BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

http://www.iamboyfriend.com/2011/08/literary-sort-of-day.html Only click here if you think you can read a touching, bittersweet poem without crying. As Bif says, it's a "circle of life" sort of thing.

I've probably mentioned how lucky I feel to have in-laws I actually like (and love). The girls and I spent last week in Chelan with Mr. Puddle Run and his folks, plus his two sisters, their husbands, and our nephew. I missed the pets, of course, but a good time was had by all. Luckily, a friendly neighborhood cat was more than happy to provide a little pet therapy during our stay. We called him Shadow; other neighbors called him Felix. No one knew where he lived or what he was truly called, but he seemed very happy to serve as a loaner cat for the week (we didn't take him indoors due to our rental's pet policy, and also for fear of becoming inadvertent catnappers). With at least four of our 12 people jonesing for some four-legged companionship, he had plenty of laps to cycle through. Good cat—he managed the job handily.

Oh, enough with the poetic license . What I actually meant to say was, "would that I could schlump up that hill and eat some food." FarmWife is the one with the visions of rapid parambulation across the rugged wilderness, but we balance her fantasies with my slow-n-steady approach.  This is a picture of the place where FarmWife vacationed without me. It was taken from the deck of the house where she visited with her in-laws for one full week. All vacations make FarmWife want to ride (when she vacationed in London, she rode a percheron through Hyde Park ; when she vacationed in Amsterdam, she took a dressage lesson at  De Hollandsche Manege ). This was no exception—she didn't get to ride, but she wanted to. She came home with stories about rugged cliffs and steep, sun-drenched hillsides, and ambitious ideas about all of the overly hot adventures we could have in Eastern Washington. I replied with stories about the importance of the daily roll and the comfort of my ...

My daily routine is somewhat fixed, and except for the occasional ride I don't vary too much in my habits. There are a few highlights to every day, and here are a few of them: 1) the daily bray. This is always issued around 8 am, and usually has to do with the first sight of FarmWife and hay coming over the lawn. 2) the morning roll. This happens while FarmWife is doing the breakfast dishes, which is really handy because then she gets to watch it through the kitchen window. 3) the afternoon ear rub. This is often issued by FarmWife but occasionally issued by the weanling human or a guest. 4) the evening roll. This is always performed while FarmWife or FarmHusband is doing the dinner dishes, though I do say she enjoys seeing it more than he. 5) the goodnight whuffle. This is a sound that is something between a bray and a sigh. It undulates softly. It is delivered during the serving of the nightly hay, and if you heard it you would cry sweet tears of joy.

Missy was bred to make milk. Never mind that she is also a sweetheart with the brain of a criminal mastermind, and that she's one of the world's cutest creatures, and that she defied death and came back from the edge of the grave last year. She has many skills, but her powers of lactation top the list. She just won't quit. Missy kidded a few years ago (Was it four?) and lactated for 22 months straight. We finally forced her to stop, milking her less and less over the course of a few weeks, because she was a little underweight and we really wanted her to bulk up over the winter. Her body didn't want to quit, and her rock-hard udder needed daily relief for many weeks before it finally admitted defeat and resorbed the rest of its milk. Her next pregnancy resulted in another abundant lactation, but that one was cut short by her terminal (we thought) illness. Because she was down for two weeks, lying on her sides and being manually flipped every two hours, her udder was virt...

Day two of FarmWife's being at home and I still haven't gotten more than a carrot and some flyspray out of her. "Busy busy!" she screeches, running here, then "so, so busy!", running there. She is like a chicken with it's head off. Tomorrow, she says, we will ride. Ride and blog and visit. FB

Here's a beautiful badge from my good friend S—if you like it, please feel free to share it on your own blog sidebar! Let me know if you do—I love adding my own favorite blogs to the "FenBar Reads" list below. Ears, Fen

I didn't want to say so at the time, but the reason we needed guest bloggers was that FarmWife took her human family away for a WHOLE WEEK to a vacation house for a family reunion. There was a great big ground-floor master suite that would have served perfectly as a mule house if only it had been permitted, and there was a lovely swimming pool that could have served as my trough, as well as a delightful, irrigated lawn for supping. I cannot imagine why they didn't think of such things earlier. Alas, they did not think of inviting me and so I missed out on seeing Grammy and Grampa New Hampshire, Auntie and Uncle Massachusetts, and Auntie and Uncle Texas plus cousins. I missed out on a lovely boat ride up Lake Chelan, but I did get an invitation to trek there with FarmWife someday in future (she wants to see Stehekin, Wa., which is only accessible by plane, boat, or mule/horseback. I need to become fit in anticipation of this adventure)...

