BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Image from www.designmom.com Find what you love and do it. That seems to be MY answer to happiness, anyway! (I'm not so sure this philosophy applies to all—I've a friend, for instance, whose compelling passions are zombies, chainsaws, metal music, vampires, and the dream of chainsawing zombies and vampires to the tune of some heavy metal music. I'd advise him to stick with something a bit more practical.) I've always loved animals. I've always been horse-crazy. My first word was cat. My first memory was of a dog—Danny, I believe—lapping my split pea soup right out of my bowl. Before I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be a vet. Before I wanted to be a vet, I wanted to be a famous jumper rider. It took a half-decade or so of adult life (college, motherhood, marriage—in that order, for me, since I am unexpectedly fertile and occasionally stupid) for me to remember what makes me tick. I love to RIDE. I love to have a little farm, a number of pets, a beloved animal sid...

Tanner in his new career An update on yesterday's horses: Shorty lived to old age with young FarmWife, and was euthanized when his Cushings advanced to an unmanageable level. He was buried on the farm. Panda was euthanized at age 22. He contracted terminal pneumonia while moving across the country with Bob Hubbard horse transportation. Panda went on the truck in tip-top shape to join FarmWife, who was going to college in Massachusetts. Bob Hubbard kept him longer than they said they would, shipped him farther than they said they would, obscured important information about his location, and returned him weeks late, very ill, and extremely underweight. FarmWife will never forgive them. Fahrenheit never learned to like to jump, but he left FarmWife's Pony Club home for a very happy dressage career with another owner. Duracell and FarmWife fell over a cross-country schooling fence when she was 14—neither was seriously hurt, but FarmWife's confidence for jumping was ...

Tanner, who wouldn't be rushed Shorty was FarmWife's first pony of her very own. He taught her how to post, how to mount, and how to avoid getting wiped off on low-hanging branches. Panda was FarmWife's first "big horse." He taught her how to jump, how to ride with two sets of reins, and how to stop a runaway. Fahrenheit was FarmWife's first thoroughbred. He taught her that no amount of schooling will force a square peg into a round hole, and that some horses need to stay with what they're good at. Duracell was FarmWife's first eventer. He taught her that horse dealers lie, that pulling on the reins never resolves a conflict, and that there's nothing quite as exciting as galloping bareback and bridleless. Painter was FarmWife's first stallion. He taught her that within every stallion there's an even a better gelding. Tanner was FarmWife's first PMU horse. He taught her that progress is fastest when you're in no hurry. ...

Why is it that minimule Harriet gets couch privileges and I do not? It cannot be her size alone, as baby goats are easily as small. THEY do not get couch privileges. It cannot be manners. I am more polite. It cannot be softness. I am quite soft. It is unexplainable, but I think I can get over the hurt. Minimule Harriet does not get pasture turnout. FenBar

There are a number of slightly odd things about the citizens of Bent Barrow Farm. Here are a few, presented at random: 1. FarmWife is deaf in her left ear; 2. Paisley the Dog is deaf in both; 3. FarmTiger Townes has some undiagnosed disfunction that gives him the gait of a drunken belly dancer; 4. I have nipples on my sheath (many mules and most donkeys do); 5. Paisley the dog has one black toe and nineteen pink ones (catch a rare glimpse of the black one in the photo above). Nothing's perfect in this world—even my beloved (half-deaf) FarmWife has a glitchy knee. Still, though, everything here is perfectly suited to us! FarmWife wrote a little poem on the subject this morning, and I'll share it with you (though I do usually ask her to limit her musings to her OWN blog, www.puddlerun.com.) My favorite car is bad at starting, Favorite dog walks with a limp. Favorite ear is stone-deaf, broken— Favorite cat's a droopy gimp. My favorite mule toes out a little, And ...

If you've been hanging around Brays of Our Lives for a while now, you'll know that not much scares me. I'm not afraid of wearing bells, towing poles, leaping logs, fording streams, passing trucks, carrying children, or crossing bridges. I'm not afraid of flapping tarps, honking cars, rumbling tractors, speeding bikes, flashing lights, or slithering snakes. I am afraid of rainbows. (Click for the full story) I am DEATHLY afraid of rainbows in puddles—reflections from the sky, or, even worse, shimmering pools of oil on the road. I'm am nervous about footing changes. More specifically, I am afraid of stepping off of grass and onto gravel, or off of gravel and onto pavement, or off of pavement and onto dirt. I am afraid of walking directly onto my own shadow. I hate walking away from the sun. I am TERRIFIED of walking onto my own shadow during a footing change. Ask me to step away from the sun onto pavement from gravel and I may just fall into a dead faint. ...

