BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

This is what I think about Paisley, the clouddog: I think he is a weenie and a scaredy cat. He is afraid of the goats, and he is afraid of me, and he is even a little bit afraid of the chickens. He avoids the paddock like the plague. He will not enter the pasture. He won't look me in my noble and soulful eye. He is a wimp. This is what FarmWife thinks about the clouddog, and because I love her I am willing to let her use my blog as a platform for her views: She thinks the clouddog is a very sweet, very good, very nice dog. FarmWife got clouddog as a backyard-breeder's cull when he was seven weeks old and she 22 years. She had a suburban apartment, a lively toddler, a full-time class schedule, a part-time job, a senior dog, a flighty cat and a pair of rats. A new puppy was, of course, necessary and appropriate for such a busy single mother. (My great big tongue, of course, is filling my capacious cheek.) She did not get clouddog entirely of her own volition. She was co...

Look, dear friends and supporters of the Muleness, at what we've done! I, Fenway Bartholomule, could not feel more loved than I do at this very moment. You are the BEST—dripping with Muleness, every one of you. I cannot thank you enough. Your misty-eyed and grateful friend, Fenway

We're in a hurry here today, for FarmWife's brother's coming. I have a poem, though, to share, about my favorite human: Fondly are my thoughts disposed when pondering my lady. Ambling down the trail with her astride through pathways shady Really is quite splendid, for I know she loves me madly. Most any day that's spent with her is one that I live gladly. When we meet in morning dew she comes, a-bearing hay, I welcome her with brayful song at dawn of each new day. Friendly nuzzles I do give, she hugs and scratches me. Every mule deserves some love like that of her for me. I would keep going, for that's barely the beginning, but I've used up F and A, R and M, W and I, F and E. If I had called her FarmWife, Queen of Bent Barrow Farm, I could have made my poem longer. Ah, well, we're short on time anyway. Have a great day, beloved readers. One day I will write a poem for YOU. Love, Fen

We said goodbye to our little doelings yesterday, sending them off to the best home imaginable with our good friends Marie and Loren. Missy was more than happy to bid them farewell, not even bothering to stand for a parting "maaah." "Good riddance," she seemed to say, and "thank goodness THAT's done." She's a good and loving mother, but not a clinging one. Had she been a horse dam, she might have thrown herself upon the fence in prostrate grief, or run herself into a foaming lather to the accompaniment of wrenching screams. She is not a horse dam, and she didn't. My brothers and their girlfriends arrive tomorrow and thursday, and by the weekend we'll have a generous dozen visitors, including nieces and nephews, at Bent Barrow Farm. We can rock the petting zoo vibe even without the doelings, and our army of fluffy dogs, velvety bunnies, patient cats, stoic mules, peeping chicks, milking goats, and happy hens are ready and waiting. For the an...

FarmWife has a to-do list, and "Ride the Mule" is sadly absent. The best thing on the list is "Muck out the Paddock," during which time I can enjoy the pleasure of her delightful company. The worst thing on the list is "clean the house," which is sure to take hours and hours which would be better spent rubbing my splendiferous ears. There's hardly even time for blogging on my transcriptionist's agenda, so I'll keep this short.  Here, before I go, is the view from FarmWife's bedroom window at various levels of zoom: Your friend, Fenway

 . . . and the bartender says . . . . "why the long face?" **Ba-dum-chhh!** Really, though, I'm staying home in a drizzling rain today whilst FarmWife and the humans go on a visit to Grandpa. He's MY grandpa, too, but I won't sweat it. Grandma is a gardener, and every inch of their acreage is filled with beautiful flowers. Not too tasty, and poorly inadequate in terms of nutritional value. I, thank you, will stay home amidst the tender grasses of my own verdant valley. Bon voyage! FB

Feeling down? Maybe you just need a new perspective. I, for one, am anything but down. In fact, I am having a mulishiously splendiferous day. For one thing, FarmWife loves me. For another, I am on the greener side of the fence today, having been let out for a bit of nibbling. Thirdly, we have a strange window of Edenic perfection in which there are no bugs, no rainclouds, no mudpuddles, no heat waves, and no gales. Wickersham could not be more perfect. The only bad news today is Volvo hay mother's a poor performance review. Yesterday, she brought home stemmy first-cutting hay, lacking flavor, and today she took my human family to Bellingham and stranded them. She came home on the back of a Triple A truck. Lazy. If I, Fenway Bartholomule, had been granted the privilege of taking the human family to Bellingham, I would have seen them safely home with a lively step and glinting eye.  I'm that kind o...

