BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Apparently Punxsutawney Phil was wrong. After a really smashing January (blue skies, warm temps) we're back in the pits of winter, and today the goats and I are up to our knobbly little knees in slushy muck. I have, however, a set of solutions to suggest! A) The community of Wickersham should pool their resources and install an indoor riding arena in front of the Little Brown Chapel, which is this town's closest thing to a community center. It doesn't matter if I am one of Wickersham's only equines—I am happy to give rides to everybody. B) The owners of the Lake Whatcom Railway, who own a great many miles of scenic, flat train railroad throughout the dense forests of Acme and Sedro-Woolley, should retire their antique steam engine and pull up their tracks. The result would be a lovely, well-graded, tree-covered, quick-draining trail upon which we Wickershamians could ride in even the wettest weather. Second best thing? No more 7 am wakeup calls from the engineer...

I have a million things I want to tell you, but what do you want to hear? More links to longears in rescue? More trail notes and real-life action stories? More how-to's or recommendations straight from the mule's mouth? More witty mulicisms? More profiles of my blogging equine friends? More Notes From the Farm? More goats? More chihuahuas? You're going to get more Fenway Bartholomule—I can promise you that. Ears, FenBar

Two big things happened today—firstly, DSL came to Wickersham! We have said our last goodbyes to our tired old wireless aircard, and are now surfing at blazing speeds. Can you tell? Does my blog seem zippier today, or more invigorated? The other thing that happened was Weanling Human's 11th birthday party, which was celebrated with cupcakes (I didn't get any); pizza (I didn't get any); party favors (I didn't get any); and a rousing game of Pin the Tail on Fenway Bartholomule. I got a flake of grass hay and two buckets of tepid water, as usual, but I did appreciate their attempt to somehow include me in the festivities. We had fun. Ears, FenBar

This week would have been an unprecedented opportunity for FarmWife, had the weather been different: She had a sitter and/or an at-home husband lined up for Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, AND Friday! She could have gotten five—nay, six! rides in this week, had she also planned to make use of the weekend. In the end, though, we've chosen to stay in. The weather is the culprit. Do they make Yaktrax for equines? Last time FarmWife and I went riding during a cold, snowy period, the ice-packed tire tracks on our local roads and pathways made walking unsafe. FarmWife led me towards the trailhead, and I slipped, slid, and generally proceeded in a halting fashion. We decided to turn back, for safety's and comfort's sake, before FarmWife had even had a chance to mount up. This week, we're not even going to try it. Now, fluffy new snow is another matter. Slush? No biggy, and rain certainly doesn't stop us. It's ICE we don't like, and there's plenty of it in ...

So here's the thing—it turns out black dogs are hard to photograph. Clover is one of the cutest things I've ever seen in my life, and her twinkling eyes and jaunty step are just about enough to melt the coldest heart. On camera, though, she turns into a light-bending lump of bulgy-eyed, highly reflective, cringing anti-photogeneticism. Paco Collars and Fetching Tags recently collaborated to bestow upon Clover a beautiful new collar, and I wanted to thank them for the gift with a nice portrait of Her Royal Chihuahuaness in said article. Harder, I'm afraid, than it sounds. There's the "use the flash" option, which creates the possessed demon effect: There's the "shoot while she plays" option, which creates the streaming high-speed effect: There's the "wait for a pause" option, which gives you the menacing werewolf effect: There's the "force her to stay where you put her" option, which gives you the beaten-and-cringing ef...

What's that?  Vaseline. Does it help with preventing snowball accumulation?  Sort of.  Does it substitute adequately for bringing your mule indoors and bedding him down next to the woodstove? Hardly. 

Fine art, bad photoshopping. FarmWife stitched together these scanned images hastily, poorly, and with very reduced mulishness. I'll forgive her—she needs to get the humans to bed, and I need to show you this splendiferous poster my weanling human M made for me. She turned 11 this week, and she's got her mother's bountiful love of equines! Ears to you, indeed!

One ear, two ears, brown ears, true ears. Fine ears, good ears, torn ear, smooth ear. This one has a little rip, this one has a perfect tip. This one turns to listen here, this one turns to listen there. Look—what lovely ears I wear!

You were told that Clover is perfect—and she is, as long as she's tied to FarmWife by an eight foot cord. Here's the one glaring flaw with FarmWife's little Christmas angel—poop! FarmWife likes dogs. She understands dogs. She feels that training dogs comes naturally to her, and she feels that there is very little about problem dog behavior that she cannot understand and/or remedy. This problem, though, is beyond her. Clover, who's about one year old, recently spayed, and adopted two months ago from the Humane Society, understands that outside pooping is good. FarmWife passes many chilly moments standing outside in the rain and sleet with Clover, and praising Clover with effusive pats, play, and cheesy globs when Clover poops outdoors. Clover understands that peeing outside is good, too, and since her first day here has never made a mistake in THAT department. FarmWife feeds Clover in a crate, and takes Clover outside immediately thereafter to do her business. Cl...

