A Wakeup Call, and Leaving the Office

"Can't we just have ONE DAY without sibling rivalry?," I begged. "Just ONE?" It was eight am, I was at the computer composing my mule's thoughts for the day. My quarreling children, awake just one hour, were already driving me batty.

"Then can we have one day—" my five year-old asked, "just one—without computer work?"

My heart broke a little bit. She was right. I owed it to her to unplug.

I love writing—blogging, especially, and getting feedback from readers who connect. Knowing that my thoughts, profound or mundane though they might be, can inform. enlighten, amuse, or inspire. Feeling powerful, talented, well-liked, and understood.

It's an addictive feeling.

I started www.BraysOfOurLives.com as an offshoot from my mule's facebook page, which has blossomed from nothing at all to a busy forum for 500+ longears lovers in a matter of a few months. I've had a blast with it.

I started www.PuddleRun.com to placate family members who felt they'd had enough of listening to my mule. I wanted to tell them my story, and I've been surprised by the path it's taken. It was supposed to be an episodic blog, a book in daily posts, on the subject of life in Wickersham and its little moments. It's turned out to be something rather introspective. Therapeutic. Rewarding beyond my expectations.

I started www.FairyRabbit.com when my ads on the other two blogs accumulated $20 odd dollars in revenue over the course of five days. In the 30-odd days since, they've accumulated nothing at all, but the fun of posting a pet of the day and a photo here and there of my beautiful Fairy Rabbit is reward enough. I'm ditching adsense, but not without retaining the goal of writing, somehow, for profit.

I (and my animals) will keep blogging, and at this volume. I'm going to cut back my facebook presence, though. After all, Fenway's truest fans will find him wherever he brays. Puddle Run is a twice-a-week commitment, and well worth it for me. It keeps me writing, and writing keeps me thinking.

Fairy Rabbit takes five minutes, three days a week. Fans can expect Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday updates—short and sweet, like my Harry.

And for the other 23+ hours of every day, I am going to get off this computer and live. Life, after all, is what I blog about.

Your grateful author,

Marnie

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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 . . .

Vegan Spring Rolls

I, Fenway Bartholomule, am a vegan: of course I only eat plants, not people! My human is too, so I'm sharing my blog with her today so that she can participate in the 2014 Virtual Vegan Potluck ! When you're done perusing the recipe for these delicious spring rolls, click "back" or "forward" for the entire potluck experience! Virtual Vegan Potluck: Spring Roll Appetizers Beautiful? Check. Healthy? Check. Delicious? Check. Easy? Check. Fancy? Check. Quick to clean up after? Check. Vegan? OF COURSE! If you're looking for something portable, colorful, and crowd-pleasing for your next potluck, look no further than these simple vegan spring rolls! The best part? You can substitute ANYTHING. I never make these the same way twice, so play around with cilantro, kale, cabbage, scallions, or whatever you think sounds good! Ingredients Veggie mix: 2 carrots (grated) 4 oz mung bean sprouts 1/3 cup chopped peanuts (raw, or roasted and salted) or ...

Continued . . .

2025 State of the Farmlet Address

A red stag photographed by Farmwife in Scotland, from whence the family descends and to where they voyaged in September 2024. Dear Mules and Countrywomen, It is my pleasure to report to you today, from my forested vantage point, that the Farmlet is well. It has been eight years since my family had a Farmlet to report upon, and this one is among the best. It is 25 minutes south of Casa de Bartholomule-Teaspoon, where you may remember the family lived for a time, and situated on the same verdant island. It is 120 minutes south of Bent Barrow Farm, where the ancient rhododendron still blooms and where FenBar's old barn of many colors still stands and shelters farm machinery. This place has rhododendrons, too, encircling a lawn which slopes down to my barn and paddock. We call the barn Hoofhouse, and it is going to be painted black in the spring to match the house and my companion, Puck. My paddock, by design, does not overlap the lawn but instead winds through a mix...

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 . . .

BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

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