We all know—don't we?—that "thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ass" is flawed advice, at the very least. After all, look where a little bit of ass-coveting got FarmWife! Now, I don't want to ruffle any feathers but between the COTHers with their version and Captain Mosey with his eight "I'd really rather you didn'ts," I think it's fair for me to make a little list of my own. ONE: Thou shalt feed no other pets before thy Mule. TWO: Thou shalt make for thyself frequent tack purchases. THREE: Thou shalt take the bray of thy Mule seriously. FOUR: Thou shalt remember thy Mule in all moments. FIVE: Thou shalt honor the father, Jack and the mother, Mare. SIX: Thou shalt move manure. SEVEN: Thou shalt not commit thy Mule to any unpleasant task. EIGHT: Thou shalt place frequent kisses upon His glorious ears. NINE: Thou shalt spread the news of the Muleness among thy neighbors. TEN: If thee be without a Mule, thou shalt covet thy n...

The triffids are gaining a foothold with this sun-after-rain we've had, and I spent the evening in valiant battle.  I absolutely love the greenness of my home and region, and can't complain. And then, of course, there's this—I love grazing animals. Grazing animals love grass and grass loves rain,  and so I take the drizzle and enjoy it. To add to the fun, on those rare occasions where Sir Sol shows his face there's hardly a chore I'd rather do than mow or weedwhack. Thus I am fulfilled, though not without my constant dreams of acquisition. A horse-drawn mower? A scythe? I'd like them. I spent much of this afternoon mowing, and the morning writing. I feel at home in my skin. I love my life, my family, my one green acre. I love my mule, and my work. Speaking of such matters, I will be a little spare with my posts these next few weeks. We're having company—my beloved brothers and extended family—and I expect to be busy. The garden, the mule, the goats, the chi...

There're boots (FarmWife's, pictured) and and then there're boots (mine, below) and boots (suspensory). And THOSE—suspensory, support or protective boots—are what I want to talk about today. (And yes, I know that there are a million other kinds, too, but a mule has only so much time.) I love my Easyboot Epics, and I would gladly wear a second pair on my hind hooves if the opportunity presented itself. So far, it hasn't, but it's only a matter of time until a mule of my caliber starts seeing the corporate sponsorship love. All in due time!  In the meantime, FarmWife wonders about protective or supportive boots. You know, the kind that make a mule look very fancy, ready for anything, and primed for tremendous athletic accomplishment?  Really, I would love to have some. I think they'd look sassy. The arguments in favor of wearing something like a Sports Medicine Boot are thus: I love to a...

One of the side-effects of FarmWifery, at least when you've got a celebrity mule to look after, is that chores and opportunities are never in short supply. In our case, FarmWife has laundry to fold, dishes to wash, a paddock to muck, and the like—but also, and especially because of her world-famous muse (Yours Truly), she has articles to write. FarmWife's day was spent conducting telephone interviews, taking notes, compiling material, and generally performing in the capacity of a writer. It's fun for me to see her emulating me. I, of course, write from the heart and with effortless ease. She works hard to perform to my standards, and she does just fine! She shows promise, and works with mulish dedication. I have a little opportunity of my own, having been invited to attend, as a VIP, the September Cascade Horse Fair in Lynden, WA. I'm seriously considering it, and will write more about the matter tomorrow. For now, I need to pose beautifully outside the office win...

