BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Here's an old photo of us doing something we don't do much anymore—riding together. Sweet memories. FarmWife is going to leave me pretty soon. She's going to Virginia on business, and while she's there she expects to meet other mules, go out driving in a meadowbrook cart, and see some beautiful horse-dotted countryside. I am only a teeny, weeny bit jealous. She promises to write me every day, and I'll share her correspondence with you. You can't come kidnap me while she's away, because she's leaving other competent human grownups in charge while she's gone. They'll be agile, attentive, and heavily armed. You can come kidnap the Volvo if you want, as long as you're willing to slip $750 under the door before you leave. FarmWife also promises that this "too busy to ride, too busy to blog" business will subside after her trip. September and October have been very crazy for her, but I don't judge her. My heart is capaciou...

I just found out that a couple of equine friends have been rendered homeless! A friend of a friend sent them out on a long-term care lease/giveaway in 2010, but when she did a follow-up visit yesterday she found that they hadn't had their hooves trimmed for a year. The new owner reported that he didn't want them anymore, anyway, so she's taking them back into an already over-full barn in Northwest Washington. She doesn't have stalls for them and we're going into the rainy season. If you or someone you trust is looking for a young mule or mini in the Pacific Northwest, let me know and I'll pass on your info! They are free to a good home. References and a home visit will be required. They really need a safe place where they will actually be cared for—short term, long term, or permanent placements will be considered. 1) Dun molly mule, seven years old and about 12.2 hands high. Needs work on having her feet handled. Very green. She had just recovered from severe ...

I am  good mule. I do as I'm told. Here is FarmWife trying to prove it to you by recording a little video of me walking, trotting, and cantering without reins. (Of course, when it's just the two of us she tones the spoken commands down a bit. I read her mind and do what she wishes.) She is trying to make you jealous, but don't let it get to you.  I would walk, trot, canter, and whoa for you, too, if you asked nicely. I'm a gentleman about things like that. Ears, Fenway Bartholomule

FarmWife has been ridiculously busy. ("But Fenway," she says, "you won't have a rain blanket for Christmas if I don't earn money.") She's never too busy to feed me, of course, but she is sometimes too busy to come sit in the pasture for a chat or walk me down to the salmon pond for a roll on the sandy bank. I've had to get creative, and I've found at least five surefire ways to get a bit of a visit at feeding time. 1) A poopy water trough. I can't bring myself to do it, but my minions (read: goats) are always willing to toss some raisins in the drink if it helps gain FarmWife's notice. This is usually good for four minutes, give or take, of FarmWife's presence as she scrubs the bucket. 2) A mucky shed. I used to poop outside on Mount Bartholomule, which could be neglected for days at a time in between removals to the compost pile. I recently realized, however, that FarmWife mucks out our habitations Every Single Day if we only s...

No, luckily it's not me who's for sale. http://bellingham.craigslist.org/cto/2668248605.html

If you give me seven hundred and fifty dollars, I will give you my Volvo hay mother. Lucky you! Fen p.s. The subtext here is that FarmWife and FarmHusband went truck shopping today, and FarmWife is finally driving a vehicle which was made in this century. It has plenty of room in the back for hay.

I don't want to hear a single one of you suggesting that I'm the fat one in the family.

D is learning to read.  I remember the revelation of learning to read myself—to really read, cover to cover, and understand. It happened on the front steps of my house in Piedmont, Calif., where I lived from ages four to eight. It was a book about a bear of some sort—a firefighter bear, perhaps?—and was in a set of three stories bound together. I have a picture stored in memory—the book in my lap, the sunlight, the dappled shade. My elementary school stood right on the other side of Linda Avenue.  I remember another book I had as a child which had in it the story of three little ponies—a black, a grey, and a chestnut—who go to town and dress up as humans, or perhaps they were humans who dressed as ponies. It was bound in a single volume along with a story about a hippo and I remember I always wanted to read about the creepy ponies in creepy masks and my mom always wanted to read about the happy hippo with the pleasant adventures.     . . . five minutes passing ....

I'm mostly naked these days—FarmWife doesn't want to start blanketing me until it gets colder, and I don't have a rain sheet of my own. (Sniff. Sniff. One precious tear.) I'm naked, muddy, and soaking wet but FarmWife likes to point out that I can go stand under the shed roof if I want. Honestly, she wants temperatures to get down and stay down for a little while so she can justify making me snug and comfy, clean and glossy, under my toasty warm blanket. We're asking for a rain sheet for Christmas.

