BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

My world.  I wouldn't call it writer's block, per se, but I am facing a bit of a dilemma: how to go on blogging about a life which is now being passed in a field, 132 feet on each side, a paddock, forty feet long, and a 16x32 foot barn? How many ways are there in which to tell you that I bray for my breakfast? That I whicker softly when FarmWife passes during the day, that I trumpet loudly when FarmWife comes out at night, and that I live beneath the migrations of the snow geese? That I have a chihuahua who is fatter than she ought to be, a goat who is thinner than she ought to be, and a flock of chickens that are more colorful than clever? That the mail comes six days per week and that some small portion of it is usually addressed to me, Fenway Bartholomule? That the hay comes once per year and that the vast majority of it is positively scrumptious? That I was a good trail mule once, and that I am a good pet now and forever? I'll keep telling you these things, but...

Here are three unrelated silly things: My goat. Taking a bath. In the tub.  Empress of all the light touches? More like Empress of all the bucket holds.  FarmWife's potato storage plans went terribly awry. If anyone can advise her on what to do differently next year, please do!

Today's problems: My eight pound chihuahua is trapped in a ten pound body. No amount of exercise or dieting seems to make her slender again. My mule is retired and I have fallen in love with the photo and description of a free gelding in West Virginia. West Virginia is very, very, very far from Washington. If he lived closer, I'd already have snuck him into the paddock. I dream of winning the lottery, but I have never bought a lottery ticket. I am out of printer ink. In the grand scheme of things to agonize over, these are not terrible things. I'm distracted by GOOD news, too: we had a BEAUTIFUL weekend; Paisley hasn't had a seizure in weeks; Dylann will get her cast off on Monday; I have my health and my family and my home. Rejoice!

I've set the bar high for FarmWife: of course she dreams of adding a second equine to the family someday, but she will never again shop for a horse or mule with the same broadness of standards. I've taught her to expect—nay, demand—certain things, and she is probably spoiled forever as a result. Any equine she adds in future will be expected to be: An easy keeper Hard of hoof Soft of mouth Intelligent Gentle with children Kind to goats Well-behaved in a herd Shiny Cuddly Sound of limb (OK, so I fell short here. Not my fault.) Good at loading, leading, tying, bathing, etcetera Game Surefooted Patient Respectful Tidy Obedient Vocal FarmWife is willing to flex on the Shiny (after all, elbow grease can fix a dull coat) and the Vocal (after all, not everyone is a naturally gifted soprano). The rest? Well, I simply don't know. After all, why settle when you have known perfection? Now, before you get yourself in a tizzy, FarmWife is not shopping right now....

Do we need a family motto here at Bent Barrow Farm? FarmWife says her maternal family has the motto "touch not the cat but a glove," along with a fancy crest and their very own tartan. I said, "FarmWife, your family motto is silly. Who would want to touch a glove when they could touch a little tiger instead?," to which she said, "Fenway, it means don't touch the cat until his claws are sheathed." Here are my proposals for the Jackson/Jones/Bartholomule motto: "Why be normal?" "Hurry up and eat it before it's all gone." "Happy trails." "Courage in the face of rainbows ." "Eat, Bray, Love." Do you have alternate proposals? Once I settle on one, I think I am going to design a family crest. Ears, FenBar

Wickersham—and part of the proposed alternate route—as viewed from muleback.  There is trouble brewing in paradise: those of you who live near me, Fenway Bartholomule, might know that a coal shipping terminal has been proposed for picturesque Whatcom County. This terminal, by my calculations, is proposed to export hundreds of thousands tons of coal each day from strip mines in Wyoming, Canada, and Montana to markets in China and beyond. The obvious routing choice for these trains would be the main Burlington Northern Santa Fe railway: a railway which runs through the wild Chuckanuts, past the quiet neighborhoods of Fairhaven and Bellingham, down into the vital downtown waterfront of our county seat, and out to the waiting ships at the Gateway Pacific Terminal. Plan B, which is even more devastating to yours truly, is the alternate proposed route: the Farmland corridor, which runs by my door. The quiet tracks sit roughly 30 feet from my mailbox and my rhododendron bush . . . ...