Dear Fenway...I know you are looking for some stories while your transcriptionist is busy. So, here is a story about me, Candy Mae Mule! I was born in Idaho, lived in Montana and am now semi retired in Florida. I lead a fine life in a big green pasture with my other equine and bovine friends. My friend Leslie rides me when it isnt too hot or buggy, which amounts to about 6 months a year. She never asks me to move too fast down the trail or ford raging rivers (there aren't any here in Florida), but we have good times anyhow! I am a Delta Society Pet Partner visiting people in nursing homes, Hospice’s and rehab centers. I am especially good at this job, knowing just who needs my touch. I enjoy making people smile, bringing them some happiness. I am one of only two mules in the country to be a Pet Partner and Leslie is very proud of me. I even have my own Facebook page with many friends. Not as many as you, of course!  Ah, it’s a great mule life!!  Bye for now, Candy Ma...

Equine Poetry By Bob Goddard   http://www.horsecrazy.net/bobsblog/   Sometimes a moment of great artistic inspiration can be pinpointed. Mine came when I saw the letter “C” printed neatly in magic marker on an empty milk jug. My horse obsessed daughter, Jamie, left “C” unattended on top of an equipment chest in the tack room. When I saw “C”, I felt an undefined, but powerful impulse to do something with it. But what? In the days to follow, other letters joined “C”. First “A”, then “H” and then “K”. “F”, “B”, “M”, and “E” were added later. I kept a close eye on the accumulation of letters, happy to see that all those hours of Sesame Street were paying off. In less than two weeks, everything became clear: Jamie was collecting letters for a dressage ring. I hadn’t realized we drank that much milk. I didn’t know much about this new passion of Jamie’s, but I had a vague understanding that at each letter you do somet...

CONTINUATION by  Notoriass Manuel Laramie, Wyoming A mule amidst Arabians. Most of the equine competitors in endurance racing are full or part Arabian horses. These trim, fiery steeds have been bred to run for thousands of years. They toss their riders into the sagebrush with glee in the excitement of race day. Having (God willing) passed the half-way point in my life, my motto when it comes to wild riding is now “live to ride another day.” A  good  mule (note the qualifier) is one key to this endeavor in my mind. And mules can compete here. According to Rho Bailey, AERC spokesman (who rides a mule himself), “there have been a lot of mules that have done well and have completed LOTS of miles in Endurance.” Two mules have won the Haggin Cup for Best Condition in the prestigious Western States 100 Tevis Cup Ride; Hugo ridden by Eva Taylor in 1974 and...

Endurance Mule! Notoriass Manuel Laramie, Wyoming There’s no denying it. It’s fun to ride a good mule up sandy washes, over slick rock, and between the endless sage and rabbit brush around Moab, Utah. Turns out, it’s more fun to do it fast! This summer I “traded up,” and my new mule, Manny, is a pleasure to ride. He is a little brown mule with a good mind and a big heart. Forgot your crupper? No problem: this boy will side-pass down the hill. Too cold for gloves? I can stuff my hands in warm pockets and easily ride with cues from my legs and seat. So, of course, now all I want to do is ride. When I was invited to come along to the Moab Canyons Endurance Ride down south of the border in Utah I was packed up and ready to go three days ahead. (What did she say about some little race?) The trip out of Wyoming (as usual) was less than auspicious. We crept on ice-covered roads towards the Colorado border. It’s the last week in October Wyoming-style...

