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Fenway in a Pickle.

I'm a bit stuck today.

You see, I have committed the crime of disallowing my human access to part of my anatomy. I know that as her beloved charge, her precious ward, I owe FarmWife the privilege of touching me where ever she sees fit to touch me, and in whatever manner she chooses. But . . . but. This is a big but. A part of my manly bits is irritated by the presence of some buildup, and nothing short of horse tranquilizer's gonna make me let her fix it. It would be ten seconds work, but those could very well be the worst ten seconds of my life. Not going to happen.

FarmWife has been working up to cleaning my sheath for 14 months. When I met her, I wouldn't allow her to touch my belly or my hind legs without threatening to kick, and now she is allowed to go so far as to feel and identify my terrible affliction but not so far as to ameliorate it.


Now, there are things to be weighed. On the one hand, FarmWife has the option of taking me to the vet. It would cost money (always in short supply here at Bent Barrow Farm) and would require a trailer ride (no biggy, I love the open road), but would mean getting my sheath cleaned under the tranquil comfort of heavy sedation. I think it would be more tolerable that way. It would also mean that Doctor Ratchet could have a look at my teeth and at my hock, of which the former might benefit from routine maintenance and of which the latter might aid in my return to the noble work of trail riding.

On the other hand, FarmWife could snub me to a stout tree, tie up a leg, and make me stand for it. It would be free. It would be quick. My forgiveness could be begged with toothsome morsels.

FarmWife has already tried the bribery- and reward-based systems of reinforcing good behavior, but in the fashion of men the world over I am more focused on the feelings of my p#^!$ (edited for young audiences) than the feelings of any other part of my anatomy—brain and mouth included. Edible, delectable, scrumptious snacks be damned. That's my thing you're messing with.

I am not going to be able to use my rational brain for this one, folks. I—the honorable Sir Fenway Bartholomule, keeper of the muleness and messenger of sensibility—cannot submit to the humiliating touch of even a gentle hand. It is beyond my abilities.

Wish me luck, dear readers. I have a dark day ahead.

Yours in trembling apprehension,
Fenway


Comments

  1. AnonymousMay 19, 2010 at 11:36 AM

    Fenway - Perhaps your gentle Farm Wife could entice you with a bit of Quietex. It could take the edge off, and allow the bigger part of your magnificent brain - the part in charge of thinking through how MANY treats and how MUCH gratitude could be forthcoming - to take charge? No vet would come, and so while your valiant Farm Wife would not learn more about your hock or your teeth, you would be prized even more for your participation in helping the BBF's budget.

    Just brayin'

    ReplyDelete
  2. JennyMay 19, 2010 at 11:37 AM

    Fenway, forgive me but I'm all for the free method. Just think, if you just let her do it, that would be money saved towards that harness that Farmwife would like :)

    ReplyDelete
  3. BuddyMay 19, 2010 at 12:01 PM

    Hay Fenway - its me Buddy the horse - of course - from Nevada. 10 seconds - and its over - and you feel soooooooooooo much better. I get it done twice a year. Go for it!

    Your fren,

    ReplyDelete
  4. SylviaMay 19, 2010 at 12:33 PM

    good luck with the vet, Fenway and FW! it'll be over in no time!

    ReplyDelete
  5. Jenn VozzoMay 19, 2010 at 1:09 PM

    now fenway, i just read your facebook, and that wasnt nessacary for you to wrestle with fw! my OTTB oliver used to LOVE his sheath being cleaned...to the point that i would point the hose up and he would get so happy, he would lift one leg. Now, you be good for Farmwife!

    ReplyDelete
  6. Marnie JacksonMay 20, 2010 at 7:54 AM

    Thank you all for your support and encouragement. I tried to be good for FW—really I did!—but my terror outweighed my obedient devotion. I think I need to do this thing with my eyes closed and my brain clouded by chemical agents.

    Love,
    Fenbar

    ReplyDelete
  7. UnknownMay 20, 2010 at 12:48 PM

    Dear Fenway,

    I sympathize completely. My handsome (I forgive his dainty ears) steed will let me clean all around the inside of his sheath- Except, and this is a BIG except, for one stubborn little bean in the worst of places. He absolutely will not let me even attempt to help him with this particular area, even with the help of some ACE. I think this might just be asking too much of a mule.

    Love,
    Gabrielle

    ReplyDelete

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