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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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 ...

Continued . . .

The Scoop on Bird

Human here, to give you the scoop on Songbird. He is shiny, sweet, and wonderful . . . and a little bit broken hearted. (Fenway was once, too.) As I've gotten to know him more over the last month, I've come to understand that he associates humans with unpleasantness, at least, and suffering, at worst. He has some gnarly scars. He flinches away from touch, though he warms up quickly when treats are involved. He's quite a foodie. He's easily startled. He's alert, and vigilant. He doesn't always feel safe. He also really likes it at my mom's house, which has a slower pace than the wonderful boarding and lesson barn where he lived in June. He appreciates the predictable routine, the long quiet afternoons, and the retired horses who give him company. He has flattened the grass under the big cedar out back and created nests to rest in. The soft footing at my mom's is better for his newly bare feet. He is starting to believe he'll be ok. I have ridden him...

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That Which Was Foretold Has Come To Pass

After some negotiation and exchange of words like "motheaten" and "raggedy", Farmwife talked me into enduring the roaching of my mane, which I had rubbed on the fence while reaching for delectable edibles at my previous home. We both agreed on four things: 1) it was essential to retain my forelock, which is a thing of splendor that adds greatly to my dashing good looks. I'll get a picture for you tomorrow. 2) once the cut has grown out a bit, she will give me those fancy castle turrets that she used to style for Fenway. 3) we owe our dear readers a better photo, when I have not just rolled in the mud. 4) there is no hairstyle capable of making me look anything but marvelous.

Continued . . .

BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

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