Musing upon the subject of my mother

I have a hard time remembering my mother. A warm, dark udder . . . two graceful ears . . . the smell of warm milk. Black stockings, soaked in dew. There are only flashes—pictures, and scents. The sound of her delicate whinny, like the trill of a bird beside my noble bray.

I'm pretty sure that my mother must have been a daughter of Rugged Lark. After all, I share his good looks, his cow sense, his athleticism, poise, versatility, and intelligence. Like Lark, I am equally at home in the paddock or in the office.

Rugged Lark was a prepotent sire, foaled in 1981. He would have had plenty of time to put a daughter on the ground and have her foal in 1994 . . . with me, Fenway Bartholomule. There's no reason not to believe that this is so.

So thank you, mom, for foaling me. Thanks for teaching me that ruffed grouse are evil but that garden hoses are not, and that a shadow on the ground is far likelier to kill me than a gunshot or a speeding semi. I remember your lessons well, and hold them close to my heart.

Thank you, also, for my full tail, my short coat, and my shapely back which can carry a horse saddle without customization or breeching. I appreciate it. Finally, thank you for my left nostril. I'm glad to have it—it's bigger than the one I inherited from my dad, and I use it to breathe and to express disdain.

Ears, fondly, to you. Happy mother's day from your little boy,

Fenway Bartholomule