BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Today I thought I'd share some of dear Boyfriend's words. He, in all his infinite wisdom, rotundity, and belovedness, is sort of my Horse counterpart. If you haven't met him yet, you must go visit him at www.iamboyfriend.com .  Here's an excerpt from a recent blog post, found in its entirety at this link . You must click the button to see Boyfriend's animation of his dream, and do remember that you're to imagine a robust dappled gray on the phone with Aunt Nancy! "   Mother used to laugh at me because I was very nervous of the weight tape. Saddle? No problem. Weight tape? CREEPY! Mother said I looked like Bugs Bunny figuring out he was getting measured for the stock pot. That's not a very nice thing to say. That sort of thing   can   happen. I don't want it to happen to me! I had the strangest dream the other night... Is it because Mother has been neglecting me? Anyway, I found a way to re-enact for my readers. Click   this button , but I recomm...

My goat is doing better. She walks like a drunken sailor, but she walks—with a little help from her friends. Keep braying! FB

It occurs to me now that I let my inner muse get ahead of my common sense, which tells me that those among my readership who are not facebook users will not be aware of the facts concerning the illness of Missy, Empress of All the Light Touches. Here they are: Missy went down sometime between Monday bedtime and Tuesday breakfast. I wish I'd noted exactly when, because then I could have told the humans and not left them wondering, but as it stands now Missy has been unable to rise for 28 hours and counting. She has reduced sensation (but some) in her hind legs, but no strength or motor control. She cannot turn or shift herself, and is being rolled over, cleaned, and massaged by the humans at each check. Her bloodwork is off the charts in several areas, including indications of some liver disfunction and elevated protein levels. She is evacuating normally, is eating and chewing her cud, and is staying hydrated with IV fluids every two hours round the clock. She was examined at the ...

We passed a misty, moonish night with Missy lit up in the light of FarmWife's giant flashlight every hour or two.  She's down, but feeling rather bright—she bleating, eating, acting quite content considering that she cannot move. I didn't mean to write a poem, but these words came and FarmWife wrote 'em—rhymish, with a bumping, lilting groove. It comes from getting little sleep—we both a vigil had to keep! We're loopy, so would you a nap approve? Missy with Jasper Jules on the day of his birth—April 1, 2008

The Bold and the Brayful A column by Fenway Bartholomule First published in The BRAYER , July 2010. Reprinted with permission from the ADMS. My friend Marnie Jones—I call her FarmWife—is lucky, happy, and totally fulfilled. I am particularly qualified to say so, I think. This because, first of all, I am her very best friend in the whole wide world with possible exception to her dear husband, and second of all because I am a mule. As you surely know, mules are insightful, sensitive, and observant. I am capable of plumbing the depths of FarmWife's spirit and touching the deep recesses of her most private feelings. I can understand, for instance, when she is feeling like feeding some delicious hay. Something about her carriage as she walks to the feed shed . . . something about the nobility of purpose with which she boldly strides towards the delectable bales. I can also understand when she is feeling lively—when she asks me to canter, for instance, and shouts "wo...

 . . . or whether the weather is hot, we'll weather the weather, whatever the weather, whether we like it or not. Here is my blanket, washed and patched in preparation for the Long Wetness. It has a poem in it, which makes it very special indeed. My heart has a song in it, which makes IT special, and my tummy has a flake of hay in it, which makes IT special. My step has a spring, my eye has a twinkle. Life is good. Love, FB

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The humans went to River Park in Burlington yesterday, ostensibly to see a pumpkin-toss. The trebuchets were interesting, the pumpkins were flying, and the children's fair was wonderful, but as I hear it the single biggest attraction was the teeming throng of leashed dogs. My humans departed the parking lot in a wagon, pulled by the lovely Ben (near) and Rocky (off), and arrived to the sight of a canine extravaganza. The stories they brought back compelled me to compose this little jingle, best sung to the tune of "Raindrops on Ro ses." ♪♫ Three-legged boxers and splotchy gray schnoodles, Wee m ini dachshunds and tall standard poodles, Happy French bulldogs with strange, screeching barks, These are few of the dogs from the park. Teeny chihuahuas on wee little leashes,  Fat labradoodles with coats like sheep's fleeces, Boisterous puppies with teeth like a shark's, These are a few of the dogs at the park. When I'm left home . . . when my...