Every fourth Thursday in November I stop and count my blessings, and this one is no exception. I've encountered such generosity this year that I have no shortage of thanks to offer, today and always. While I can't possibly fit every gratitude on the page without overwhelming your patience and your available time, I did compose this little verse which summarizes just a few of my many thanks owed: Thank you, FarmWife, for the hay, Thank you, goats, for company, Thanks, FarmHusband, for this shed, Thank you, Earth, for room to stand. Thank you, readers, for your praise, Thank you, neighbors, for your waves. Thank you, pasture, for the grass, Thank you, children, for your pats. Thank you for my harness, fans, Thank you for my trailer, Gran. Thank you, hooves, for holding me, Thank you, fur, for warming me, Thank you, ears, for gracing me, Thank you, world, for cradling me, Thank you, fans, for postcards, for the letters, for the art, Thank you for the sharing—for...

Image from www.telegraph.co.uk What's troubling me today? Not much. There are trivial matters, of course. I would trade this freezing weather for our typical balmy drizzle in a heartbeat, but I can't complain about the lack of mud. I would love to upgrade my wardrobe—my holey socks and busted zippers—but I have clothes on my back and shoes on my feet. I would take a bigger paycheck, but I wouldn't trade this work—stay-at-home motherhood, part-time writing—for anything. I am lucky. Below, if I had to list them, are my top three complaints today. I am excluding the "big picture" irritants, and you will see no mention here of the obviously unacceptable global phenomena (child sex trafficking, war, animal abuse, the Tea Party). I'm keeping this simple.  1) The freezing weather, which requires bucketing water to my livestock. And yet—they live a mere 30 yards from my door and drink a mere 20 gallons per day. Compared to a rancher or a boarding barn proprietor, for ...

"I need hay," I told FarmWife. "You have hay," she told me. "You have half a bale of delicious orchard grass. It will last you a week." "I need buffer hay," I told her. "I need hay stored against the possibility of a calamity."  "We cannot afford buffer hay," she told me. "FarmHusband's work has been patchy, and we cannot buy hay in any fashion but one bale at a time." "We need a Paypal button. I will earn my own money." "You cannot simply ask people for money, Fenway. You need to provide a service." "I asked for harness money, and look what that got us! It got you the nicest birthday present you've ever had. I got it myself, by asking for money."  "You did that once, Fenway, but twice would be tacky." "It isn't tacky when you get paid to write a magazine article."  "True." "It isn't tacky when you sell a copy of yo...

There are an abundance of videos on Youtube showing equines doing strange and dangerous things: galloping on pavement, jumping wire fences, carrying helmetless riders at breakneck speeds through unsafe landscapes and over treacherous obstacles. I frown upon them all. Here is a video that I prefer: a video full of amazing leaps, astonishing feats, and wild exploits. A video in which helmets feature prominently, and a video in which no mules were jeopardized, endangered, or yanked on. It is a riding video, but it is not about horse- or mule-back riding. It is full of muleness, but it is not about mules. If you ever want to speed on concrete, leap a chainlink fence, or jump a cement wall, learn to do it on your bicycle. It will be beautiful. If you do it on a mule, it will make you look like a moron and a meanie.  Ears to you, Fenway

Image from www.caffeinatedthoughts.com It's 20 degrees outside and FarmWife has just delivered the first two of our six daily water buckets. They arrive at regular intervals—clean, tepid, liquid water for our refreshment and our health. What part of "half-caff, no foam, double tall soy caramel latte" did she not understand? I have been waiting for some alternative to this water from the bathtub spigot for some time now, and except for the occasional splash of apple cider vinegar (for the health of the goats, and for acidifying the reproductive tract in hopes of baby girl goatlings) I've been disappointed. When the warm house water arrives, Missy drinks first. We all like to see Missy hydrated, and she does not disappoint. She is a quaffer, not a sipper. FarmWife loves that about her. I am a good drinker, and do my duty. FarmWife tells me that adequate hydration is essential to good gut function, and then Jasper Jules always throws in that I obviously have a ...

