BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

I like rabbits as much as the next mule—they have good taste in edibles (hay, grass, vegetables) and of course they have those ears! Still, I always thought there were limits to their usefulness around the farm except as lap-warmers or, heaven forbid, stew. Well, I've been proven wrong. Witness this rabbit, outherding a border collie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=qeuL5IGimCQ These rabbits, outjumping a sporthorse: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNPOdffkkLo Or this rabbit, outbigging a housecat: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KsfZLqYblY&feature=related OK, so maybe number three doesn't count as useful—and maybe outbigging isn't a word. Still, you've got to admit that these are some admirable longears! Ears to you, FenBar This rabbit can outfluff a poodle. 

To My Old Master This letter is worth a read.

Thanks mostly to FarmHusband and FarmGrandpa, the latter of whom came to visit this weekend, I've got a barn with eight new posts, two new gates, nine new rafters, and a roof. As for siding, my littlest human wants red painted wood with white trim. My FarmWife says we'll start with some brown metal that we have lying around and then do whatever's cheapest for the other sides. I say we need a bold statement, in the Rock City tradition: FENWAY BARTHOLOMULE WWW.BRAYSOFOURLIVES.COM FarmWife says that the problem with a big statement here in Wickersham is that only nine people would ever see it: V, B, B, and M from across the way, J, R, and A from next door, and J and G from down the lane. The point of billboards, she says, is to reach the public. I do a better job of that, she says, with my bold daily braying. My barn will be beautiful, anyway. I promise you that much.

I need help. FarmWife, you see, is writing a book about Bent Barrow Farm and its residents. She has informed me that there is room for roughly 40 pages of my mulish insight, to be strategically interspersed to lighten the tedium of her human ramblings. Can you please let me know which blog entries are your favorite? Which stories warmed your heart or tickled your funnybone? Which tales I've told well or which deserve retelling? If any of you want to spend an hour trolling Brays of Our Lives and Puddle Run for must-read gems, I'd be grateful. Ears, FenBar

You probably remember that Bent Barrow Farm abuts the Samish Headwaters where a budding river-to-be forms out of converging creeks and seasonal marshland. It's a terribly romantic place to live, especially this time of year. Innis Creek Road is taken over, at least seasonally, by Ennis Creek (no, I'm not wrong—they're spelled differently. This is due, I'd guess, to the inattention of some paper-pusher). The eagles come home, roosting by the dozens in our tallest snags. Salmon, fighting their way upstream to spawn and die, attract opportunistic herons and hawks while snow geese merely pass through, their wings humming like an intense electrical current. The redwinged blackbirds whirr and chirrup, the beavers slap, and the peregrine falcons keen and wail. The other good news: these teeming birds of prey are so completely satisfied by the river's abundant frogs and fish that they leave our cats, chickens, and itty-bitty dog well alone. We've not yet lost a resi...

I'm ready to write a book about me, Fenway Bartholomule, and my life here at Bent Barrow Farm. FarmWife, however, says the world isn't ready for another four-legged narration so close on the heels of The Art of Racing in the Rain . She says it had better be a book about HER, and what SHE thinks of me. She says it is likely to have a winder audience if the narrator is human. I think that's preposterous. Any human who isn't willing to read 350 pages of wit, wisdom, and insight from a mule's perspective doesn't deserve our book, anyway. What's your vote? FenBar

Hello down there! I haven't forgotten you! It's just terribly late, and FarmWife just got home, and I haven't been allowed to touch the computer on account of my muddy hooves.  Tomorrow will be better. Velvet kisses, FenBar

This is the plan: in good weather, when FarmWife would rather be riding, she will sit in her office and look out the new window that FarmHusband built for her. I will strategically place myself in the corner of the new barn that FarmHusband is building for me , and by craning my elegant and curvaceous neck I shall present to her my lovely visage. She will spy me, and joy will be struck into her heart. I will spy her, and hunger will be struck into my tummy. Joy will inspire her to carry forth delectable dried grasses, and hunger will inspire me to whicker a soft and lovely greeting. All will be right in the world. It is this sort of thing which makes working more than bearable, and which makes FarmWife terribly lucky to have the sort of job that she has. It is also this sort of thing that makes being me more than bearable, and which makes me terribly lucky to have the sort of FarmWife that I have. Ears, FenBar

Since I didn't get around to blogging for you today, I'll suggest that you pop over to this site for a movie review:  http://thehairpin.com/2012/01/war-horse-an-illustrated-review . The highlight? 30 guineas.

