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You Mustn't Call Me Fat


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!) and I am simply cannot afford the high-calorie fare so popular among hard keepers. Alfalfa meal? Oats? Sweet feed? Chopped hay? Beet pulp? The bills would skyrocket! As it stands, I eat about ten pounds of grass hay every day. It's what I can afford, and it does the job nicely. On top of that, my vet warned me not to eat a bite less. A body needs a certain amount of roughage just to stay regular, you know.

5. Exercise certainly does a body good, and it could be true that my athletic physique would be all the finer if I could get out five days per week versus two, but there are limits to FarmWife's availability. As a stay-at-home mom, full-time mule owner, part-time freelancer, and part-time employee, she's spread a bit thin. She could really use a two-hour break, three days a week, in which to ride me.To this end, qualified volunteers are invited to babysit the larval humans. Free dog hair with every visit! Email to sign up.

Ears to you,

Fenway "More to Love" Bartholomule


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