Laura, the kind mistress of thehorsetalker.blogspot.com , kindly prepared this essay on the different between horses, donkeys, and mules in order to entertain and educate my readers during this guest-fest! Thanks, Laura!   Ears, Fen After owning a horse for many years and having had almost no interaction with donkeys or mules I recently went to the Derbyshire Donkey Sanctuary Open Day. I found it really interesting and I learnt a lot about the donkeys they kept there. They were also very cute, especially the foal! But then I started wondering, how different are donkeys, mules and horses from each other? Was a baby donkey even called a foal? So I decided to find out! Life Expectancy- I had learnt at the donkey sanctuary that donkeys lived until an older age than horses. The lifespan of the horse is said to be 20-30 years, whereas donkeys can live 30- 50 years. In general, mules have a lifespan of somewhere in between donkeys and horses. Troo...

  I, Fenway Bartholomule, personally endorse this entry from galsandhorses.blogspot.com . Thanks for sharing your wit and wisdom with us!  About the author: Wife and proud mother of two human children. One boy, age 12, and one girl, age 9. Both of my children ride with me (aaaaaackkk!) Also doting mom of a wonderful 15 year old Dutch Warmblood mare named Obottie, called Sugar around the barn for her sweet nature. The Hedgerow of Death. The outdoor arena at my barn is bordered by a driveway and paddocks on the long sides, the barn and picnic/viewing area on one short side, and a hedgerow separating it from a cornfield on the other short side.  For some reason, this hedgerow is a constant cause of consternation for most of the horses, despite the fact that most of them are ridden past it darn near every day. I was riding my friend's horse, an 8 year old gelding namedStratego (Strah-teh-go, like the Greek wor...

My children are growing older, which means they're civilized to the point of being able to go out on a social errand more than once a month and they have motives, wishes, and dreams of their own. They have friends. Hobbies. Obligations. Interests. I always looked forward to the new freedom of being the parent of adolescent children, but now I miss infancy—a pliable little life form with such easily understandable needs. Keep her dry, keep her fed, keep her warm, keep her close. Sibling rivalry is making me want to SCREAM! Oh, and sometimes (but not often) I do. Why these children cannot treat each other with diplomacy and respect is beyond me! All three of them have enviable vocabularies, sophisticated intellects, and empathetic, compassionate outlooks. When there's conflict (I was sitting there! No, I was!) all these things fly out the window. Tears erupt. Wails ring out. My comfort? The neighbors are mostly people with grown children. When our daughters break down into chokin...

First, I show up for my 10 am spa treatment expecting a eucalyptus steam room, seasalt exfoliation, a Swedish massage, and a cucumber facial. I get a quick currying and a once-over with the dandy brush. Then I ask my pedicurist for metallic avocado airbrushed palm trees and scarlet rhinestone appliques. You know what I get? I get this. What kind of dive spa are you running here, FarmWife?? At least it's free, eh? It just goes to show ya, you get what you pay for. Ears, Fen

My summer SuperShine is gradually fading to the fuzzy, chocolatey deliciousness of the long-coat season. You can't tell yet, but I can . . . my perfect, gleaming little hairs are falling out a thousand at a time and my coat has a pricklyness the presages the colder weather. FarmWife took this picture to commemorate the extreme sheen of August 2011. Give me a month or two, and I will show you the woolly pajamas of winter. They're nice too. Ears, FenBar

It's not a hay belly. It's insurance against famine.

This is an article about the place where FarmWife took me to die . . . and where I didn't die, after all, but only nearly did. FarmWife says it's an article about how she defused a difficult situation and turned it into a calming lesson, but I say 'pphhhhlllbbtttt!' to that sort of psychobabble. FarmWife took me for a ride yesterday—our first ride in ten days—and I was all edgy vigilance from the get go. I was certain something was going to kill me from the moment we started off, and I was hyper-attuned to my surroundings for the entire ride. Jittery. Not just "fixating on my own shadow" jittery, which I often am, but "clattering around like a hyperactive clog dancer" jittery, which I rarely am. I am too lazy, usually. I was so jittery that I nearly exploded from terror a couple of times—when I saw a leaf fall from a tree, and when there was suddenly a boulder where I didn't remember there having been a boulder, and when the grass touched...