FarmWife can't figure out why she had a psychic pang of concern for me on the morning when I turned up lame, but why it didn't enter her head until she opened the door to come out to my paddock. "ESP shouldn't be stopped by a window or wall!," she thought. "Sixth senses are beyond material limits!" Your mule-dar is working fine, FarmWife. You got my anxious thought the moment I sent it to you. You didn't hear from me until you opened the door because it was at that moment, when I heard the click of your turning doorknob, that I cried a silent "help!" Yours in the eternal bond of friendship, Fenway Barthomule

I'm sound at the walk, turned out in Easyboots during the day and stalled (barefoot) at night. FarmWife is getting a terrible amount of pleasure out of scrubbing my soles with pine tar every morning and evening, but at least I'm not in hot water anymore (pun intended). Those saltwater soaks grew tiresome! Ears to you, and may all your wounds heal as quickly. FenBar

Don't laugh at me for loitering with my feet in buckets, and don't laugh at FarmWife for buying the gravel that must have bruised her mule. She wanted was was best for me, and she truly thought I needed the gravel to stay safe. I do need the gravel to stay safe, really—I came to Bent Barrow Farm with rainrot, thrush, and scratches, and I cannot live in mud. FarmWife needs to sweep her gravel, which has compacted nicely but for some large stones that remain on the surface. One of these must have hurt me. I'm able to stand and walk comfortably, with a small limp, when I'm wearing my EasyBoots. I'm able to graze happily in the grassy—not rocky—pasture. I'm able to sleep comfortably in a deeply bedded stall. I'm able to soak my tender toes in a warm epsom-salt bath twice daily. I'll do these things until I'm all better, and FarmWife will sweep and sweep and sweep. We'll be alright. Ears, Fen.

FarmWife came out to feed this morning with a racing pulse and an inexplicable feeling of dread. From the moment she opened the door and stepped outside, she had the terrible feeling that she would find me dead in the field, a lifeless corpse, already growing cold. She didn't. She found me three-legged lame, favoring my right foreleg. She is now treating me as though I have a stone-bruise or abscess, though she can't find any sensitivity in the hoof. I have a full range of motion with that leg and no obvious sore spots when she pokes around on my shoulder, leg, or hoof. She doesn't have testers but she prodded my hoofie with the butt of her hoofpick pretty soundly and got no response. I, Fenway Bartholomule, am going to spend the rest of the day standing in buckets of warm salty water alternated with free time in my hoof boots for padding. Ears, Fen.

photo courtesy www.equestrianclearance.com Why, it's my FarmWife in those fabulous boots! She looks dashing! FarmWife has lovely  K*ty Lake Country boots because I am an important mule, and because no human belonging to such an important mule should slouch about in icky footwear. FarmWife's new boots were from the kind folks at the Equestrian Clearance Warehouse . They are BEAUTIFUL. FarmWife wasn't entirely sure whether she could order well-fitting footwear online, but she needn't have worried—she asked for a UK size 7 (Euro. size 41) after reading that the boots tend to be a big generously sized through the foot. The retailer's comments, viewable at this link , were right on, and the boots fit just as described. (In other words, perfectly!) FarmWife usually wears a US women's 10 or men's 8, for reference. Could FarmWife ride in these boots? Yes! They have a wonderful, sturdy sole, a safe heel, and no lug treads (to avoid stirrup-hangups). I will...

Briony Bluebell left for her new home today—she'll be a 4H show and dairy goat for a homeschooling family and a special pet to their little boy. They know goats, have bred goats for years, and have experience with contracted tendons. Bye-bye, Bri-Bri! We'll miss you, but you'll love your new home.  That's it for this year's kids, then. It's just me, Beeg, and Grandma Missy. Quiet around here today. Ears, FenBar

http://www.braysofourlives.com/2010/09/missy-empress-of-all-light-touches.html http://www.braysofourlives.com/2010/09/apologies-for-my-last-post.html In case you missed the back story.

First scientists said that only humans could use tools—that only humans were smart enough—and perhaps that was why some of you thought it would be ok to vivisect animals and destroy our habitats. Then scientists said that chimpanzees could use tools, too. Oh, but then some birds started using tools. And dolphins, and then even naked mole rats. Maybe we all use tools, and your human scientists just aren't paying attention! Anyway, my goat Missy tends to get itchy. She can't turn around and scratch her butt very well, being of poor coordination since her strokish-thingy last summer, so she gets FarmWife to do it or she rubs herself against the fence. Yesterday, she saw an opportunity! She seized little human's mini-rake in her mouth during stall-cleaning time, and she hoisted it up over her shoulder, and she scratched back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across her itchy hip. It was sudden, intentional, and premeditated. I use tools, too. I just try not to...

Apparently I am not the only Californian-turned-South Fork Valley resident with a veggie patch; a menagerie of goats/poultry/equines/dogs/cats/children; an employment history as a copywriter/teacher/Everybody's Store cheesemonger; an interest in heritage livestock, and a clever soap-opera pun blog. The author of www.asthebutterchurns.com seems to be living a parallel life! She has a donkey and a horse, whereas I've got the two rolled into one, and she has ducks and turkeys rather than chickens. She's a Catholic, and I'm a skeptical agnostic. She's got a boy, I've got girls. Otherwise, she's basically me.* "  I never thought I’d be told “you have a cute hairy little ass,” but when you own a donkey, the jokes just keep coming."—Denise Miller, www.asthebutterchurns.com *Oh, but then there's this—she found all this after leaving her six-figure income for a down-to-earth life.  I found all this after leaving an 800 square foot apartment and a part t...