Actually, Feather did no such thing. Neither Feather nor her companions in wings have laid a thing this autumn. (We are down to 14 hens, as the humans have recently euthanized poor, blind Violet. That is a sad story for a different time. The remaining chickens, between them, have laid a total of one egg during the month of November.) Back to my original point, though—jingle bells! I've got 'em! Many, many thanks to Mary Ellen from New Jersey, who, in sending them, indulged me in one of my favorite holiday fantasies. She has contributed greatly, I'm sure, to the general good cheer in these parts. My neighbors cannot help but enjoy the sonorous tone of my passage! I'd like you to know, if you're of a traditional school, that I am aware these bells are being worn "wrong." They have since been adapted to fit, and I promise that you shall see them draped correctly around the entirety of my capacious barrel at their next appearance. This image, and the lin...

Dear Fenway, My latest person reads me your column.  I'm a donkey, a saddle donkey, 13hh, and I've had  AppleLady about a year.   I call her that because she shares apples with me.   Well, in your latest column, when we came to the sentence about your FarmWife saying "I wish you had a mane," it brought up a subject close to home.   Why don't donkeys and mules have manes?   My AppleLady wondered about this, and no one had a good answer.  She wondered if it was because the manes don't grow well, or are unsightly.  So we decided to grow mine out and see what happened (it was completely shaved off when I first came to live with her.).   Here is a picture of me with 9 months growth.  AppleLady thinks it's very becoming, and wonders if it will be twice that long next summer.  She combs it with a purple comb.   I like having a mane because it helps shoo flies away in summer, and provides a little w...

image from http://littlepeoplemeetmrpotatohead.com/MrPotatoHeadsroots.htm My children are debating the relative threat of Mr. Potatohead's pipe.  Dylann: "He could get sick or even die."  Robin: "It's only pretend, and only for a while."  Dylann: "OK, but don't blame me when he has to go to the vegetable hospital."

The Bold and the Brayful , a column by Fenway Barthlomule fenway@braysofourlives.com How to Spook like a Mule If you spend enough time around humans, you'll find that there are two sorts: there are the humans who think mules are stupid, and there are the humans who think mules are smart. Put differently, there are those who see wisdom in the solid stance and investigative gaze of a curious longear, and there are those who see stubborness in the planted feet and wide-eyed stare of the very same animal. My FarmWife knows what's up, and she loves the way I spook. Sure, riders dream of the spook-proof beast, but would you really want to ride an animal who marches nonchalantly into the bear's den or off the crumbling cliffside trail? Do you want to go along on the back of a beast with no sense of self-preservation, no knowledge of his own mortality? I think not! Nor, though, should you enjoy the whirl-and-bolt mania of a flighty mount, the sideways-sproing of ...

With spawning salmon come the raptors. These "birds of bray," as I like to call them ("prey" sounds so violent) come to Wickersham every autumn and populate the foothills and wetlands with their nests, their cries, and their majestic presence. If you've never seen a bald eagle up close, toss out any misconceptions you may have about the fragility of birds with their delicate, hollow frames—picture instead a Rottweiler on wings. These birds are BIG. FarmWife set out to count the birds on our last outing, but by the time we got to the first bend in the road (not to the trailhead yet, understand, but just on the road TO the trailhead) she had counted eight bald eagles, two red tailed hawks, one great blue heron, and one bird that may have been a golden eagle or a juvenile bald eagle. She gave up, being out of fingers and wanting to spend more time in enjoyment of my company than in concentration on her ornithological survey. FarmWife learned, much to her disapp...

Red fish . . . Red fish—coho salmon, if I'm not mistaken—are afoot (afin?) in my local creek. Wickersham is teeming with them as they fight their way upstream to spawn. Even I, the mighty Fenway Bartholomule, am amazed at their strength and endurance as they crawl bodily through the shallow rapids, their slippery, contorted forms braced against a rushing torrent, nobly surmounting obstacles in sheer determination. You may be aware that the Whatcom Land Trust—an organization with much Muleness—owns much of Wickersham's open space, including and not limited to the 63 acre Samish headwaters which directly adjoin Bent Barrow Farm. These great big fish, each longer than my head (ears too!), people the headwaters and their tributary creeks for several weeks every third autumn. The last time the salmon spawned here in Wickersham, I belonged to the neighbor and FarmWife was merely a covetous acquaintance. To think, these fish have lived a whole life since then! Hatched, li...