Six months ago, I had a new facebook page, earning 87 fans by the end of its first week. I was bored as a trail mount, looking for a challenge, and ready to try something new. I've accomplished a lot in the first half of 2010, and I'm proud of what I've done. I've become a celebrity blogger, befriending mule lovers the world over and introducing them to the wonders of life on Bent Barrow Farm. I've spread the Muleness to 577 facebook friends, inspiring my new, dear friend Pants to establish her own interweb portal in the process. I've taught FarmWife to appreciate my eager desire for learning. Last summer, I was a slug of a mule on our typical, boring, twice-weekly pipeline loop. She thought I was getting old, getting tired, and getting sick of it all. Then she taught me to ride in traffic, reach new trailheads, jump small obstacles, and practice bareback and bridleless riding. I became a new mule. I grabbed life by the horns. Since then, I've pra...

N, right, removing staples from F, left.  I spent half a dozen formative years on Linda Avenue—years of evolution and change. My mom, single at the time, bought the ugliest house in the best neighborhood she could afford, a house with broken windows and asbestos siding but sitting kitty-corner to one of the best public elementary schools in the nation. It was a smart move, but not without its challenges. She worked her butt off, delivering papers before I woke in the morning and getting me off to school, then spent her days sanding floors, replacing walls, stripping woodwork, fixing appliances, and planting boxwood shrubs. She also, I presume, kept tabs on my delinquent teenage brothers. Like many geniuses, they had rocky adolescences. They have grown into admirable men. My brother F is truly—and I do not exaggerate—the funniest man I've ever met. He will make you wet yourself. He has incredible conversational timing, tremendous intellectual curiosity, and a broad understanding of ...

FarmWife went to sleep on the wrong side of the bed after a stressful weekend, a missed ride, a cat fight, and a generally tribulation-riddled Sunday afternoon. She woke up on the wrong side, too, to four dead chicks in the mail (and one dying) and two cranky and undernourished children. She should have known better than to give them sweet crepes and cheesecake for breakfast. The long and short of it is that when FarmHusband called home at lunchtime she was practically crying. I think it's a mare thing—women are so volatile! But get this: "You," he said, "should go riding tonight." Whadda guy. He knows FarmWife like the back of his hand, and he knows that there's no cure for a cranky wife like a nice two hours on the trail with Yours Truly. I will take her out at 6 tonight and I will return her, cheered and refreshed, to his loving custody. We're a good team, and together we take mighty fine care of our favorite lady. Now, human women—listen...

With ears so long And bray so strong  And hooves like solid rock, You were so mighty, Never flighty, Always taking stock. You never flinched when harnessed, cinched, You carried men or towed them. You hauled their loads Down dusty roads And with a bray, you told them: "I'll pull for you,  I'll pack for you, I'll cheer you when you're troubled. I'll ease your work With ears aperk I'll do it on the double." Your son—that's me— Would like to see, would like to nuzzle you— We never met but I would bet That you would like me too. I can't have come From anyone Unsavory, unhandsome . . .  In fact, dear Jack, I'd wager that You'd fetch a pretty ransom. As sire you have proved your worth The humans chose you well And when they placed you with a mare Then only time would tell But your genes passed along to me  and mingled in with hers To form a creature you wou...

If there was a There, I Fixed It  for the equestrian set, FarmWife would be a rising star.  Witness, a homemade crupper of old bungee cords, billet guards, and assorted hardware salvage:  A goat harness of old carseat seat belts and extra polo wraps:  An English wintec saddle with western leather breeching, kluged together with old halter fragments providing D rings where there were none:   Of course, FarmWife's ingenuity is limited by the strength of her featherweight Singer when it comes to oversize sewing projects—for this reason, and for safety's sake, we'll be looking for a commercial beta harness when that time comes.  It's not for lack of trying, FarmWife. You've done alright with the small stuff.  FB

Fen Before Exercise Fen After Exercise Do you see how hard she works me? Really. Yesterday we worked on long reining with yonder milk jug in tow, and when that was done she rode me in the pasture "arena" for a full 25 minutes. We worked on all sorts of things, and as you can see I was plumb tuckered out by the end. Hardest half hour of my day. FarmWife is going to work today, which means that she will come home looking like Exhibit B above. I will invigorate her with loving nuzzles the moment she arrives this evening. Your well-exercised friend, Fenway