FarmWife can already carry two goats:  is it such a leap to imagine her carrying her darling Fenway Bartholomule?  These are some things FarmWife has decided to do since my hock went kablooey: Find more work Take tactical shooting lessons Quadruple the size of her ornamental garden Grow naked oats Jog FarmWife is taking this bad news well, I think: With more work, she can buy me more joint supplements. With tactical shooting lessons, she can defend me against zombies. With a quadrupled ornamental garden, she can offer me exotic, toothsome delicacies like rose hips and lilac sprigs. With naked oats, she can tempt my appetite even further. With jogging, she can become strong, and hopefully begin to carry me about on HER back so that we can continue to enjoy the wilderness together. Ears, FenBar

The rabbit has fairy wings. I do not. Unfair!  Robin, who is four, is often going on about unfair things. Dylann got more peaches. Unfair! Mother has fancy earrings. Unfair! Mia's book choice gets read first. Unfair!  Well, I know all about unfairness. Here are some unfair life things that have happened on Bent Barrow Farm:  Clover has been allowed to sleep in FarmWife's bed, while I have been forced to sleep on dirt.  Missy has been allowed to sit in FarmWife's lap during hoof trims, while I have been forced to stand on three legs like a doofus.  Paisley has been allowed to sit in the back of the new van, while I have been asked to stay behind the fence.  The baby chickens have been brought into the house to sit on human laps, while I have only been brought to the window to peer inside.  The humans have eaten at least ten picnics this year, while I have only been invited on two.  Here are some unfair life things tha...

If a mule is curried at a rate of 100 swipes per minute and puts 280 brown hairs per swipe onto his FarmWife for 25 minutes, then two goats are scratched at a rate of 120 scratches per minute for five minutes, simultaneously, and each puts 150 white hairs per scratch onto their FarmWife, how many hairs are on the FarmWife after 30 minutes? Extra credit if you can account for one Australian shepherd, two cats, one chihuahua, and two rabbits all shedding at a rate of 33% of the goats' shedding rate and scratched for five minutes each.

Do you remember my hydration woes, wherein I didn't drink enough and wound up with a tummy ache? Well, the friendly folks at  Schneider's Saddlery,providers of value-priced horse supplies,  heard about my troubles and sent me the perfect remedy: a  heated water tub ! I will never again have to face the terrible choice between drinking the moment that poor, exhausted FarmWife arrives with armfuls of water from the house or waiting until thirst strikes and then gnawing and pawing my way into a frigid slurry of terrible unwe lcoming ice water. This thermostatically-controlled wonder of modern beverage management is the next best thing to my own personal espresso-machine, and I expect to spend many fond moments slurping up its delicious blue waters.  My new bucket holds 16 gallons, which makes it an absolutely perfect substitute for my normal tub, and has a wire-wrapped cord to prevent damage-by-goat. Since damage-by-goat is a pretty common problem around here, ...

I recently entered this contest , and I'd be terribly grateful if you'd pop by and vote for me. The first contestant to reach 5000 votes will win $5000, and I'd very much like that to be me.  Here's the description FarmWife wrote for my entry form: Fenway Bartholomule is only half horse but he's at least twice as marvelous as a lot of people so I'd say that qualifies him to compete.  Fenway is an 18 year old mule with a bum hock, a giant heart, and a family who adores him. His bray is out of this world. Children are drawn to him. Baby animals sleep at his feet. Women weep at his beauty. His shining coat is more blinding than a thousand suns. He is smarter than your honor student. He speaks several languages: the language of the horse, the language of the ass, and the language of the heart. He comes when called. He stays when told. His ears inspire poetry. He is a God among ungulates.  For more information on the Coolest (half)Horse in the World, visit www.b...