A couple of years ago, my FarmWife (who looooves animal clothing) ordered me a super-cheap, $25 rainproof quarter sheet. You know, the bargain basement, bottom end quarter sheet—the one she could afford. It was a TERRIBLE mistake. The thing fit like a glass slipper on an ugly step-sister. Crinkly, wrinkly, bumpy, lumpy, flippy, flappy, lousy, mousy thing. We couldn't bring ourselves to keep it, and promptly asked for and received a refund. Today, thanks to the generosity of HaHaHorses and KBC Intl., we have received the gift of a small, FenBar-sized gold-striped Rambo Newmarket fleece quarter sheet. It is STUPENDOUS! Thick, fuzzy, warm, beautiful, heavy, and tailored perfectly to my short but ample frame. Nothing could be more suited to a blustery November day, and I promise you photos before the week is out. FarmWife has been taught a lesson—you can't beat quality, and you can't expect the $25 quarter sheet to do the job of a brand name product. If you don't ...

Art by Alison Fennell—purchase at www.eastwitching.etsy.com. I was listening to FM radio yesterday, and during one particular commercial break I heard the following products and services advertised, in this order: Gambling, liposuction, fast food, gambling, petroleum. What, I wondered, is this world coming to? Can anyone truly listen to a commercial for $995-per-part body sculpting followed by an ad for juicy, crispy, fried chicken thighs without noting the hypocrisy? Is this really what's important in this year's windup to the holiday season? Today, I woke up with the "gambling, liposuction, fast food, gambling" commercials in my head, and then I looked out the window. Fenway, braying, slopped in from the pasture through a heavy rain. And then, one after another, three goat heads appeared over the shed wall: Pop! Pop! Pop! The chickens began to stir, expecting turnout into the gardens and orchard, and the rabbits rang their bells in anticipation of breakfast and a mo...

I, Fenway Bartholomule, cordially invite my friends to join me for an evening of caroling and hot cider in Wickersham, Washington, on the afternoon of Sunday, December 18, 2011. That's right, folks . . . 2011. I'm talking 13 months from now.  A wise person once said that, when preparing a goat for a parade, you should pick your event and then commence to training for its NEXT occurrence—that is, one year later. Animals need time to learn, to grow, and to relax into the hustle and bustle of these human festivities, and as I am a green-broke harness mule I figured 13 months is just right for obtaining a vehicle, learning to tolerate the jingle-jingle-jingle of sleigh bells, and adjusting to the phenomenon of cruising the neighborhood after hours with a raucous load of festive carolers.  In the meantime, I propose a caroling circuit of Wickersham, SANS wagon, on or around December 18, 2010. I'd love to come, I may just sing, and I promise to provide companionsh...

image from www.tvcream.co.uk Anita, you wondered on Facebook what FarmWife's five HUMAN life priorities are—five things no human should have to live without. I thought I would have nailed it with my guesses, which were 1. Shiny brown mules, 2. Cute baby animals; 3. Delicious things like carrots and blackberries; 4. A room full of hay, and 5. The internet. She says these are all very good, but that she might instead list, off the top of her head, these five alternatives: 1. Health (including healthy food and a healthy environment)  2. Relationships (including love, family, and friendship—even when your best friend is a mule) 3. Home (a sense of place, ownership, or belonging, and a sense of community) 4. Productivity (feeling valuable, or contributing to something greater than oneself; feeling that the general impact of your life on others is positive, or feeling that what one does is worthwhile)  5. Joyfulness (call it joie de vivre if you'd like—enthusiasm, apprec...

Sir Edwin Henry Landseer's "The Shoeing" 1. Personal safety. We may be mighty, we may be majestic, but we are essentially Prey Animals. Don't forget it. If we don't feel safe, we don't feel happy. 2. Nourishment. A well-fed mule is a happy mule. Fresh water goes with abundant, clean hay on the list of things every mule deserves. We may tell you that we need apples, carrots, oats, alfalfa, and omolene, too, but the fact remains: good hay is a thing we shouldn't live without. 3. Shelter. We like to get out of the wind as much as the next guy, and under this tough-as-nails exterior is a fellow who likes to get cozy in a snug, clean little shed. Braving the elements during a ride is one thing, but braving them 24/7 is no fun at all. A guy's gotta dry off sometime! 4. Friendship. When we love you, we love you for life. When we trust you, we trust you to the ends of the earth. When you hurt us, you hurt us to the very center of our being. We do not...

