Find what you love

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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 sidekick that I trust with my life. Once that sidekick was Mirri, my cattle dog, and now that sidekick is Fenway Bartholomule.

And on writing? I've written for food magazines. I've written for parenting magazines. I've written on ecology and society and gardening and food. What I'm best at writing on, though, and what I love to write on more than anything, are animals. Poetry. Prose. Children's verse. Expository journalism. Anything—anything on animals.

I'm lucky that I've finally found my reset button. When I'm cranky, I go ride. I'm lucky that I have identified my "dream career," and that it will not take a miracle or a six-figure education to achieve the dream. I'm lucky, as a writer, that I have a constant source of compelling inspiration. Curled at my feet—inspiration. Warming my lap—inspiration. Hopping across my livingroom—inspiration. Standing on the milkstand—inspiration. Pecking through the barnyard—inspiration. Grazing in the pasture—inspiration. I am surrounded by what I love, and my life is a joy worth sharing.

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Here are the Cloud Dog's X-Rays

Here, for your edification, are the X-rays of dear Paisley's leg. There is, apparently, no new break (since his Monday siezure) but there is, of course, a great deal of abnormality caused by years of living with a shortened ulna. His pronounced lameness, the vet says, may temporarily improve. Unlike me, Fenway Bartholomule, poor cloud dog can't expect much in the way of a full recovery. Not having the $$$$ for surgery to fuse the joint, we are working on making some sort of rigid splint to support the limb and prevent further degeneration. That is, the humans (with their space-age material inventions and their opposable thumbs) are working on making a splint; I am working on giving cloud dog brayful looks of support and encouragement every time he totters into the yard to relieve himself. As always, he fears me (me?!) and keeps his distance. Ears to you, Fenway

Continued . . .

Vegan Spring Rolls

I, Fenway Bartholomule, am a vegan: of course I only eat plants, not people! My human is too, so I'm sharing my blog with her today so that she can participate in the 2014 Virtual Vegan Potluck ! When you're done perusing the recipe for these delicious spring rolls, click "back" or "forward" for the entire potluck experience! Virtual Vegan Potluck: Spring Roll Appetizers Beautiful? Check. Healthy? Check. Delicious? Check. Easy? Check. Fancy? Check. Quick to clean up after? Check. Vegan? OF COURSE! If you're looking for something portable, colorful, and crowd-pleasing for your next potluck, look no further than these simple vegan spring rolls! The best part? You can substitute ANYTHING. I never make these the same way twice, so play around with cilantro, kale, cabbage, scallions, or whatever you think sounds good! Ingredients Veggie mix: 2 carrots (grated) 4 oz mung bean sprouts 1/3 cup chopped peanuts (raw, or roasted and salted) or ...

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Catastrophy

This is the emergency broadcast system. This is not a test. I was going to entertain you with more haiku today, but something terrible has happened. I need your support. Today was supposed to be a regular spa day—a nice little hoofie trim, a fresh mane roach, an ear massage, and a handful of sunflower seeds (for shine). Instead of merely taking care of my beauty routine, however, FarmWife spent a full hour in contemplation of and attention to my overall physique. The upshot? A revision of my condition from Plump to Obese. (Her actual words, upon removing my blanket for the first time in a few days, were "Oh my God! You've ballooned!") She has decided that my fatness has become a health risk, and has resolved to exercise me as often as possible. It gets dark at 4:30. Her husband gets home at 5:30. She has small children and no sitter. This, my friends, means that I will end up being longed. Longed at the end of a stupid, smelly old rope. Forced to walk and trot...

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Mowers and raccoons and steers, oh my!

In my informal Facebook survey I learned that the majority of Friends of the Muleness want more stories—All the Stories!—and that the story they want most of all is the story of the raccoon. Farmwife says it's hardly a story at all, and that it would be something to talk about had the raccoon been in my barn, or touching my body, or gesticulating at me with it's bizarrely human little fingers to indicate that it would like a little snack or help with its homework. Alas, this is not that kind of story. Before I tell you about the raccoon I have to go backwards and tell you that I am feeling very good in my body these days. My track through the forest has been expanded, my laminitis is at bay, and my health has been very largely excellent since I came here to the Atomic Ranch in December. I am feeling so good, in fact, that I have been cleared for long walks around the neighborhood! Puck, Farmwife, and I sometimes make the long loop up Saratoga and back around Fox Spit, which ...

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BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

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