Photo from tgdaily.com When we bought 175 pounds of organic wheat and a hand-grinder, I envisioned happy years spent baking freshly-ground bread and boiling tender homemade pasta. Here's the dilemma: my kids won't touch homemade whole wheat bread with a ten foot pole. We've taken to eating our wheat boiled, which is actually really delicious, and buying our bread (Dave's Killer—I wonder how he does it?) at Costco. I admit that my kids might be balking at my bread's consistency, which is somewhere between that of a shoe and that of a brick (but closer to the brick end of the spectrum). I used to be able to bake a delightful loaf of bread using a combination of white and wheat flour, but as I've pushed further and further into the whole wheat realm I've alienated my diners and lost my touch. Whole wheat bakers, how do you do it? Do I need to go back to a white/wheat mix? Add eggs? Rise overnight? Knead longer? Something's terribly wrong with my current app...

http://www.braysonart.co.uk/  Art by Ashley Brayson To whichever far-off butterfly flapped its wings and started the chain reaction which culminated in the disruption of the tradewinds and a cold wind here in Wickersham: fie on you! You've ruined everything. Last weekend was supposed to be for sheeting and roofing my barn. This weekend was supposed to be for siding and for moving in. Instead, we spent last weekend slogging through two feet of snow under a ribcage of exposed new rafters. We spent this one clinging to the walls, trying not to get blown away by 50 mph wind gusts. Instead of building, FarmWife spent the day remodeling her tack chest (success: it now contains a saddle rack, four tuna-can bridle racks, a shelf, assorted hooks, and a two-tiered harness rack made out of one gallon cans) and FarmHusband spent his watching the Patriots win the playoffs, jogging down the lane and back, and playing Operation. The latter is a game in which the humans try to perform sur...

I have four favorite Susans. They are wonderful, each and every one of them.  If I could nominate a panel of experts to help me run the world, my Susans would be on it. Susan #1 is a friend, a professional associate, and a mentor to FarmWife. She's kind, caring, and really great at her job, which makes FarmWife's job a lot easier. She has taught FarmWife much of what she knows and her effectiveness as an editor is a thing of wonder and beauty. On top of that, she's sweet and smart and poised and beautiful. Her strength of intellect and character make her a hero to FarmWife, which makes her a hero to me. Susan #2 is the mother of FarmWife's very good friend Marie. Marie is swell enough to be an honorary sister to FarmWife, so I'm going to go ahead and call Susan #2 my auntie. Auntie Susan is a fabulous knitter, a lover of books, and a darned good mom. Her momness rubs off on everyone around her, making us all feel loved and safe and encouraged and warm. She e...

The chickens cope by huddling beside their heat lamp, refusing to set claw outside until the snow is entirely melted. For the first 12 hours of this winter weather, they fasted and threatened to kill themselves of thirst. Luckily, FarmWife and FarmHusband realized they were too "chicken" to walk the six feet (under cover!) to their food and warm water and, in a great display of mercy, moved food and drink in to the heated interior of the coop. These descendants of jungle fowl would be the first to die if humanity were to abandon us now. The goats cope by following me along well-worn paths, relying upon my robust muleness or upon FarmHusband and the mercy of his shovel to spare them the udder-chilling horror of the two-foot drifts. Why mountain goats evolved with their boobies on the bottom is beyond my powers of comprehension, but that's a matter for another post. Paisley enjoys the snow immensely, spending more time out than in in this weather. His polar ...