With two half-brothers, eight and 10 years my senior, I suffered my share of tortuous early experiences. My bike was stolen and ridden to within an inch of its life. I was tripped in every doorway. I was taken on covert missions, and bribed and blackmailed into secrecy. I was taught to throw hira-shuriken and engineer sunken forts. When the teenage F was expatriated from his basement, direct-entry bedroom for sneaking out and skateboarding on a broken leg, it was eight-year old Marnie who traded in a second-story bedroom. He tried to frighten me into refusing my cool new digs, trapping a giant spider in anticipation of my visit. He underestimated my critter-craziness . . . though I can't remember my exact response now, I'm sure it was something closer to, "ooh, neat!" than, "eeeek, Moooommmm!" I ended up living in that bedroom for years, sharing it with Emil the parakeet, Echo the Dutch rabbit, and fewer insects and arachnids than F would have had me expect....

I'd better get better acquainted with yonder tire, 'cause I'm going to be towin' things in style pretty soon! Look at this fantastic progress we've made with the Harness Fund : Now, the bad news is that FarmWife has clued in to this surprise gift. I guess she pays more attention during our transcription sessions than I realized, because she now knows just what we're saving up for. It's OK, though, really—honestly, she's beside herself with excitement and that in itself is mulishly wonderful. She's also more willing to work on ground driving now that she understands our long term purpose, and we all know that she can't practice too much! The good news is that we've shot way past the halfway mark (thanks to you, my dear readers, and to the fabulously mulish folks at Chimacum who are giving me a special deal just for being FenBar). Looks like I might be dressed to pull before 2020 after all! I will keep you posted, and as we pass the $400 ...

A million mulish thanks to the wonderful competitors, as well as our voting audience, in our Ear Story contest. It was hard to settle on just one great story. I, Fenway Bartholomule, was relieved that the final decision was out of my hooves and into yours. You, my readers, have chosen and the choice is an overwhelming 36% in favor of Sian's  Special Delivery. Sian, who ought to kindly email me a snail mail address, will receive a "Half Ass and Proud of It" bumper sticker as well as a hundred blown kisses and my undying gratitude for explaining, after all these years, why I cannot remember—it was the stork that did it, and one can hardly blame a mule for forgetting such an early experience, can one? To Dunewood, Gaylene, and Little Big Red, I thank you. Your stories were compelling and beautiful—like me, Fenway Bartholomule. Read on for Special Delivery , the one true story of the ear. 

I, Fenway Bartholomule, have had the pleasure of trying a variety of bits and other various signaling devices, and my reactions to them have ranged from quiet acceptance to frantic grimacing and hollow resistance. Below, for your edification and enjoyment, is a summary of my feelings on them all. This is not a commentary on their general usefulness for horses or mules but rather on my own personal response to them. Every mouth is different! French-link loose ring snaffle: Four hooves down. Hate, hate, hate this rattley contraption, even though it is FarmWife's standard bit of choice. It turns out that I like a solid, stable bit. Mullen loose ring flexible rubber snaffle: Three hooves up. This was a cheap bit, though, and the rings are rusting. Mechanical Hackamore: Three hooves up. Rubber mullen pelham: Four hooves up. My favorite bit, but it looks like overkill if you ask FarmWife! Dr. Cook's bitless bridle: Four hooves waaaaay down. "Liberty ring," i.e. a...

Love it? Hate it? Couldn't care less? Bray your opinions in the comments field! Many mulish thanks, FenBar

FarmWife and I have endured a few challenges together lately: the visit to Dr. Ratchet, when I was tortured to within an inch of my life; the introduction of the tire, otherwise known as the MEDUSA (Mule Eating Device of Unparalled Sadistic Apocolypticism); being followed for an entire hour by an empty milk jug on an assassin's mission. (It failed to kill its target, by the way.) Through all of these various harrowing experiences, FarmWife has sung to me, reassured me, and promised me something: she will keep me safe. She swears up and down that she will, and I am starting to believe her. After all, she and she alone has the power to send the TIRE and the milk jug away when I stand still and behave. She has the power to open gates, and she touches the electric fence—but only on it's yellowy plastic bits—without flinching. We have come to a new agreement, based on my awesome respect for her power. She is now allowed to visit me whist I recline, and to share in the basking ...

