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 small mule and when one's FarmWife is a gangly woman. I even carry her when she wants to gallop bareback and hands-free. (Perhaps she likes to pretend that she is the young Alec from The Black Stallion. She is not. She is heavier and less graceful.)
I come when she calls "Muuuuuule!" She calls "muuuuule" because I used to live next door, and under a different name. When I was newly relocated, FarmWife feared to tell my former humans about my dignified new name. Now they are my facebook friends, and there is no possibility for awkwardness. They've even said they like "Fenway Bartholomule," and I for one cannot see why FarmWife cannot now yell "FenBar!!" across the neighborhood.
I place my closed eyes, one or the other, upon her tummy. If you can close YOUR eyes for a moment and try to imagine this, you will agree that it is a very tender embrace.
Signed,
FenBar
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 small mule and when one's FarmWife is a gangly woman. I even carry her when she wants to gallop bareback and hands-free. (Perhaps she likes to pretend that she is the young Alec from The Black Stallion. She is not. She is heavier and less graceful.)
I come when she calls "Muuuuuule!" She calls "muuuuule" because I used to live next door, and under a different name. When I was newly relocated, FarmWife feared to tell my former humans about my dignified new name. Now they are my facebook friends, and there is no possibility for awkwardness. They've even said they like "Fenway Bartholomule," and I for one cannot see why FarmWife cannot now yell "FenBar!!" across the neighborhood.
I place my closed eyes, one or the other, upon her tummy. If you can close YOUR eyes for a moment and try to imagine this, you will agree that it is a very tender embrace.
Signed,
FenBar
Fenway, your love for the FarmWife is just wonderful. Oh, how I wish I had a Fenway, but alas, Magic the dog will have to do.
ReplyDeleteThank you! The love of FarmWife for me is wonderful too.
ReplyDelete