It felt a little like The Shining around here this week—a foot and a half of snow outside, no hope of ever seeing a snow plow on Meredith Lane, and the whole neighborhood glistening like the grounds of the Overlook Hotel. Luckily, we've not yet lost our minds and the most murderous thing I did this week was accidentally shovel a worm in two while setting post piers. The barn project is temporarily on hold pending an improvement in the weather, but it's still on my mind every day. It could be that I'll fail in conveying to you just how excited I am, but I'll try. Imagine this: I can go out and visit the livestock at any hour of the day or night and stand inside a sheltered, lighted building. My tack and grooming equipment will be readily at hand, under the same roof. The mule and goats will dine upon hay which is stored in the very same building. Our front porch, which has served as our hay and tack repository, will be a vast canvas of blank possibility. (This is my poet...

FarmHusband is a builder of buildings, a rider of bicycles, and a maker of music. He sings and plays the guitar simultaneously, which I find amazing but which the humans tell me is more common than one might think. He is disproportionately strong and agile and can waltz about on narrow ridge beams at heights that would make FarmWife cry. Luckily, he's also very safety-minded and usually follows OSHA's recommendations to a T. He is smart, driven, and energetic . . . a wonderful counterpoint to FarmWife, who is smart and laid back and who might be slothful without encouragement. FarmHusband is a talented grower of vegetables, and the things he tends generally grow to three or four times the size of the things FarmWife tends alone. This is because he is a man of determination and focus. When FarmHusband goes into the garden, he weeds until the weeding is done. When FarmWife goes into the garden, she weeds until she notices a pile of manure that could use scooping over in the ...

The main thing you have to know about FarmWife is that I like her rather a lot. I whuffle at her every day, and I don't do that for just everyone.  She's got a deaf ear and a bad knee, and if I were buying her I'd run the other way after the vet check. I've got her now, though, and do you know what? She's perfect for me. Some people have wondered whether I only love FarmWife because she feeds me. This is because she once went on an online forum and answered a question—"How do I get my horse to follow me without a leadrope?"—with the phrase, "hold food." It's not true. I love her for that reason, sure, but also because she knows that there is only one part of my back that likes scratching (the plumpy bit behind my ribcage), and because she knows I like the sides of my face rubbed and the inner (but never the outer) corner of my eyes, and because she can tell when I'm feeling playful from the shape of my nostrils alone, even before I cavo...

After Mia, my next heaviest family member is B.G. the mama goat. She is Missy's daughter and the most mischievous of us all if you consider gate-opening to be mischief. She saw FarmWife leave the latch undone once during stall-mucking time, and she has never yet failed to test it since. B.G. had three tremendous triplets this year, which made her the pregnantest animal I have ever met. You can read about them by searching this blog for the words Burzum, Bowdoin, and Briony Bluebell. B.G. was born here at Bent Barrow Farm and was allowed in the house from time to time until she was about four months old. That's her trying to climb over the fence in the photo above (mischievous—I said so!). She is not allowed in the house anymore. B.G. was FarmWife's favorite baby goat when she was born, but financial necessity required that she be sold. She went to our friend The Chicken Lady, who kindly sold her back when Missy fell ill. It all worked out in the end, and the Chicke...

My weanling child, who's nearly 12, lives at Bent Barrow Farm part of the time. FarmWife is her mother, and FarmHusband is her stepfather, and she has two other parents as well who occasionally come and scratch me on the nose. Her other parents have a big smooshy English lab puppy, which brings the sum total of Mia's mammal pets to 9—one more than any other human resident of Bent Barrow Farm. When Mia was just three, she told her preschool teacher that she would like to be a marine paleontologist and the next Annie Lennox. Her interests haven't changed much: she still loves marine mammals and the Eurythmics! Mia is also a tremendous lover of mules, horses, dogs, and platypuses. She enjoys riding mules and horses and playing with dogs, but I don't know what on earth she enjoys doing with platypuses. It seems to me that their poisoned claws would be reason enough to avoid them. Mia is one of my very best human friends and is the only one, aside from FarmWife, who kn...