My chihuahua's patella has been luxating. My FarmWife has been square dancing. My baby goats have been officially listed for sale. My human children have been practicing to become circus acrobats.  This is how our weekend has been. We didn't go riding, but there've been no shortage of things to think about and do. Tomorrow, we hit the hills for a genuine, old fashioned trail ride. FarmWife will tell me how to do-si-do and promenade, and I will tell her how to separate the tastiest grasses from the least tasty ones using only one's pliable lips. It will be fun. Ears, FenBar

Is this a painting by Jan Brueghel I? Pieter Bruegel? Anyone know? I can't quite ID it. All I know is the file name begins with "brue". FarmWife had an extravaganza of hay-hauling last week. She hitched up the trailer and drove to the nearby field again and again and again, and now there is hay bursting out of every orifice of our feedroom, woodshed, and mule trailer. These are the scrumptious $1.50 bales that we had 60 of last year (as many as could fit, we thought) at a cost of 90 dollars*. This year, FarmWife thought the savings were too fine to pass up and so she committed to 115 bales without being quite sure where the extra 55 would go. Never fear, Fenway is here! I promised FarmWife I would eat them as quickly as mulishly possible, hopefully allowing her to empty her trailer and woodshed (less water tight than the feedroom) before the next rainy period sets in. I did, in fact, have an even better plan which FarmWife inexplicably vetoed. It was this:...

Trolling Craigslist in my region reveals that there are more mules than ever listed right now. It's a good time to be shopping (but also a good time to be a mule with a solid, forever home). The tall, dark and handsome award goes to Smokey: http://skagit.craigslist.org/grd/2522956068.html The shiny and beautiful award goes to Meeska: http://skagit.craigslist.org/grd/2522969981.html The too cute to be that cheap award goes to this unnamed molly:  http://seattle.craigslist.org/sno/grd/2536014301.html Who's your favorite Craigslist mule? Any good ones in your town today? FenBar

Photo by Brian Brown—www.vanishingsouthgeorgia.com My transcriptionist is going to take a week off in order to attend to her social and professional obligations, and I'll be stuck without a typist for a full seven days. I need YOUR help! Send me your content—amazing photos, touching stories, fascinating blog posts, cute anecdotes, mulish lectures, or gripping news bits—and if I find it earfully interesting, I'll post it (with credit to you, of course, and a link to your blog or website). Do you have a product, a philosophy, or a cause to advertise? A song, video, poem, website, or article to share? Little, big, long, short, true or fantastical—I don't care, as long as it's original (or the original author or photographer has granted permission) and of interest to mules and their humans. Bring it on, all week long, and many brayful thanks to you! I'll accept submissions through the third week in August and I'll share my favorites with you towards ...

There's no need for me to go about looking like a little twerp when a slight change in camera angle can make me look like a leggy athlete!

Grass is wasted on this human. A terrible injustice has been done to the grazing animals of Bent Barrow Farm. This weekend, the humans left us all in the care of the next door neighbors and they went away. We were not invited. They were gone overnight. When they came back, they brought photographic evidence of a great betrayal! They went, it seems, to a delicious and verdant meadow full of delectable edibles. They did not invite me, Fenway Bartholomule. FarmWife tells me that it was a long, hot drive to Tonasket and that I would not have liked being hauled over the mountain passes for one short overnight visit to our dearly departed* friends The Chicken People. She also says that the grass is greener on my side of the mountains, but I say my grass is not nearly so tall or so interesting as THAT grass. I tell her I would have loved the trip. Every mile. Every bite. She tells me that perhaps we can go next summer, and perhaps I can come, and that per...