What I've determined about writing a book: A book does not write itself. Writing a chapter of a book is not exactly like writing a dozen blog posts. A book chapter requires a sort of continuity of focus that blogging does not require, unless of course you are writing a book for the short-of-attention-span. Maybe that's the sort of book I ought to write.  Writing a book about the joys of riding one's mule is hard to do when one is processing the loss of the joys of riding one's mule due to said mule's being permanently lame.  Writing a book about the children, dogs, cats, husband, rabbits, goats, plants, relatives, neighbors, friends, jobs, hobbies, and delicious meals that make living with a lame mule less sad seems like a marvelous idea.  I haven't given up, but I do think it's going to be a longer process than I thought.  M

I found a four-leafed Clover: It was actually much cuter in person, but it turned all cringy when FarmWife pointed the camera at it. Happy St. Patrick's Day! Fen

The third item on the list of 50 items is a photo of me being naughty, but I am afraid that there are no photos in existence of me being naughty. I am never naughty. Sometimes I am hungry, and sometimes I am astonished, and sometimes I flee, heedless, in headlong and abject terror. I never misbehave on purpose. The closest thing to a photo of me being naughty is this illustration of a young demon donkey smoking a cigarette. It was drawn by FarmHusband and colored by FarmWife. It has a moral: demon donkeys who smoke incur motherly wrath. Demon donkeys who smoke probably also contract lung cancer. Ears, FenBar

The last time I worked, I walked halfway up a little mountain and then walked down. I had a child upon my back. She walked the last quarter mile home, during which time it snowed. It was my retirement ride. The last time I carried FarmWife was before halloween. In other news, FarmWife has an itty bitty rental car this week which looks and handles like a Kitchenaid stand mixer. It's a Fiat 500 with a semi-automatic transmission that's like nothing she's ever seen. It's here in lieu of the F250, which has gone away to a new life plowing snow in Tonasket. We await the arrival of the ultimate soccermom-mobile in it's place: a minivan, upon which FarmWife promises to place a stickfigure family. Five people, two dogs, two goats, two cats, two bunnies, three ducks (joining our family in May), a rooster, a dozen hens, and a mule should just fit. Ears, Fen

My friends Iota McHippus and Petey Pants have been doing this fun exercise and I thought I'd follow their leads and give it a try myself. For 50 days—not necessarily uninterrupted— I'm going to share the below images and stories with you. Hopefully this can be in addition to and not instead of the usual mulish witticisms on which you've come to depend! The list, copied straight from my pony pals' facebook pages, appears below. I may allow this project to spread out a bit so as to  leave room for other fun content here at www.braysofourlives.com, but I promise I will finish it.  I'll start today with this: the oldest picture I have of myself. It was taken before FarmWife and I were family, when I still lived over the fence. I was angrier then.  Day 01- The oldest picture you have of yourself Day 02- The last time you worked and what you did Day 03- A picture of you being naughty Day 04- A day that impacted your life Day 05- A picture of your worst ...

Here is photographic proof that FarmWife was not always subject to the Great Chainsaw Curse. Sometime between 30 years ago and now, however, FarmWife seems to have come under the dark cloud of some terrible voodoo. She cannot touch a chainsaw without it immediately and inexplicably succumbing to hours or days of utter non-functionality. She cannot start it, or feed it premixed fuel, or even carry it to the truck and set it on the tail gait. She certainly cannot saw with it. Her hapless husband has learned never to say, "FarmWife*, will you hand me my chainsaw?" If he does, he will surely be the unlucky recipient of a defunct tool. It won't start again, most times, for a full day or two. This has happened with more than one chainsaw and on more than five occasions. FarmWife promises that she's not spitting in the fuel tank, shaking the saw like a maraca, turning it upside down and wearing it like a hat, or whispering threats against its little mechanical wife and ...

From Craigslist: Pain in the ass mini donkey (W. Pierce County) Date: 2012-03-12, 7:08PM PDT Reply to:  wbdkf-2888886770@sale.craigslist.org   [ Errors when replying to ads? ] Precocious seven year old with a penchant for opening gates, army-crawling under fences and waking up the neighbors at ungodly hours. Loves to be groomed by everyone but the one that feeds him. Demands a king's ransom in the finest hay (only to pee all over anything that might hit the ground). Enjoys regular visits from the vet and farrier (as he routinely causes such a fuss that I need to reschedule). Thoroughly loves (to chase and maim) dogs and other furry critters. Gets along well with pasture mates (that can out maneuver his back hooves). Trailers well (probably). Gelded, though would happily do again. Potential homes will be thoroughly screened (for video cameras so I can make a clean get away). Contact with questions. Fine Print (added 3/12): Despite my big talk here, Donkey is in no dange...

FarmWife has always had a better sense of horsemanship than of fashion.