This is Missy's "scratch my back" face. This is Missy's "fine, I'll scratch my own darned back" face.  Missy has fallen a couple of rungs on the ladder of superiority here at Bent Barrow Farm—when she arrived, she could steel her small, 80# frame against any assault. She could out-glare, out-hackle, and even outsmart any resident. I came to Bent Barrow Farm a couple of years later, and by then she was already firmly established. Her Emperial Majesty was not to be trifled with. The human children would like to sew Missy a spandex suit, complete with a cape reading "SM." This stands for "Super Milker." She is, indeed, a paragon of lactational excellence. She produced a whole lot of milk for her own twins, then for her next set of twins, then for the human family for another 22 months before being forced to dry off. She then relactated , spontaneously supplying milk to her daughter's triplets when we all thought her dairy ...

I know you're dying to hear more about my fascinating family (next, in ascending order by mass: Missy, Empress of All the Light Touches) but today I'd just like to share this exciting tidbit: It turns out there's an easy, surefire way to get a delectable, warm, moist bucket full of oozy, gooey goodness. One must simply mope a bit in the morning, neglect breakfast for an hour or so, and try really hard not to drink despite one's FarmWife's persistent efforts to offer an assortment of cool, warm, and tepid water. If you can meditate on slowing one's capillary refill rate or quieting one's gurgling gut, it's all the better! There's that delicate line between earning a tasty mash and getting a bunch of injections and a ride to the hospital, so one must be careful. Eating breakfast—eventually—is advised. Pooping is essential if you want to stay out of the vet clinic. FarmWife made a nervous call to the vet this morning after she noticed me lifting one...

My dog Paisley is shaped like a cloud. That's about all I can tell from this distance—Paisley is terrified of chickens, goats, and mules and has never set paw on our half of this 1.25 acre property! Paisley has no excuse for his fear, except that he is a dog of unmulishly reduced bravery. That's OK—Paisley has other gifts. Paisley has a reputation for his good nature, his handsome coat, and his bad luck. He is missing his hearing due to a genetic mishap. He is missing the bottom of his ulna due to a running-and-tripping-on-the-lawn accident and the resulting fiasco, which ended in surgery to remove a dying bone. He is missing some brain cells, we think, due to long and terrible seizures: he has them once in a while, and he's less and less himself since the big ones he suffered through this summer. He's anxious now, in more than just a "doesn't want to look that chicken in the eye" way. He is not quite right, and the humans wonder how many more seizures h...

If there are two more children in the world as nifty as my littlest human filly, then they are my middlest and biggest human fillies. My middle human filly—Dylann—is famous for her large vocabulary, her fearsome temper, and her beautiful, catlike eyes. She is a precocious child, bursting with mulish charm and intellect. She is compassionate. She is a great lover of animals. She wants to be a circus acrobat and a veterinarian when she grows up, and there is no doubt in my noble and capacious mind that she can indeed do either or both of those things. If you've ever heard the bit about mules being the most stubborn creatures on earth, don't believe it. Dylann is the most stubborn creature on earth. When she channels her determination, drive, focus, and conviction into those things that matter, she is a powerful force for good. She has gumption, but she's maturing into a sophisticated girl who knows how to pick her fights. This is a wonderful improvement, as she was a fearso...

My smallest human filly is going to be leaving on the schoolbus this September, but until then she is MINE! She gives the very best hairdos, and she treats my tail like the thing of wonder that it is. She asks to groom the mule almost every day, and usually rides me too. She has been quoted as saying "Mr. Barfolomewel is the best on the whole planet Erf!"  My smallest human filly plans to be a ballet instructor and a carpenter when she grows up, but here's my advice for her: go for a minor in equestrian cosmetology. You have a gift. My smallest filly is named Robin, after the birds that come about for her birthday party every year. (I hope she lets them have a bit of cake!). She was born right here at Bent Barrow Farm, a distinction she shares with B.G. the goat. Robin was born in the house; B.G. was born in the shed. Robin loves building things, and has endless creativity and patience when it comes to construction projects. She has been a dedicated supporter of the...