If I have a flaw, it is that I procrastinate. I am not really a go-getter, a follow-througher (follower-through?), a driven woman of stamina and determination. I like to stop and smell the flowers. Twiddle my thumbs. Check facebook. My husband compliments and improves me in every way, and if his character traits rub off on me it will be for the better. He is a man of tremendous energy, drive, and persistence, the kind of fellow who comes home at the end of a 10-hour workday and builds some stairs, weeds the garden, washes the dishes, and reads bedtime stories. An incredible father, a loving husband, and above all a capable man. He gets things done. Get 'er done. Mat does! It was recently suggested to my mule, Fenway Bartholomule, that his facebook fanpage might attract a more gender-balanced audience if we profiled FarmHusband (Mat) on the site. I'm not sure that would bring the guys—after all, women love Mat. He's hot. Mat is the breadwinner, the bill payer, Mr. Fixit, and...

Camping in 2009: The number one and two questions were usually, "Ooh, is that a donkey?" and "Is it pregnant?" This was before I was famous. Camping in 2010: "Is this THE Fenway Bartholomule?" and "Can I give him a carrot?" Love the fame. It doesn't hurt that FarmWife is right on top of this publicity business. Out on the trail, for instance:  Stranger: "Nice mule!"  Me: "Feed m . . . " FarmWife, butting in: "Thanks! He's a blogger, would you like his card?"  All in all, our camping trip was wonderful. Brief, but fabulously sunny and mulishly fun with great friends and good trails. A bit muddy, given the weather we've had, but that's just fodder for my admiring throngs. I plunge boldly through the sucking mud like an actor in an EasyBoot commercial.  I waded through the corner of a lake this weekend, which was my very first girth-high water crossing. It was deliciously interest...

Hiy. Thiz is Jazpur Jewlz. Im eeting all the haey todae cuz Finwey left mee in charege. Im sleping in hiz brekfist spot. I peeed next ta hiz sault blok too. Finwey went wif the humin ladie to trayl ride an kammp. He probly dosnt no that hez gonna hafta werk hardur that waey. If he staid hoam hed bee wresting hiz butt but insted he wunted to go clime up hils an stuf. Sily meull.

This is Jasper Jules' littermate B.G. enjoying one of two newly arrived kids. Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker arrived on Saturday and made me sort of an uncle all over again! Congratulations to her owners, our good friends Dirty Mama and the Chicken People. Grandma Missy, Empress of All that the Light Touches, is basking in the knowledge that she will send her own pesky offspring away just as BG assumes the burden of responsibility for two new lives. Missy is done and then some with this motherhood business, and won't cry at weaning. Here is Mrs. Hotsauce, the intended purchaser of our own little bundles of joy. Lark ( née Pigeon) and Dove will be going to their new, gorgeous timber framed goat shed in a couple of weeks, and have been practicing eating hay and browse in anticipation of this exciting transition. Baby goats—if you don't love them, you're either crazy or a victim . Love, Fenway

Appearing below are four possible explanations for the nick in my right ear. Please read and savor these tales of self-sacrifice and mulish derring-do, and vote for your favorite. The winner will win a Fenway Bartholomule "Half Ass and Proud of It" bumper sticker as well as our undying appreciation for his or her participation in this exciting contest! Love, Fenway Quizzes by Quibblo.com A) To Save Barbela, by Dunie O'Neil Once upon a time, in what seems like an eternity ago, Fenway lived on a dirt patch of a farm run by an uncaring, heartless ogre named Mackie Avelli. His aim was to give mule rides on Fenway to those individuals weighing 300 pounds or more; in fact, he decided to hold a contest to determine the very fattest person that Fenway could hold. The obese lined up for miles, as the winner of the contest got to ride Fenway every day for a year; the entry fee for the contest was $1,000 per fatty. To add to the fun, he decided not to f...

Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash. In the comments field of a previous post, Blue Page astutely asked me to elaborate on my reference to "the God Money" (mentioned on Monday in relation to the Gulf oil tragedy). I'd like to do so here. Being a skeptical agnostic, I try nonetheless to use the word God carefully. I used it then as an expression of my frustration with capitalist culture: with the way that corporate rights equal or sometimes transcend personal rights, and earnings reports seem to trump ecosystem health, cultural heritage, and community integrity. There is reverence in our society for the right to profit, and I think that money has become something other than what it should be: a means of greasing the "goods for services" or "goods for goods" trading system. It has become an end in itself. People kill for it, people die for it. In this way, it is treated like a deity. I'm all for ownership: I'm glad I have a house, a...

Photo: Lancelot the dressage mini. Not associated with Axwood Farm. My new favorite source for long lining wisdom and harness how-tos:   http://axwoodlibrary.com/ These people seem to have written a series of articles designed just for me, Fenway Bartholomule, and for my trusty FarmWife with whom I ground drive regularly! They have given me some wonderful ideas about how to introduce FarmWife to harnessing and hitching me and how to get me working effectively, safely and athletically between the lines. Kudos, Axwood, and thanks for the service you provide to novice drivers and their mules. FenBar

I thought that you, my supportive and encouraging fans, would like to know two important bits of mulish news. The first is that I was followed by an empty milk jug for the ENTIRE duration of my trail ride yesterday. At first it threatened to kill me, but FarmWife whispered sweet nothings to me and it was magically thwarted by her calming influence. She kept it at bay, and I lived to tell the tale. FarmWife tells me that one day I will be followed by something much bigger and more rattley, but that she will again keep me safe. The second, not unrelated, update is that I have had an exciting offer from Chimacum Tack, the vendor of the Comfy-Fit harness of which we have spoken so much. Janie, the proprietor, heard about our fundraising efforts and offered a substantial discount and free shipping to me, Fenway Bartholomule, in order to further the muleness and support Brays Of Our Lives! (All the more reason to click the Chimacum link at the upper right corner, by the way, if there...

Who said "heaven is where you find it?" I heard this recently and I'm not sure where. True, though. One day, if you're lucky, you'll look around and gasp at the beauty. You'll wiggle your toes and feel connected to the earth beneath your feet. You'll breath in and feel flooded with the happiness that is your life. You'll cast your gaze and see every face you've ever needed. Every thing you've ever wanted. You'll be at home. You'll stand fulfilled. You'll have arrived. Now that I've found heaven, I'm flexible. I love this place—Wickersham, my little green farmhouse—but I think I could take this feeling elsewhere. I love my mule, but I think I can love another one day. I love my boots, but when they wear out there will be another pair. And yes, I still have a wish list . . . Finding heaven has been a growth experience. I think I've learned to look inside myself for satisfaction, but it took looking around to open my eyes. ...

Today's forecast calls for rain, followed by more rain. Look for a steady downpour this morning, followed by sheeting rain and a continuing torrent after lunch. This evening should bring heavy gray skies, dumping precipitation, and a 99.9%  chance of continued wetness. Expect soggy conditions to continue until the cows come home. Unfortunately, the cows are all home and tucked safely in their various stalls. The Jerseys on W. street are accounted for, and the AngusX steer next door is barely visible through the wall of precipitation dividing his shed and pasture from mine. All present and accounted for. I guess this means it will rain forever. I will save up for a harness and mule-drawn boat with which to take my beloved FarmWife out cruising. She never was much of a swimmer, whereas I am very strong in that area. I am strong in most areas. Mules, sodden or not, are like that. What's your weather? Write in with your stories of blue skies and warm breezes. I could use ...

This life is a test. It is only a test. If it had been an actual life, you would have recieved further instructions on where to go and what to do. Actually, I'm just experimenting with this scheduled post function. You see, FarmWife and I had talked about leaving Jasper Jules in charge of Brays Of Our Lives for a day or two this summer and I'm getting the jitters just thinking about it. He's a good goat, but not mulishly clever at this writing business. Trying to find an automated alternative to leaving my precious online friends in the hands of that cloven-hooved clutz, endearing though he may be! If I'm not careful, he may just break the internet while I'm off camping. I'm posting this on Friday night, after my evening roll and before my evening hay. If it shows up online in the morning, then we're golden!  Fenway