomule, bareback. Handy text boxes show you the key sights, in case you wouldn't have noticed them for yourself. These include a bored expression; a furry wintery poll; smooth, summery ears; shoulder bars and a dorsal stripe; a saddle sore scar from a long-ago time; and FarmWife's ridiculously bright high-vis jacket. Be warned: the high you get from gazing down my tremendous neck can be addictive. One look and you may never be the same.

1. They look forward to paste deworming. They suck on the wormer syringe like it is a lollipop from the drive-through banking window. 2. They have eight hooves. Two on each leg. 3. They have little fermentation vats in their stomachs, and burp lager-scented burps. 4. They relish the weeds and ignore the grasses. This is why the goats have not had their pasture privileges limited, whilst I have been barred from entry to the Regrowth Area. 5. They have no swatters on their tails. This is a tragedy. 6. They have no top incisors. Those are the teeth that one would need to use if one were to dine upon delicious bites of tender grasses, and this may be an explanation for why they don't prefer these bites. They like things that can be grasped with the molars and rended violently into the mouth, such as the leafy end of a spiny shrub-branch. It takes all kinds. Our baby goatlings are very big now—at 13 days of age, in fact, they are now too big to nurse standing up!  FarmWife...

My children have a picture book called "This is How We Live in the Town." I've never been crazy about the book, but I love the title. In this town, we sit down together over fresh rhubarb pie from one neighbor's kitchen and another neighbor's rhubarb patch. We dollop on fresh whipped cream from the Jersey cow next door. We look after one anothers' children so that we might ride, or run, or hike or bike in the cool forests and broad tracks of the looming hills, or so that we might enjoy the company of one anothers' children for their own sake. When we see one another, we stop in the lane and lose an hour chatting. We phone one another because our headlights were left on, or because we have an extra slice of cake, or because there are perennials to be divided. In this town, we all grow the same great garlic, a strain that has been spreading in concentric circles from one well-tended garden. Bulb by bulb, generation by generation, season by season. We grow th...

Despite the great importance of the Bringing Of The Hay, I, Fenway Bartholomule, think of my FarmWife as so much more than a waitress. The fact of the matter is that I love her, as she loves me. These are the ways in which I show my love: I bray to her. I do this even when the hay is not exected, for instance In Between Meal Times. Some have (correctly) identified this behavior as an affectionate gesture, whilst others have called it misplaced optimism. Know this: it is friendliness, not wishful thinking, that inspires my joyful song. I frolic with her. When she walks in the pasture, I walk at her side. When she jogs in the pasture, I trot behind. When she jumps about in a foolish way, I prop and spin and shake my head like a wild mustang. It is terribly fun. I submit to her attention. I do this even when her attention is unwelcome, involving for instance paste dewormers, French-link snaffles, or the tidying up of my nether-regions. I carry her. This is no small thing when one is a sma...

Katy and Patti, a team of riding/driving mules, put in a good showing at the 69th annual International Plow Match in Lynden in Whatcom county, Washington this weekend. I was not able to go along, being too large for the Volvo, but my five human representatives went and reported that the event was a great success. As the only longeared team competing, the diminutive sorrel mare mules kept their wits about them despite the explosive antics of some of the younger teams. A pair of grey Percherons had a bit of a moment when a line snapped and spooked the team, but there were no injuries or further mishaps during the day.  My contingent was there early, and missed the judging and winners' announcements. Results, unfortunately, have been hard to come by—most of these hard working farmers are probably too busy plowing their own plots to post online updates about the contest winners—but the mule team, in for their seventh year, expected to do a very fair job. Not a small a...

Today FarmWife will spend 8 hours at work and 2 hours riding. This, and yet she says riding is her favorite thing in the world. I just don't quite get it. The good news, though, is that fly season is finally here—and this means that I get to wear my special alien ray-deflection bonnet! No manipulative extraterrestrial mind-control for me, no sirree . . . I've got protection. Love, Fenway

I, Fenway Bartholomule, have a number of wonderful features, and as a result of my own wonderful features I am allowed wonderful priviledges and access to wonderful things. Here are a few of my favorite things, in no particular order: Spring grasses. I am allowed out to eat these in moderation because I, Fenway, am an easy-keeper but not too fat. Baby animals. I, Fenway, am allowed to commingle with them–baby goatlings, larval humans, etcetera—because I am gentle and courteous. New tack. I wouldn't quite see the appeal myself, except that the joy on FarmWife's face when she comes out with some comfy new contraption is contagious, making tack wonderful enough for the both of us. My tail. Thank you for noticing, commentators! FarmWife has never prepared my tail for full effect—if you like it now, then you must try imagine how the muddy dangly bits would do with a washing and combing on show day! Katie Scarlett. Still my valentine. Writing. Having this blog has been ...

In case any of you loyal and devoted fans want to make the schlepp to Skagit County, Washington this spring, I wanted to announce that FarmWife's 31st birthday will be celebrated at the Cowboy Campsite in Lyman on the weekend of June 5-6th. Those who attended last year will recall that this is actually a chance to celebrate me, Fenway Bartholomule, with such things as mule-themed cakes, mule rides, and mule talk. The following weekend, June 11th, FarmWife and I will be back at the campsite for some serious trail riding action . . . you see, her dear husband is taking the larval humans away for a visit to his ancestral home. FarmWife and I would have liked to have gone along, but they really ding the 800-pounds-and-over set for extra seat room in coach and we simply haven't the means to fly first class. Perhaps another time. That particular week will be packed with fun at home: FarmWife weedwhacking, FarmWife mending fences, FarmWife riding me, Fenway Bartholomule, at ever...

There's a time in many young couples' lives for parentally-subsidized housing, late-night baby soothing, and just-getting-by. Today, though, I stand here on our own little farm, pitchfork in hand, looking at a spectacular vegetable patch. In the background, our newborn Saanen doelings discover their frolicking legs, gamboling wildly around our small pasture to the frank astonishment of their older brother Jasper Jules. The comfrey is knee-high, the rhubarb nearly so, and the pear and cherry blossoms coming fully on. We've harvested our first round of brocolli raab from the greenhouse, the sunchokes are coming up again in ever-increasing numbers, and the arugula is so thick you could lose a baby in it. We're still just getting by, in the sense that our net income never quite pushes its head above the red line of monthly expenses, and in the sense that we ate jerusalem artichokes, salad thinnings, and last year's kale and potatoes for dinner more than once in the last...

Do You Know Your Horses? Time is short today, and real life beckons. I'll leave you to ponder this jewel from the interwebs. Love, Fen

These are the results of our fashion photo shoot this morning. FarmWife wanted to model her new t-shirt from the Grand Canyon, which was a gift from a wonderful fan and which happens to be her favorite clothing color (brown, like me, Fenway Bartholomule). I wanted to model my new neck ring, which FarmWife made out of things and scraps and which is a nice alternative to a halter and leadrope for Casual Fridays. All photographs were taken by D., larval human, who is only five years old and who did a great job considering—especially if you remember that humans and mules mature at different rates.