My, what big hooves you have!

This little girl was about as big as FarmWife's youngest child.

The draft world of our region seems to be dominated by a handful of families, families who've had working horses for generations and who have now established beautiful, flashy, and well-outfitted teams of eight plus spares. They turn up at plowing matches, regional fairs, and draft horse shows around our area, and they always bring a dozen mighty horses.

These people, of course, have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. These great-grandchildren are about the same age and size as FarmWife's girls, and so it was that FarmWife came to be asked, "why can't I have a clydesdale and enter him in this show?"

"Well, dear," FarmWife probably found herself saying, "draft horses eat more than Fenway and these children have had draft horses in their families for generations. Their families probably have big farms where they grow their own hay. It's really not in our means to have a draft horse," and so on and so forth.

FarmWife wants to drive. She really does. She wants a horse or mule that will pull a cart, do some plowing, and skid a log should she ask him to. That's not me, but that's OK. I am a nervous wreck in harness, and most of the fun in working a mule comes from knowing he likes his work and performs it safely and well. She will wait, and sometime later in life she will have another animal that likes that job. In the meantime, she will go to these things and take pictures. Then she will come home, and hug me, Fenway Bartholomule, and say "I still like you better."

Ears,

FenBar

These young handlers from Mt. Baker Clydesdales had
just completed a driving class, in which they both placed.

One of Shagren's Belgians' entries in the youth cart class.
Belgians make nice mules, you know!

A nod to the single helmeted rider in this drill team—
ears to you and your safe attire.

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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...

Continued . . .

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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