So there was the old computer—covered in hoofprints, banged up beyond recognition, glitchy, and prone to overheating. And then there was the new computer, in which we placed our trust and our data. Unfortunately, the new computer has a hardware problem of some sort, and I PROMISE it was not hoof-related. In any case, it's back at the factory getting fixed and I'm here with the old one, attempting to blog before it overheats and crashes. The nice thing about this old computer is that it still stores many of our old photos: this gem, for instance, which shows young FW with Panda, a horse with Muleness. I think I may have shared it with you before—I would have, because Panda was important. He taught FarmWife to jump, to gallop, and to ride with a pelham and it's many reins. Here's another nice old photo: this is Maggie, or rather Trampas Margaret McCracken—a dog with Muleness, or at least a dog the size of a mule. She pushed 9 hands,  which is small for a wolfhound ...

I have a raging cold, a looming deadline, a tired child, a failing laptop, a messy house, and a soggy yard. I also have an incredible sense of awe and wonderment at this world around me: how can I possibly have been so lucky as to have landed here in this Edenic valley? How is it that every drive I take reveals places even more beautiful? How is it possible that a region can be this majestic? And, especially, how on Earth can a woman this stuffy be compelled to feelings this wonderful? By the sight of fog rolling down off the hills of eastern Skagit county; by a glimpse of mist-shrouded elk grazing alongside Highway 20; by the act of delivering Grow Northwest magazines to the blue-green, warm-wet wonderment of Concrete, Washington. Not quite sure if I'm loopy from the Sudafed or high on life, I'll opt for the latter. Did I  mention how I love this place? M

Fenway advises a good friend on how to secure the presence of one's human: http://www.iamboyfriend.com/2010/09/shout-out-to-fenway.html Ears to you, Boyfriend! Ears to you!

Sometimes, in these close friendships, two individuals will spend so much time together that their identities mesh; their personalities converge; the lines become blurred. Has this happened to you and your riding partner? Have you lost track of who's who in your herd? This handy quiz will sort you out in no time. Just choose the most appropriate answer from each of the options below. 1) Do you have thumbs? a-YES b-NO c-NOT OPPOSABLE ONES 2) Which of the following is most likely to kill you? a-HEART DISEASE, CANCER, OR AN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT b-AN OLD TIRE, THE LINES ON THE ROAD, OR A SUSPICIOUS PUDDLE c-A BLOCKED URETHRA 3) When faced with a large pile of dried vegetative matter, you— a-BURN, COMPOST, OR SPREAD IT b-EAT IT c-ATTEMPT TO CLIMB IT 4) After exercising, you smell— a-STICKY AND GROSS b-DELICIOUS AND WONDERFUL c-NO STRANGER THAN USUAL 5) Your favorite treat comes— a-IN A CRINKLY PACKAGE, OUT OF THE OVEN, OR FROM A DRIVE-UP WINDOW b-UP FROM THE DAR...

A favorite song of mine: You may find yourself living in a wooden shack You may find yourself with friends all over the world You may find yourself towed behind a large automobile You may find yourself in a beautiful field, with a beautiful goat You may ask yourself: "Well, what can I eat here?" Eating the grass and hay/eating some little plants Eating the grass and hay/grass is growing under Onto the trail again/after the hay is gone Morning and evening/hay and grass thereunder You may ask yourself How do I work this? You may ask yourself Where's that electric gate handle? You may tell yourself This cannot be all of the grass! You may tell yourself I must get to the good, greener grass! Eating the grass and hay/eating some little plants Eating the grass and hay/grass is growing under Onto the trail again/after the hay is gone Once every weekend/once when Thursday comes round Great as I ever was . . . Great as I ever was . . .  Great as...