Lencartoons I'm still here, but busy with the enjoyable presence of my MIL and FIL from Ye Olde New Hampshire. Any stereotypes that may exist around the matter of visiting mothers-in-law (see image) do not apply—these are lovely people, and on top of the general fun surrounding their visits, they take us to lunch (their treat); help around the house (dishes, anyone?); admire Señor Bartholomule (a requirement at Bent Barrow Farm); and generally take care of our every need and want. It will be a sad day when they are swept back to the east. And so, without further ado . . . I'm off to enjoy their continued company, and to abandon my blogging for another day. M

Dear Reader, You may remember that  my opinions on bits and bitting  are quite solid and developed; that is, I like what I like, and I know what I like, and FarmWife knows what I like too. FarmWife loves her bits, but most of all she loves bits that make her mule comfortable, happy, and calm. She likes her bits "just so," and so do I. So, when FarmWife decided she wanted a traditionally-styled driving bit to go with my stupendously splendiferous harness, she set out to find a 5-in. mullen mouth, low-port, rubber, 2-slot, fixed-cheek (no-pinch) liverpool. What does FarmWife do when she wants a 5-in. mullen mouth, low-port, rubber, fixed-cheek liverpool and the only 5-in. mullen mouth, low-port, rubber, fixed-cheek liverpools she can find are overseas and retail for £85 and up? I'll tell you what she does—she gets a 5-3/4-in. straight-mouth, low-port, stainless steel, 2-slot, sliding-cheek liverpool. She takes it into the workshop, wraps it in a rag, and hammers ...

Photo courtesy www.marinecorptimes.com Take some time today to remember our four- AND two-legged friends who have served; to remember their sacrifice, and to remember their daring. It is my profound hope that our U.S. federal government will someday value its equine veterans and its human ones equally, and highly, and that its mules who have served shall never again find themselves on the auction block—waiting, like outdated equipment, for the scrapyard. These men, women, dogs and mules are braver than me, and stronger than me—would that each could be as safe as me, and as loved. FB Photo courtesy www.allamericanpatriots.com

Minimules make dandy gifs.

You mustn't call me fat, and here is why: 1. I am not fat, I am muscular. This is the body of a chiseled athlete. These well-sprung ribs house a heart of steel, and lungs like vast bellows. Each breath stokes a raging fire, and this round belly fuels the blaze. I do exercise, and I do so handily (as this video demonstrates). 2. If I am a wee pinch fleshy—on top of the muscles—this is not obesity. This is a caloric buffer against famine, a defense evolved to withstand any hardship. Who knows how long the Volvo hay mother shall continue to bear her fruit? Should she fail in her duty, I would perish but not for this cushion of stored energy. Curse the electric fence! 3. I have FarmWife's comfort in mind. Have you ever ridden bareback on a shark-finned TB? A jaunt on me is like a lounge in a La-Z-Boy by comparison. I am softer than a saddle, and more fuzzy. 4. I earn my own hay money (if you like this blog, you can paypal your thanks to afatbrownmare at yahoo dot com!) a...

Here is FarmWife, who always wears her helmet. Too bad she wasn't wearing it when she smashed into Jasper Jules the other day. FarmWife, who has a concussion and a 27-item to-do list, needs my help. She has had a headache since Friday's headbonk, and now she's dizzy, nauseous, spaced out, and generally less-than-mulish. I had hoped to use today to tell you why you mustn't call me fat, and to tell you why FarmWife is allergic to flashlights, and to tell you why FarmWife relies on my ears (which is really part of the flashlight story). Instead, I will use today to say, "rest, FarmWife. Rest, then clean the house and mow the lawn." Tomorrow, "Why You Mustn't Call Me Fat—a lecture in five points." FB

Some days, you've just gotta groom us as best you can. Even ,I suppose, if the best you can do is to carve out a clean place to set your saddle.  Fenway "mud monster" Bartholomule

The humans have had a very busy day. 1: welcoming company for lunch. This particular company is practically family, AND they think I have a beautiful nose. They said so. They also admired my rolling tactics (all the way over, and all the way back again) and my goats. Good people. 2: watching PerryGripp's channel on Youtube. You can't go wrong with Perry's cute animal numbers: "This is the best burrito I've ever eaten, yum yum yum!" Or, for variety: "Fuzzy, fuzzy, cute, cute, fuzzy, fuzzy, cute, cute." Google them, but be warned—they're catchy. 3: going to a wedding reception. I was not invited. They did not bring me cake. I was, however, discussed among the gathered company; it turns out that FarmWife was recognized several times as "the Bartholomule lady." My reputation precedes me! 4: finding out that FarmWife's book has already printed and is being bound this week! If you haven't ordered one, you should. Everyone...