FarmWife spent the weekend with a bunch of big hairy animals. (No, regrettably I don't mean me and my goats.) She enjoyed cuddling some companionable musk oxen, some cheerful elk cows, some inquisitive fallow deer and some bold bison. She observed a pair of sullen zebra, but they wouldn't come to the window of her truck. Even the offer of a feature article on www.braysofourlives.com didn't tempt them!  She saw prairie dogs (fatter than me); bears (furrier than me); peafowl (shinier than me); raccoons (friskier than me); cougars (musclier than me); and more. She didn't see ANYONE sweeter than me, though, and that's a fact.  Disdainful zebra Grabby llama Hungry musk ox Serene bear Curious bison Inquisitive fallow deer Restful fallow deer Smiley elk 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRPQIIZkyY8&feature=youtu.be Here's a lovely demonstration of four ways to mount your steed without the aid of saddle and stirrups. Congratulations, lithe YouTuber! You've impressed this mule. Now, FarmWife, would you care to issue a sequel? I know you have a fifth method to recommend, a method executed in six steps: 1) find a knoll, curb, or suitable high spot. 2) heave oneself up onto one's tummy while gripping the neck and the fatty far side of your mount's barrel. 3) slither forward and diagonally earward, moving your chest, your belly, and eventually your pelvis onto your mount. 4) Continue moving onto the mule, still on your belly, while shouting "whoa! Whoa!" and feeling blindly about with your left hand for your mount's reins. 5) heave your right leg over your mount's hip, trying not to kick him in the flank with your boot. 6) Scooch carefully forward towards the withers, hunching over like Gol...

The hottest day of summer was actually in the autumn—at the Burlington harvest festival/pumpkin pitch, actually. We were drenched in sweat, almost too hot to enjoy the spectacle of trebuchet-launched flying fruit. I think it was the last warm day we'll see 'til spring.  We're burning wood now (though barely—just a log at dinner time, to take the chill off, or perhaps two) and we've got goats and a mule who've grown in furry winter pajamas. I haven't begun to blanket Fenway, though it might be a convenience if I do. It's easier to tack up and ride a mount, after all, who hasn't the opportunity to go rolling naked in the mud.  I'm going to have an opportunity to visit Virginia on business next month, and I can't wait to see that part of the country.  I've never been south of Philadelphia in the East, and I've always had a fascination with the area. I'll see the heart of horse country and some beautiful timber-framed buildings, I hope. I...

This is FarmWife's middle child, who recently turned seven. Yes, she asked for a bike for her birthday. Yes, she got a bike for her birthday. She has asked for a bike a handful of times in her life, and she has asked for a muleback ride at least three dozen times. This is because muleback rides are better. Mules whoa when you speak. There is no backwards peddling or hand-brake grabbing involved. There is no muscular effort required at all, really. None except that required to exhale and sit heavily in the saddle. Mules go when you cluck. A squeeze might encourage me—there is no pumping of the pedals up and down. When there's a hill to surmount, a mule surmounts it himself. The rider simply aids him, lifting her weight off his spine and centering himself over his shoulders as he goes. When you hug a mule, he hugs you back. He wraps his head and neck around your shoulder, and he squeezes your torso between his neck and jowl. When you hug a bike, you get a pedal or a ha...

This is my bedroom. You can see how I have a bit of a goat infestation. This is what we used to call "the mudroom," or occasionally "the sacrifice paddock." Sounds barbarous! This winter, it will be known as "dryland." Thank you, Cowden Gravel! There is more to this paddock, off to the left, which got gravel a different year.  This is the pasture. You can see the terrible gate, which bars me (only temporarily) from the delectable grasses. The gate is for rainy days. 

Read my lips—more new snackzes!

Reprinted with permission from the Brayer The Bold and the Brayful: A family affair A column by Fenway Bartholomule I am a family mule. This means I do moderate labor (carrying FarmWife, a gangly woman), light labor (carrying the children, ages four, six, and eleven) and occasional hard labor (carrying FarmHusband, who is an athletic but muscular man). FarmWife would have five mules if she could—three for the children, one for herself, and another for herself because we're like potato chips (you can't have just one) and because FarmHusband would probably rather have an ox. Instead of five mules and an ox she has me, though, and I am wonderful! I am five times as wonderful as your average mule, and so she has just me and I am enough. We live on one acre, which just manages to hold me and the goats and the chickens and gardens. I cannot share this paddock more ways. When FarmWife was small she lived in a 14-foot travel trailer because horses were the priority ...

If your response to FarmWife's Craigslist ad regarding a Saanen doeling in Acme, WA consists, in its entirety, of, "Where is it," then you will get spam filtered. Sorry! Whether you are a Nigerian prince with a large sum of money to wire or a friendly farmer looking to expand your herd, my advice is the same: write again with a gender-specific pronoun. It will work wonders on FarmWife's willingness to engage in conversation. Ears, Fen

If you had a wonderful, pliable lip like this you'd be grazing too. I must say, a lip like this is drawn to grass like a moth to the flame. Feeling about among the delicate and succulent fronds is the task for which it was born. There is no lip better for the job—not a single one in this whole wide world. It is perfection. Ears, Fen