Painting by Mark Tansey The FarmWife thinks she would like a cow or a steer. The FarmHusband thinks he would like a cow or a steer. Neither of them thinks that now, when vet bills are mounting high and schedules are already overfilled, is a good time for a cow or a steer. This is good, because I, Fenway Bartholomule, have some conditions that must be met before I will accept said cow or steer into my heart and home.  1) This cow or steer must not be allowed to defile my shed with his or her watery poops. The stools of a bovine are too much to bear. We must have a three-stall barn: one for me, one for the goats, and one for the  cow or steer and his or her watery poops.  2) This cow or steer must humble him or herself to work. I am Fenway, Fine Harness Mule. In our future, perfect world, I shall pull our future, perfect carriage and the bovine shall pull logs out of our future, perfect woodlot. 3) This cow or steer must not eat alfalfa in my presence. He or she...

Pants the Mule. Photo by Hazel Ray Photography. The winners of our "How Well Do You Know Fenway Bartholomule" contest have been determined and, wouldn't you know it, first place goes to one of the world's best mules. Give it up for the splendid, the unequalled, the muliferously orange  PANTS ! Pants was our only contestant to catch the secret bonus answer; a AND d were both correct responses to question 11, and her bonus point made up for her one and only mistake to give her a perfect score of 15 points! Here, for your edification and amusement, are the correct answers: Pruning the fruit trees is not one of the seven responsibilities. I wear Easyboots (Epics on front, Gloves on back). I know no equine named Mr. Brownie, though I do fraternize with a lovely horse by the name of Mr. Blondie. I would eat an apple last, after enjoying the superior taste and texture of the plum, carrot, and blackberry.  My human's minimules are named Harriet and B. My fame began ...

Surely, if you've spent enough time on these interwebs, you've been Rick Roll'd . It doesn't have to be a humiliating experience, friends. No—I, Fenway Bartholomule, have invented a way for you to keep your dignity and your Muleness when you're plunged into the corridors of '80s pop.  Next time you're Rick Roll'd, simply sing along using these handy alternative lyrics. May the Muleness be with you! "We're no strangers to love, You feed me hay, I give you rides . . .  A lovely ear rub's what I'm thinking of,  And don't you give this to any other guy!  I just wanna bray 'bout how I'm feeling, Gotta make you understand!  Always gonna eat that hay, Wanna see you throw it down, Gonna eat it, every bite, gonna want dessert, too. Never gonna get it wet,  Never gonna waste it, no, Cause I know it keeps me plump, and cute too . . .  We've known each other for so long,  You're hay's...

Image Copyright Allie Bosch www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com Now, you may or may not know that my FarmWife kind of likes the internet. Kind of loves it, even, and uses it to excess during moments of wavering willpower. As much as she loves me, her husband and children, her farm and friends, her real life . . . there is something about surfing the world wide web that just soothes her like nothing else. Here , illustrated by the talented Allie of Hyperbole and a Half, is a description of where FarmWife would go if it were not for the moderating influences of her human and animal family. But, friends, look what the internet has done for her! It has . . . a) made her mule famous, and who deserves fame more than me, Fenway Bartholomule? No one, that's who. b) allowed for the flow of files too and from her computer, that she might earn money from home as a writer, editor, and graphic designer. Yay, money! It doesn't grow on trees, but it does grow on the internet. c) ...

