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Picnic report

Since I forgot to have the humans bring the camera on today's picnic,
I'll have to ask you to make do with this photo of my picnic-mate and youngest human, R. 
One thing you can count on—I never lose my head during a picnic. There is just too much at stake! Only an impeccably mannered mule will be allowed an ample portion of the basket's contents, you see. I'm not picky—today, FarmWife ran out of apple slices early so I gladly shared her cheese and mustard sandwich. A bite for her, a bite for me . . . a bite for her, a bite for me. I had a bit of my youngest filly's PB and J—though in that case, I was not allowed a bite straight off the sandwich. Too many small fingers nearby! Instead, I waited patiently, hooves just at the edge of the picnic blanket, for a hand-selected tidbit.

The apples, of course, were splendid while they lasted. The sandwiches were lovely too, and I gave them both four hooves up to FarmWife's surprise. Seeing as it is like pulling teeth to get me to eat a bran mash or a wet handful of oats (too watery! Blech!), she expected the mayo and mustard to scare me off. No sirree Bob! I like a good sharp cheddar as well as the next guy.

I didn't get any punch (young R, four, told me it was because of my too-big lips) and I didn't care for the Reese's Pieces (too small!), but it was a successful picnic all the same. I got turned loose to look for grass, which was a bit of a flop due to it being February but which was, I suppose, better than a stick in the eye. I summited a small gravel heap, looked about, and came down again. I smelled, but did not taste, the pond.

Passersby who happened to glance at the salmon pond today would have been treated with a delightful scene of pastoral calm. One driver even slowed to a halt at the spectacle of a mule enjoying a picnic lunch! FarmWife told Iggy Tribble stories all the way home, which is a particular delight which I shall have to explain another day.

Ears,
Fenway Bartholomule


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