August the 8th already! I spent the day working—a good thing, I suppose, since I spent the weekend spending. We drove to the Okanogan Highlands on Saturday, and I loved the meadows and scattered pines. I would have stayed a month or a year if only I hadn't had to get back to the pets and the house and work and school. My friends the chicken people, who will be sorely missed in Wickersham, promise to report back from their new home with winter weather updates (and I, to be honest, am half hoping for a dismal picture in January and February—something to stay my land lust. If they write with good news, I'll be forced to start browsing the real estate listings.) I bought a hundred and ten bales of grass hay from a local farmer this weekend, too. It's wonderful stuff, this hay, and it comes at a wonderful price. I love getting a call, hitching up the trailer, and driving out to the hay field. Pulling forward twenty feet at a time, rolling bales up onto my knee and then onto my c...

Assoicated Press You've already heard me go on about their filthy long tongues and terrible wet stools, but I have recently been forced to endure the company of FarmWife's favorite cow and I can assure that those are not the only reasons to abhor bovines. I offer, below, my top five reasons that bovines are suspect. 1) Eyeballs. Their eyeballs are big, they're brown, and they're long-lashed and liquid. I'm supposed to be the "big brown eyes" guy around here. ME! Fenway Bartholomule! I won't have some stinky old cow batting her big peepers at my FarmWife. It's not right. 2) Mouths. These are very wet, and are attached to noses which are also very wet. When a cow tries to bite the flies that plague her, a trail of saliva about as long and stringy as my tail whips through the air and ensnares every person or animal within flinging reach. When she touches you with her nose, it is like being touched by a giant dead oyster. 3) Gaits. They are a...

There's a burning orb of yellow-whiteness in the sky. It hurts my eyes when I look at it. The world is full of blues and yellows where there should be grays and browns, and when I exercise I get rivulets of fluid running off me. I was recently sponged with a damp cloth and then scraped with a wand. FarmWife called it a sweat scraper. What is this sweat stuff? What is this golden emanation from the sky? Help me understand. I am just a simple mule from the rainy NorthWest. FenBar

Here is the terrible unexpected side effect of owning three little girls and a foolish FarmWife: I just can't decide if I look more like a chess piece, a stegasaurus, or some crown molding. As for FarmWife, she thinks I look Beeeee-Yoooo-tiful. Unfortunately, that means I might be rocking this look for some weeks to come (or until she gets a fjord to practice on ).  I will endure. At least I don't look like this guy: Ears, Fenway Other things that look like me, Fenway Bartholomule:

The Bold and the Brayful A column by Fenway Bartholomule Reprinted with permission from the Brayer Carry-on luggage must be securely stowed  When FarmWife talked to a former owner of mine from a few homes ago, she was told that I could carry 350 pounds (I probably weigh 800). The operative word here is could— not should. FarmWife is a rider who listens to her mount, and here's what I told her: I'll carry her and I'll carry her dog, but I'm done carrying half my own weight down the trail. New owner, new weight limits, new rules. Here are a few of my new, improved guidelines for safe muleback riding: Passengers are allowed one checked bag (attached to the saddle, and generally containing a hoof pick, wire cutters, and a few first aid items) and one piece of carry-on luggage (in FarmWife's case, a dog-pouch worn about the torso). Pets must remain securely stowed until Captain Fenway turns off the "watch for traffic" sign. (Clover Chi...

Now that I am a celebrity mule, it's very important that my health be maintained with precise . . . um, precision. This was important when I was merely a pasture mule, too, but that's beside the point. The point is that I now get fancy schmansy powdered herbs from my friends at Silver Lining Herbs and boy, are they delicious! FarmWife is a firm believer in holistic approaches to wellness, so when the Silver Lining team asked her if I could use some botanical support (and when she looked at the testimonials and product descriptions on their website) she was quick to accept. Still, though, her knowledge of herbology is limited. She picked #27, Liver Support, for me, because I have very sensitive skin and severe fly reactions. She has to put fly spray on my tender ears and nether regions or I break out in bleeding hives, and she and the Silver Lining team agreed that a bit of detox for my barraged organs would be helpful. When I first received my package of herbs, it came wit...

I can carry them while framed artistically between tree trunks I can carry them while rippling sinuously in the sun I can carry them with one ear ahead and one ear behind I can carry them with nose-wrinkling resignation I can carry them briskly, when forced