If you've ever loved a mule . . .

image from www.theesparanzacenter.org

If you've ever loved a mule, or if you've ever loved a horse—or a donkey, hinny, pony—or a zebra, I suppose—then you're in. You KNOW. You know and love that smell, our intoxicating fragrance (strongest and cleanest, by the way, in the little nook between our jowls). You know that our stools aren't icky; they're more akin to grass than dog $#!%, and no trouble at all when stepped in. You'll know that horse dirt underneath your fingernails isn't REALLY dirty, and you'll know that all that hay falling off your sweater during your morning meeting or professional symposium is merely a fond reminder . . . that the hair on your wool jacket is a medal of honor, earned through the noble work of grooming our itchiest places . . . that the clanging of our blanket hardware in the dryer during dinner is a worthwhile racket, and that a clean equine wardrobe is well worth the cost of a drowned-out conversation. You'll know that every vet bill, every feed bill, every trimmer bill, every board bill was a bill gladly paid, with money well spent. You'll know that, in the end, we're cheaper than therapy.

OK . . . better than therapy. Maybe not cheaper.

 If this sounds crazy, get thee to a barn! You have much to learn, and you're missing out on something big. Something profound. Something life changing. Something, or someone, special. Someone, perhaps, like me—Fenway Bartholomule.