Will there come a day when running is an enjoyable, exhilarating experience? When the challenge is outweighed by the rewards of increased energy, stamina, and strength? Conventional wisdom says that it takes a certain level of fitness before jogging is no longer arduous, painful, and exhausting and that once this fitness threshold is surpassed I can expect a flood of positive feelings along with the wind in my hair. I used to doubt this commonly-held truth, but I feel a new optimism today. I'll tell you why! I tried to be a runner about ten years ago, and had a happy week or two of pushing through the burning lungs, pounding heart, and aching legs before blowing out a previously injured knee and spending a couple of weeks on crutches. I went to an orthopedic surgeon who recommended surgery (I opted out), said it was the loosest joint he'd ever seen that was still being walked on, and warned me off jogging. Years passed. Two years ago, after some months of steadily-improving kn...

Desmond is made of earnestness Townes is made of silly putty Townes (more gray, more spotty) and Desmond (more brown, more stripey) I have two little tigers: Desmond, who outweighs Clover by two pounds, and Townes, who outweighs her by one. They are almost the same except when they are very, very different. Desmond came from the shelter when he was six months old—the equivalent of a yearling, FarmWife tells me, as mules grow up slower than cats. He was old enough to be "assessed", in the sense that the humans were able to lock him in a small room with their cat-crazy toddler and see how he fared. He passed—every limp, langourous, purring-whilst-being-dragged-about-the-room inch of him. He was a good, unflappable kitten and as he grew he turned into a sophisticated, mulish cat. He is all poise and dignity in a plush, striped coat. Townes looks exactly like Desmond except that he doesn't at all . . . at first glance, humans mistake one for the other. Then t...

FarmWife once said that if she was going to be stranded on a desert island with just two pets, she'd want me and Clover. This was a revision of her first statement, which was that Clover would be best because Clover has a smaller appetite. "How," she asked, "are we going to find hay on a desert island?" I reminded her that if Alec Ramsey could keep a fiery steed like The Black alive on dried seaweed alone, she could certainly find a way to support the subsistence of her hardy and sedate Fenway Bartholomule. If anything, the foraging might help us pass the many lonesome hours! Clover is a very good companion to me, to FarmWife, and to the whole family. She is tidy, respectful, bold, attentive, responsive, brave, sociable, athletic, etcetera. She has much muleness. Clover, at 11 pounds, is a chihuahua or possibly a chihuahua/min. pin. cross. As a 10 month-old stray in the tri-cities area in EasternWashington, she was picked up and taken to a high-kill shelter....

The chickens consist of Chanticleer and his wives (I know, I know . . . that name is a profound failure of originality). They are a strangely homogenous harem, and while each hen has a name of her own we do often go about referring to them as simply "the chickens." Daphne and Ada are about ten years old now, and are plump, serene australorps and FarmWife's favorites. Blueberry, Raspberry, and Feather are the Americaunas—nervous, suspicious, and poor layers.* What eggs they do lay, however, are terribly pretty. The other chickens—Viola and Victoria—are indistinguishable from one another. They are Rhode Island Reds, and I simply can't imagine how they managed to get all the way over here from there. The husband chicken is a chivalrous gentleman with some muleness about him: when snacks are thrown to the flock, he clucks to his wives and draws them 'round, then stands with noble countenance and majestic bearing while they dine. He has not a bite for himself—in fact...

This is going to be a series about my family, in case you've forgotten the key players. If you haven't forgotten them at all, this may be a little repetitive. Don't worry, though! We are a FASCINATING bunch of people, my family and I. Our stories never get old. I am going to introduce my family in order from small to large. Our first story, then, shall be B's. B is short for Beyoncé. (Don't blame us—she came with it!) She is a mini-lop mini-mule. She and Harriet were terrible enemies until they became wonderful friends, but that is a story that has already been told . B likes carrots, celery, and long walks on the lawn. B has a pirate sweater that is even more humiliating than my maroon plaid turnout rug. Second story: Harriet is a rex/Californian cross minimule and was one of FarmWife's 30th birthday presents. She was small, soft, white, and adorable back then. Now she is large, soft, white, and adorable in a sort of a terrifying, tooth-and-claw sort ...