The thing about shooting is that I think it's perfectly wonderful UNTIL the earplugs go in. FarmWife, who knows all too well (for non-shooting-related reasons) the challenges of living with hearing loss, think's it's only wonderful AFTER the earplugs go in. I would much rather listen to the earth-shattering tumult of a .357 firing next to my head than feel the oogy-boogy yuckiness of an object in each auricle, but FarmWife says "No way are you doing without, mister." It used to be that she'd make me wear them each time we hit the range, which was a terrible bore even with the temptation of a rewarding apple slice. Now, my hock gives me a convenient opportunity to opt out of this particular extracurricular activity. FarmWife and I still get a chuckle out of this "are you shooting your mule?" story: She once had me tied at a safe distance from her firing line (twenty feet back, where she could see me out of the corner of her eye but where I was n...

The bad news: FarmWife says pasture-rest only this summer, so there go my plans to camp in the Cascades, walk to Montana, visit the Chicken People in Tonasket, and go to a police horse clinic. FarmWife says we shall still have our time together and that we can still chat and play and have singalongs and that we will picnic under the maple trees in the back of my field. Then: fat. Now: not so much.  The good news: FarmWife says I am having my picture painted in oil on canvas by the eminently talented Shaila Tenorio of www.orangehorseart.com. I am also officially no longer fat, which has resulted by some miracle from FarmWife switching me from two to four meals per day. She doesn't quite get it, but it's working for both of us. It might have something to do with the arrangement in my new barn, whereby the goat manger is harder than ever to steal from, but I can't tell FarmWife that—it would practically be an admission of guilt. Ears, FenBar

Writing about how happy riding makes me is a bit hard when I haven't been riding since October. I haven't been successful in bringing Fenway back into work. As of this week, he's officially retired. After a winter off for the Great Wet Darkness, I've tried gently reconditioning him. After a month of worsening lameness, I'm faced with this truth: his on-again off-again leg issue is more on than off. His hock, which was out of commission for the entire summer of 2010, has flared up again. He needs further diagnostics and treatment but no matter what he is probably due to be retired from service as a mount for adult riders. Fenway's veterinarian and I had a heart-to-heart about it and he said what I'd been thinking: Fenway's hock isn't well, and repeating the cortisone injections that give him temporary relief is no substitute for retiring him. He may need the injections to stay comfortable and they may continue to help but the vet and I both know they ...

I've been weighing my options: sailing seems too tippy, whittling requires opposable thumbs, and crochet would be a muddy mess. I've thought it over, and I've decided that my retirement hobby options boil down to golf and gardening. Golf, pros: Golf: a delicious-looking pursuit!  Normal grass, a.k.a. the fairway, a.k.a. the appetizer Longer grass, a.k.a the rough, a.k.a. the main course Shorter grass, a.k.a. the green, a.k.a. dessert  Golf, cons: Gripping the club would probably require some special prosthetics, which could be expensive and which could be in violation of course rules. Joining the country club could prove expensive. Gardening, pros: Carrots Apples Lettuces Celeries Pears Peaches Plums Gardening, cons:  The fence, which divides Here from There. It is designed to keep out chickens, but it also serves to keep out mules. The dirt. Unlike the pasture, where the grasses sit atop the dirt year-round, the garden has dirt atop t...

From www.facebook.com/fenwaybartholomule :  "I am a small brown mule of great heart and splendiferousness. I am good at surmounting obstacles  (making new friends), braying for my breakfast, shining, and giving hugs. I am a columnist and a great eater of dried grasses. You should read my blog,  www.braysofourlives.com ." Still good at basking. FarmWife has officially banned me from surmounting obstacles, which was one of my very best skills: I was good at getting up and over just about anything on the trail. "You mustn't," she says. "Your hock." It turns out these joints are aging faster than either she or I would like, and we're going to put my hock in the same category with FarmWife's knee—the category for joints that need to be babied, and that simply don't do very hard things. A recent talk with my vet confirmed what FarmWife already knew: I would be wise to resign myself to a leisurely life. It's a bit of a tragedy, but F...