Paisley is wonderful. I never loved him as much as I do now, at the beginning of his 10th year of life. Clover, also wonderful, uses him as her living rug, and when the fire dies down she retreats to curl up on the high ground of his gently-rising flanks. The chickens are laying again—four eggs a day, or sometimes five. Most of our hens are between three and nine years of age, so four eggs a day is all we can expect. It works, and when our girls no longer lay they can continue to work as manure-sorters and parasite police.  The children are wonderful. We've enlarged their playground, adding a slide and sandbox to last year's swingset, and they're finally coming out of hibernation to enjoy daily outdoor play without a fight. Two will have birthdays in the coming months, and the third lost her first incisor last night. In the back of her mouth, like Mounts Baker and Shuksan, two huge permanent molars are erupting with volcanic strength.  And then there's me—happy, gratefu...

I get ridden once—maybe twice—a week. We're working on this. FarmWife and I dream of riding and/or driving six days on and one day off, but it may be some time in coming. Never fear—at 16, I am still young! Still, I have four bridles and a half-dozen extra bits. In rotation, we have my snaffle bridle, outfitted with a Sealtex-coated, single jointed dee snaffle. FarmWife, who loves new bits and who's noticed how I appreciate a more stable mouthpiece, would like to replace this with a rubber mullen baucher snaffle. I have a snaffle bridle because I have promised FarmWife that we may take dressage lessons in the future. I didn't do this because I actually want to take dressage lessons, or because we can afford dressage lessons, or because we have a place to practice dressage. No: I did this because FarmWife loves to daydream, and because there's no harm in entertaining her fantasies. I have a pelham bridle, which I use on the snaffle-rein setting for open...

The bunnies are wildly destructive. We are planning a rabbit complex with sheltered hutches, attached outdoor runs, and day-use paddocks. The reign of the houserabbit is ending: two couches, one square foot of sheetrock, and one telephone cord later. When the weather warms, they make the move, though we'll always bring them in for daily companionable visits.  The goats are well. Missy spends some time standing in the middle of the paddock, head tilted, hackling at nothing. We wonder if she suffered some brain damage during her mysterious bout with paralysis, but we are happy to see her enjoying the things she's always loved: back scratches, alfalfa, dominant stand-offs with her herdmates and the human children.  B.G. remains the friendliest goat ever, and she alone prefers human companionship to hay—when I feed the four hoofbeasts, three tuck in and one shadows me, adoringly, as they do. She'll kid in June, having been bred to the lovely specimen at left last month. (The gr...

Remember the time someone painted me? That was fun. Thanks, Sue Kroll! FB

I am not sure that the level of accurate comprehension is as high as one would like when it comes to interpreting this sign, which is similar to one we saw in the Mount Baker National Forest. I assume that the public is to read it as "speak before approaching horses from the rear," and it probably has something to do with the ranger's desire to keep horses from spooking and killing people on the mountain trails. I parsed it, initially, as meaning "beware of horse farts," and then as "listen to a horse's ass." This is my proposed alternative: a text sign, reading "Speak before approaching livestock." Lower humor value, but more lives saved in the end, eh? FenBar

It turns out that I was not actually the first famous animal of Bent Barrow Farm. A few weeks ago, our friend the Chicken Lady picked up a three year-old magazine from the library's giveaway bin. It featured a Skagit Valley goat farm from which Missy had originated, and so she brought it back to Wickersham for FarmWife's edification and amusement. Imagine FarmWife's surprise when she recognized not only the farmer but also her goat—Missy, in fact, pictured on the cover eating her former mistress's earrings!  Missy is a particularly special goat, and was beloved to her breeder. Her breeder sold her to us with the understanding that she'd be a cherished family pet, which of course she has been and shall remain. We are happy to keep in touch with Missy's breeder, and she is happy to hear that Missy is well. B.G. and Jasper Jules, as you may remember, were both born here at Bent Barrow Farm. We love them all, and each is as unique as can be. They are easy...

The farmlet is glistening in the February sun. I have never failed to appreciate February in Washington, which brings a break from the precipitation (usually—so far, this is holding true in 2011), warmer temperatures, and the first crocuses of Spring. We have some mud, and my gravel dreams remain with me—before October, I'd like to acquire 24 tons of 3/8ths inch minus (plus fines) and 12 tons of coarse sand. Still, it's not too bad. One mule, three goats, and a flock of chickens seem a manageable population for this one acre, and they have some green grass even now. Our salad greens are pushing up in the greenhouse, and we should be eating spinach, lettuce, arugula, and baby kale before too long. Our celeries are germinating on the windowsill, and we're finally employing the baseboard heat in our dining room to warm their feet. Kale, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, scallions, leeks, and onions are poking their heads into the light. Fenway Bartholomule is getting slightly fi...