Image from the American College of Veterinary Surgeons- not demonstrative of the actual quantity removed from my poor Jasper Jules.  So here's the thing—it turns out that whoever invented goat penises was really not thinking. Without traumatizing you with all the gory details, I'll tell you this: My Jasper Jules found himself, on Wednesday evening, unable to pee. He stretched, he pushed, he strained, he worked—he stood parked like a Tennessee Walker for some duration—and eventually, without a drop, he conceded failure. "Maaaaaa!" he cried. "Maaaaaa! Take me to the vet, Ma!" It was after hours, of course. What veterinary emergency isn't? It turns out (men and geldings, you might want to close your eyes for this) that the solution to a blocked urethra in goats is to fish about in the sheath with forceps; to to forcibly rend the penis out of the body; and to rip the end off. This happened, thankfully, while Jasper was under heavy sedation. Even more t...

Arachnophobes, do not scroll down. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There—now that THEY'VE left, lets talk about spiders. Anyone who's spent September in rural Western Washington will know our good friend the wolf spider—weaver of webs, catcher of flies, obstructor of bridlepaths. I rode this week through a good 80 or 90 webs, I'm sure, and it's not through any lack of respect for the careful builders who made them. It's just that they're RIGHT there, strung across the trail like finish ribbons marking every meter successfully traveled. I'm told that many spiders build a new web daily, and so I try not to lose sleep. After all, if it's something they're good at, and something they enjoy, perhaps making a new web because the neighborhood mule went and trashed their old one is their spidery idea of a good time. Perhaps it's the arachnid equivalent of a nice roll in the pasture. What does bother me, though, ...

I've always loved list making, as if writing things down will get them done (it doesn't). Now I have an iPod touch, so I can write things down without wasting paper (they still don't always get done, but now they beep at me when neglected). I love scraps of paper, though, and old letters, and the torn-off return-address corners of incoming envelopes. This is how my address book functions. I started college 13 years ago this month, and it wasn't until last week that I dealt with the hideous snarl that was the filing system of my early adulthood. I shredded, recycled, and burned a great heap of crap—hoarded letters, old invoices, receipts documenting my slide from veganism (an ice cream sundae, purchased with cash in 1998), but as I did I took a little stroll down memory lane.  The friends who were cherished then—whose letters were hard to part with, or which I even retained—are still with me now. I'll see one at her house for lunch this Sunday. Another lives in Swede...

FarmWife is presently looking after cattle whilst their humans are away. This involves touching the gate, touching the feedroom latch, touching the hose, and touching the hay. It should not involve touching the cattle. It should not involve coming home covered in cattle, covered in cattle dandruff and cattle hair and eau de cattle from head to toe. Smelling her from a block away, I got to thinking that perhaps FarmWife was being a little friendlier with those cattle than I had anticipated, and I became worried. I already share her with Paisley and Jasper Jules and Harriet and Missy, Empress of All the Light Touches, and B and Desmond and Townes and Chanticleer and Feather and Raspberry and Strawberry and Blueberry and Victoria and Viola and Ada and Daphne and Flower and Daisy and Sister and Thing One and Thing Two and Bar Code II and the other hen whose name no one can ever remember. Not to mention the humans. I don't think I should have to share her too many more ways. So we h...

Friends, you may recall my run-in with Satan's Chicken last winter. I am lucky to have escaped alive from the encounter—though, thankfully, the Bird of Evil (Exhibit A) was so astounded by my long-eared handsomeness that he was transfixed with amazement as I passed, it was a close call and a terrifying event. Exhibit A: Satan's Chicken Yesterday, my FarmWife directed me to summit yonder hill. I did so, passing rather near to the bush where Satan's Chicken dwells. I was, as you can imagine, all watchful vigilance! And for good reason, for who should emerge from said bush but Satan's Goat?? (Exhibit B) Exhibit B: Satan's Goat FarmWife tried to tell me that a) it was a deer and that b) it was just as frightened of me as I was of it. I was not listening. I was performing the second Terrible Spook of my career with FarmWife, during which I wheeled and leapt for five panicked, heedless strides into the tall grass and mounded, spongy earth of the trail-side. ...