On my 2012 theme—friendship:  You can take just about any good quote about friendship and make it better by substitituting the word "friend" with the word "mule" and "friendship" with "muleness." Let's try it!  "A mule should be one in whose understanding and virtue we can equally confide, and whose opinion we can value at once for its justness and its sincerity."  Robert Hall "Muleness can weather most things and thrive in thin soil; but it needs a little mulch of letters  (snacks) and phone calls  (pats) and small, silly presents every so often—just to save it from drying out completely."  Pam Brown A single rose can be my garden . . . a single mule, my world."  Leo Buscaglia "Muleness is not something you learn in school, but if you haven't learned the meaning of muleness, you really haven't learned anything." Muhammad Ali "If it's very painful for you to criticize your...

Next time you're tempted to call someone an ass, rethink. Does he, indeed, exemplify the  traits of the humble burro? Ask yourself these questions:  Is he patient beyond measure?  Is he able to be thrifty, making do with little?  Is he an excellent judge of character?  Does he manage to look both wise-beyond-years and squeezably adorable at once?  Is he disproportionately strong?  Is he uncomplaining, except when dinner is late?  Does he respond to kindness with affection and to cruelty with disdain?  Does he look before he leaps, making well-informed decisions?  Are his senses extraordinarily acute?  Is he fiercely loyal to his allies? If your answer to any of these above questions is "no," you may want to rethink your label. The ass deserves better. FenBar Above: FarmWife as an ass, pictured with her husband and daughters as assorted livestock animals. 

FarmWife has a human acquantance who has been painstakingly (and painfully) beating cancer down again and again for the last three years. Her adventures have not been easy, or comfortable, and yet she keeps her chin up and her joy alive. She is inspiring. She recently blogged about picking a word for each year—her word for this one is "attitude." I am inspired, so FarmWife and I are going to pick words too. I think my word for 2011 should probably have been "relaxation." I did a lot of that. My word for 2012? "Friendship." If I have taught FarmWife anything about life, it is that the joy of being the rider of a mule is second only to the joy of being the friend of a mule. We are good buds, she and I, and we'll keep that up. FarmWife says her word for 2011 was "career." She's finally got one . . . a growing freelance writing career that's actually rolling along quite nicely. This year, she hopes to continue to add clients to...

FarmWife is all fired up about my shed, but her second trip to the lumber yard reveals that she is tragically over budget. She is, therefore, going to make a FANTABULOUS and UNPRECEDENTED offer in regard to her poetry business! (If all those capital letters don't excite you, I don't know what will!) For the next ten poems she sells, FarmWife will donate one free poem to the non-profit of the buyer's choice. That means YOU get custom poem to keep or to give as a gift AND your favorite animal rescue organization or other charity gets a custom poem to display on their website, to hang in their office, or to auction or sell as a fundraising effort. For additional information about FarmWife's poetry business or to place your order, please visit www.commissionedpoetry.com . Ears, FenBar

I passed a lazy day in contemplation of my new gate assembly, which is comprised of every metal gate on the farm, joined together in a train-like configuration in order to temporarily bar me from the shed expansion workzone. It's rather nice, and rattles in the key of G when shaken just so. The humans went on their annual New Year's Day trip to Mount Baker where they slid joyfully hither and thither upon the white slopes. They have asked me if I would ever care to join them on such an adventure, serving as their skijoring captain. I have declined. I am a fair weather mule. Paisley, the puffy dog, has the coat but not the soundness for such adventures. Clover, the smooth dog, has the soundness but not the coat. The humans can make their snowy merriment alone, thank you, while we beasts of hoof and claw hold down the fort. And you? How did you pass this fine holiday? In eager anticipation, I hope, of a frabjous 2012! Ears, Fen