You probably know that www.commissionedpoetry.com is FarmWife's way of bringing in a little money on the side. Writing commissioned poetry is one of the many things she does to patch together a career as a writer, blogger, and small-business owner, and since my reach is greater than hers I like to help publicize her efforts. This month, she'd like to offer you a special deal. Tell your friends, too! This month only, we are offering 25% back on poetry purchases if you are: A) A repeat customer, or B) A Facebook friend of me, Fenway Bartholomule, or C) Willing to post a poetry flyer (printable PDF  here ) at your local feed, pet supply, veterinary, or grooming location To be eligible, place your  order via the form at  www.commissionedpoetry.com and say how you qualify (option A, B, or C) in the comments section or via email. FarmWife will promptly return a quarter of your money and get to work on your one-of-a-kind, satisfaction-guaranteed gift or keepsake. T...

Those of you who read my posts via Blogger rather than Facebook ought to know that there's a wonderful new video up over there. Check it out at http://www.facebook.com/FenwayBartholomule and then let me know what I sound like: A) a dinosaur B) an Italian tenor C) a peacock D) a traffic accident E) pure love rendered audible

Not to be indelicate, but I take marvelous care of my leavings. I organize them into a tidy stack in a small, dry corner of my shed. I pile them neatly, leaving them undisturbed for future collection via wheelbarrow. FarmWife comes once or twice a week to take them away to the compost pile, which is really a rather relaxed schedule. If I were a messier mule, I'd expect her to attend my droppings daily. The mucking out of manure is quick as a flash due to my foresight and consideration, but the cleaning up of urine is another matter entirely. FarmWife spent so much time trying to reengineer my pee-puddle yesterday that she might as well have gone ahead and installed a toilet. You see, I like to pee in one particular spot. This spot is neither at the top of a hill, where runoff would naturally take place, nor at the bottom of a hill, where it would be out of sight and out of mind. It is, instead, at the entrance to my shed where A) passersby must walk; B) food must be supped upon; ...

The photos I posted yesterday may have led you from the truth: I was tacked up and readied not for a ride but for a photo-shoot. I wanted to show you the delightful interplay between my quarter sheet and my new barn. Unfortunately, I was not sound enough for our planned outing. The fact of the matter is, FarmWife knew before she began to tack me up that there would be no adventuring for me. You see, a brief walk to the salmon pond and back last week caused a bit of thickening in my hock joint. A slightly less brief walk up the mountain and back, with my biggest filly aboard, caused even more thickening. Friday, with no particular cause at all, my hock was about one baseball bigger than it ought to have been. Yesterday, too. I'm not lame on it, but with my history of issues in that joint FarmWife doesn't want to push it. She said we won't do any more riding or walking for a while except in the pasture, and that I'll get an ultrasound when she can afford it and a lot of...

It's not just every mule who gets a shed addition for Christmas, and it's not just every mule's whose shed addition grows so much that it begins to be called a barn. No, sir (or ma'am)! I am a lucky mule. I am the luckiest mule in the world, I think, for I have a new brown barn: and a new green barn: and a new stripy barn, to go with my stripy quarter sheet: FarmWife says the siding is multicolored because it was free. Good thing—I thought she paid extra for the variety pack! She says it will do for now, but I think it will do just fine forever. Ears, FenBar

A resounding and mulish happy birthday to the late Theodor Seuss Geisel. From Oh, the Places You'll Go! , I'll pass on this bit of mulish advice:  "Be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that life's a great balancing act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft And never mix up your right foot with your left. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)" Does that sound like a mule navigating a treacherous spot, or what? I have a feeling that the honorable doctor might have known a longear or two in his time.  Ears, FenBar

Pure Thoughts Horse Rescue Liz Lamont Images Edited to add that an astute reader has pointed out the link between this program and the pro-slaughter agenda, which is a lesson for all of us. Thoroughly investigating the charitable and progressive organizations to which we belong or contribute is vitally important. I, for one, will NOT be supporting or endorsing the Unwanted Horse Coalition or any of their affiliated programs!  Your concerned friend, FenBar Original post: Congratulations to Missy , the first "Home for Every Horse" adoptee. Missy, it turns out, is not a horse but a molly mule. She found a new home through Equine.com's new rescued horse ad listings, a service offered as part of a cooperative effort of Equine.com, the Equine Network, and The American Horse Council's Unwanted Horse Coalition. The good side: Missy got a home! The bad side: It's still unclear to me what this program, which is sponsored by Tractor Supply and Purina Mills, is...