I'm Honored, Madam.

One clear distinction between mules and the lower lifeforms of the farm is our varying responses to having our manure managed. Here, in a few brief words, are our thoughts on the matter:

Little tigers (you call them "cats"): "What compels you vile humans?"

Dog: "PlayplayPLAYplayPlayplayPlayplayPLAY?"

Minimules (you call them "rabbits"): "Man, why you gotta go messin' around with my stuff?!"

Goats: "I'm a-gonna stand on your 'barrow, I'm a-gonna nibble on your rake. I'm a-gonna chew on your shirt sleeves, gonna make all the trouble I can make . . ."

Chickens: "DRrrrrrrrrr? Blurbleblurblebreoccckkk." (I never did quite master their peculiar dialect.)

Me, Fenway Bartholomule: "I am honored by your attention to the rearrangement of my leavings. May they bless your garden soil."