Bridle. Headstall. Hackamore? Bosal hanger. Whatever you want to call it, I've got it—it's new, it's made of beta, and it was put together for me by Amy of Better Than Leather . FarmWife ordered an extra-long browband so that she might modify it to her taste, which she did by adding a center ring and a Fetching Tag which reads "✭✯ I AM MULE ✯✭" on the front and "HEAR ME BRAY" on the back. As if I wasn't already stunning enough, eh? It's beautiful. Thanks, Amy at BTL, and thanks, Jen at Fetching Tags, for making me the best-dressed mule this side of the Mississippi! Ears to you, Fenway Bartholomule p.s. To the fashion police who are disturbed by the photo above—yes, that lumpy brown thing is FarmWife's knee. Lest you worry, she is appropriately dressed in breeches, paddock boots, and half chaps underneath. She puts her quilted Carhartts on over her traditional riding attire in the winter so as to stay dry when riding through...

To Kathy and My Many Friends with love and thanks, from  Fenway Bartholomule A quiet mule, I live alone— Except for FarmWife, two white goats, A flock of hens, their rooster too, And little tigers passing through.  And little girls, I’ve counted three,  And FarmHusband, the dog, plus B And Harriet, the housemules sweet.  So perhaps NOT alone. A clever mule, I often bray— I bray to greet each bright new day, I bray to call for fresh clean hay, Or sometimes when I feel afraid. It’s true, I’ve brayed from fear, I’ll say, But not too often—I’m quite brave. I’m stoic, yes, and well-behaved, But perhaps NOT so quiet. A thoughtful mule, if often think Of things to say and songs to sing, Of friends to make and ways to bring The Muleness to the front of things. I’m oozing Muleness, don’t you think? And don’t you find my brown coat sleek? My velvet nose, you think...

The good news: FarmWife is going to audit a driving clinic next weekend. Woohoo! It means she will return all the better prepared to help me become Fenway Bartholomule, Driving Mule Extraordinaire, as we all know I shall. The bad news: the clinic syllabus glaringly lacks a chapter on the natural superiority of the mule. The good news about the bad news: FarmWife may have some opportunity to propogandize at the blogging clinic, and may be able to bring a few new Fans of the Muleness on board at Brays Of Our Lives. We shall see! Ears, FB

Dog math: Fig.1 Fig.1: -1 Aussie ≥ 1 chihuahua. (Negative one Aussie is greater than or equal to one chihuahua.) Fig.2 Fig.2: -1 Aussie + 1 chihuahua = 1 sheep. (Negative one Aussie plus one chihuahua equals one sheep.)

Starring, in order of appearance: Fenway Bartholomule; Jasper Jules; B.G.; and FarmWife. Directed by Fenway Bartholomule. Photography by FarmWife. Music composed by Antonio Carlos Jobim and performed by FarmWife. Lyrics by Fenway Bartholomule with a nod to Vinicius de Moraes and Norman Gimbel.   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nSgHn_WfpY

I'm going to share a link today to horseandman.com, a blog which "explores the bond between equines and their people." I love the inclusiveness of that statement, which allows for mule, donkey, hinny, mini, and regular ol' horse love. http://horseandman.com/interviews/black-ruby-the-winningest-racing-mule-ever/ When I read the heading "wrecked" at the top of a blog page full of racing photos, my stomach turned. Thankfully, this is not a Ruffian/Barbaro/Eight Belles story! This is the story of a fast, healthy, and cherished mare mule, and let's all hope she stays that way. Thanks, fan A., for sending me the link—and for reminding us all that mules can fly. FB

Humans: you may have a personality disorder if . . . you can pass a puppy in the street without wanting to stop and pet him. you hate the sound of red-winged blackbirds. you think mule breath stinks. you don't like the smell of fresh alfalfa. you'd rather ride in a limo than a carriage. If any of the above apply, get thee to a shrink* immediately! *and remember, the best therapists have four hooves and a tail.

Sung to the tune of " I'm Henry the VIII, I Am " by Herman's Hermits. I'm Fenny the great, I am, Fenny the great, I am, I am! I get ridden by the lady next door, She's owned horses seven* times before.  And not a one was like Fenny She hadn't had a mule or an ass I'm her eighth good boy, I'm Fenny, Fenny the great, I am!  Second verse, same as the first!  I'm Fenny the great, I am, Fenny the great, I am, I am! I get ridden by the lady next door, She's owned horses seven* times before.  And not a one was like Fenny She hadn't had a mule or an ass I'm her eighth good boy, I'm Fenny, Fenny the great, I am!  I'm Fenny the great, I am, Fenny the great, I am, I am! I get ridden by the lady next door, She's owned horses seven* times before.  And not a one was like Fenny She hadn't had a mule or an ass I'm her eighth good boy, I'm Fenny, Fenny the great...