Here are the facts:  1. It gets dark, now, rather early in the evening. FarmWife prefers to feed dinner rather late in the evening, so as to have our breakfast arrive 12 rather than 14 or 16 hours later. Therefore, it gets dark before FarmWife feeds dinner. 2. Our shed is rustic. Unlit.  3. FarmWife divides the goats up at dinner time, that Missy and B.G. may sup upon alfalfa whilst Jasper Jules joins me in a bland, grass hay repast. She accomplishes this by feel. Jasper has a 1", double-layer nylon collar and a beard; B.G. has a thin, 3/4" nylon collar and no beard; Missy is naked entirely. Groping in the darkness for the bearded goat with the fattest collar, FarmWife shepherds JJ away from the delectable edibles and locks him into my half of the shed. Again—a dark, cave-like, primitive dwelling. 4. Did I mention that our shed is dark, and that FarmWife accomplishes all of this without the aid of vision? On a moonless or foggy night, it's like braille....

One year ago, I posted a video online of myself riding down the road, singing a happy tune to the rhythm of Fenway's clip-clopping hooves. Who knew what it would lead to? 11 months ago, Fenway had 36 fans on his fledgeling fanpage. Today, he has 845. 10 months ago, I used my nimble fingers and opposable thumbs to help Fen launch Brays of Our Lives. I was guessing that the world was ready for Fenway, and that they would love him as I do. Today, he's had over 70,000 site visits from friends in 18 nations. Six months ago, I leaked to the world that I was dreaming of training Fenway to drive. Today, he happily skids tires in the pasture and ground-drives down the road with a clattering travois. Next step: a cart, which is blossoming on my mechanic/inventor/father's drawing board. Five months ago, I was given an incredible, gorgeous harness—a gift from Fenway's readers. Today I have the prettiest piece of tack I have ever owned AND a mule who has happily added pulling to his...

Yesterday was a good mail day: Missy got her new goat coat (it fits!), and FarmWife got a mulishly splendiferous t-shirt in the mail from our dear fan K.. A giant, mule-sized public thanks to you, K.! FarmWife does, indeed, love "sitting on her ass." This is, if FarmWife will forgive me for saying so, a perfect t-shirt in more ways than one.  Today, FarmWife is going to celebrate the beauty of our Wickersham autumn by mucking the paddock, grooming the mule (me, Fenway Bartholomule), tidying up in the garden, and so forth.  FarmWife is terribly suggestible, and so I shall suggest that she stuff her pockets with carrots before getting to her outside chores. A lovely afternoon is in store for all! FB

I'm just starting to clue into the full horror of the BLM/mustang relationship now, so forgive me if my facts are not entirely straight. While I've always looked askance at the BLM's high-stress roundups, I never thought too much further on the safety of our wild/feral horse herds in the United States. I took notice of the situation when the Texas parks department took to shooting burros to make room for big game in Big Bend Ranch State Park, and my general impression is that this is a very faulty system.  Here is the BLM's plan, so far as I can tell:  1) attempt to exterminate natural predators. 2) complain that the American mustang has no natural predators. 3) overpopulate public land with subsidized, privately owned beef herds. 4) complain that the public land is overpopulated and overgrazed. 5) ask American taxpayers to embrace "herd management," which amounts to terrorization and imprisonment of tens of thousands of feral horses. 5b)Say that this "ma...

 . . . . mules knew how to SHINE! Here is a photo from FarmWife's good human friend L., who reports that it was taken in Texas and shows her great grandfather and his mule brigade searching for Pancho Villa. I, for one, would like to go roaming in Texas under different circumstances; I would like to meet the cattle with the very big horns. It's always been a dream of mine—I think they evoke some sort of ancestral longing for the time when the prehistoric Hipparion and Auroch grazed side-by-side. Thanks, L., for sharing this beautiful bit of family history and this beautiful mule. Your great grandpa shall be remembered as a man with Muleness. FB

1) Many of us equines grow a lovely, thick winter coat. Don't blanket if you don't need to. Do blanket if you plan to body clip, or if your cold-climate equine is a skinny minny and can't spare any calories. I wear a blanket, even though I am a furry fatty, because I live in a damp climate with 24 hour turnout. I came to FW with rainrot and she doesn't want to go there again. 2) Take your equine's blanket off in warm weather. Even a dry, cold day can be a lovely time for a roll and a fresh breeze, and a blanket left on all winter without pause can be dangerous and uncomfortable. 3) Check for rubs. There are several brands of underwear available, and some get better reviews than others. If your blanket doesn't fit, find a solution or find a new blanket. Don't be afraid to embarrass your gelding by making him wear a brassiere: it's better than raw sores! 4) Take your equine's blanket off daily, or as often as possible, to check his or her condi...