Did I ever boast to you about R? My youngest child—the third of three contraceptive failures—came at a time when I particularly didn't want to get pregnant, and when Mat and I were particularly ill-prepared, financially, emotionally, and practically, for another child. We went ahead, of course, and had her. And here's the thing: she is WONDERFUL. She is AMAZING! She is the jelly in the peanut butter and jelly sandwich of life. Sweet as can be. Everyone's favorite. R is an endearing girl—precocious, silly, and wise beyond her years. At three and a half years of age, she still likes running around naked—still likes wearing her underwear on her head—still likes squirreling things away; hiding heaps of macadamia nuts, abandoned salt shakers, old saltines and stolen fruit-tins under the stairs in the dark recesses that are hers and hers alone; but she is wise. She has her own language (Mosheeka—"I love you"—has been a part of our family vocabulary for a year now), her ...

(special thanks to John Henry and Agnes de Mule for the hunting mule photo. www.john.henry.org) Budweiser Mule Team ~ Chicago, 1953 Surely there are those among you who remember how my FarmWife celebrated her birthday in June 2010—with the arrival of a brand new mule harness to share with me, Fenway Bartholomule! And if you don't remember, then . . . Rewind! In April of 2010 I announced, right here on Brays of Our Lives, that FarmWife wanted a harness. That she wanted to add driving to my list of diverse skills and accomplishments, and that I liked nothing so much as the idea of helping make her driving dreams come true. I am but a simple mule of humble means, and to have afforded a quality harness was, at that time, a wild fantasy. I crossed my hooves and posted a Paypal button, and the rest is history! Readers, you worked a miracle. Between your generous donations in the amount of $675 and a significant discount from dear Janie of Chimacum Tack, a vendor with mulene...

or Behind it? http://www.behindthebitblog.com/ Normally, the former is preferable. If you're talking BLOGS, though, Behind the Bit is right where you should be. A big bray for Stacey, the BTB proprietor, for A) allowing our adaptation and reuse of her "horses get good grass mileage" phrase, B) blogging daily on diverse subjects of interest to horse- (and mule-people like my FarmWife, and C) carrying the Muleness forth through her occasional mule-oriented posts and her vehicle bumper, upon which she proudly displays one of my own half-ass bumper stickers! Stacey, thanks—and EARS TO YOU! FB

How well do you know Fenway Bartholomule? Respondants with the most correct answers will be entered into a prize drawing. First place prize—an IOU for a t-shirt, to be honored when they arrive this autumn. Second place prize—a bumper sticker. Third place prize—five "Brays of Our Lives" post cards to keep or send. Winner will be selected one week from contest start. Please use the following answer format: 16-A 17-B 18-C 19-D etcetera. Good luck, and watch out for trick questions! We mules are a cunning lot. 1) Which answer below is NOT one of the seven responsibilities of Fenway Bartholomule? a) Monitoring the Perimeter b) Crying the News c) Pruning the Fruit Trees d) Guiding the Goats 2) Which brand of hoof boots do I use and recommend? a) Easyboot b) Renegade c) Cavallo d) I don't wear boots; I have hooves of steel! 3) Which name does not belong to one of my closest equine e-friends? a) Pants b) Beasley c) Mr. Brownie d) Boyfriend 4) Which fruit or ...

I've always loved clever or insightful quotes—so much, in fact, that my first truck (a sky-blue Chevy LUV) was covered bumper-to-bumper in them, written upon with Sharpie markers so densely that its appearance from some distance was charcoal gray.  Some were witty, some were wise; some classic, others obscure; some classy, some (because I was, after all, a high-schooler) crude. "Lost in time," read my inside-passenger door. "Surrounded by evil. Low on gas." Wherever I went, the truck attracted attention, admiration, comment, and creative expression. I duct-taped pens on ropes to every corner, and often returned to my parking spot to find a new quote or two.   . . . to be continued . . .