The plan

Here's what they sold me on—If I were to have eaten less and exercised more, I was to have become a slender vision of grace and fitness. I was to have morphed into a chiseled form of sinuous elegance.

I ate less (just a little less, it's true) and I exercised more (just a little more, but more). I am still fat.

FarmWife used to have time for one short ride per week. Now she's managing three medium-sized rides of an hour or more on varied terrain. She'd like to do even more, but that will come with time.

FarmWife used to feed me eight pounds of hay per day, year round. This year, she gave me no hay at all in May or June. I was too busy eating the little grasses in my little field. (We're not talking about abundant grazing, either—my pasture measures about a half an acre, and it's grazed about 50 weeks out of the year. The neighbor's place, upon which I was also allowed to graze, is about as small).

I'm getting less hay than ever—about six pounds a day, and it's not of the highest quality. It's just clean local grass hay. The vet and FarmWife agree that I shouldn't have less (a mule must, for his health, have something to digest).

There are two possibilities: either I lapse into a fugue state and go binging, only to wake with complete amnesia, or I am a magician—able to work miracles against the laws of physics, creating caloric energy without nutritious matter.

I'd rather be magical than nuts, so let's go with option B. I am a wizard.

Signed,

Sir Fenway of the Dark Arts